Calle Ocho 2009 Recap: I Know It Hurts

Ian Witlen
The lovely ladies of Calle Ocho. Click here to view the full slideshow.
Perhaps you woke up this morning, mouth tasting like the lining of a birdcage only with the texture of sandpaper. You used a nearby crowbar to pry open one eye. 

When you eventually made it to the bathroom you saw those eyes are not only bloodshot, but toting more baggage than your last girlfriend. You weren't wearing hair gel, so you didn't know how you achieved that aerodynamic look, or why it had a consistency somewhere between cement and very old oatmeal.  Also, why do you have a Puerto Rican flag tank top wrapped around your neck? You're not even Puerto Rican. And just what in the hell is that smeared across your face? Chicken grease??

Ah, that's right. Calle Ocho was yesterday. Had fun? I did. I'm not now, though, and I'm sure you're suffering too. My advice: grab a couple of Aleve and wash them down with some Alka Seltzer. Chase that with some hair of the dog that bit you (I know you've got a High Life somewhere in the back of your 'fridge that you didn't get to when you got home wasted yesterday evening, just before you passed out with an unnecessary bowl of Cheerios and Nacho Cheese in front of Family Guy). And remember what you're suffering for. After the jump, a little reminder, in case your memory's blurry.


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