I have a splitting headache today… which wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if it weren’t also Carnival. I like samba music as much as the next guy (maybe even more than the next guy [the next buy being Bill who, as I understand it, is pretty in to old Slayer and Whitesnake right now. In fact, I can more or less see him saying, “What the fuck is this pussy crap?” if I switched out a Tito Puente album for his Monsters of Rock compilation. Also, he drives a T-bird]), but having those driving, intoxicating rhythms drummed into my aching head hour after hour is a bit distracting.

Then there are the girls.

It’s not even an attraction issue; it’s just that it’s near impossible to get any work done with hundreds of sheened, partially-clothed women running around screaming in Portugese. Nine times out of ten, if I’m looking for a spec or vendor quote that I know I left on my desk last night, I’m sure to find it stuck to someone’s thigh or back, lost in a sea of gyrating flesh and hedonism.

Not to say it’s not worth it, of course.

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