It was one of those chilly Florida nights - the natives get all excited because they can wear their sweaters for another day - and the tourists are pissed because they're not getting the warm weather they paid all this money for! My entourage and I ventured out in the "brisk" -- as they like to call it -- air after knocking back a few glasses of champagne (Visit Mom sometime -- you too will be plied with booze -- And you wonder where I get it from!) and scarfing down some fast food so we'd arrive in the nick of time. Someone needs to tell me why it is that I'm always running late. Though in this instance I can blame it on our radio show and the engineering thereof.

Not knowing what to expect out of Fast Eddies, I donned my normal "small town club" attire consisting of a signature black skirt (Cristy claims I have ten of these), black pleather go-go boots, a white tank top and a button up top with leather jacket to keep out the chill. We pulled into the parking lot of Fast Eddies with my brother Kevin exclaiming "Great... I'm going to wind up in a fight!" as he gestures towards his swank yuppie sweater and slacks. "Oh I'm used to this type of thing..." I quipped, "The bikers won't hurt you. You'll be fine. Try to blend".

We walked in the door of the smoke-infused leather-clad biker bar and immediately noticed the upside-down stuffed donkey wrapped in a rebel flag. "I hope that's not real!" I thought to myself as I surveyed the place, expecting to recognize a face I'd only seen in snapshots. I spotted the only blonde male in the room, and looked at him quizzically. "If that's Jim, he's not as cute as I remember - and what's with the pony tail?" I announced, not expecting anyone to hear or respond over the way-too-loud Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band. I found myself with drink in hand (Thanks Kev!) and made my way to the bathroom (damn champagne and a bladder the size of a change purse - or at least that's Cristy's opinion). When I returned, the blonde man was sitting at the bar and I contemplated asking him if he was Jim as Kevin attempted to encourage me. I decided against this course of action because such has never gone over well in the past. I figured I'd wait until I saw him setting up on stage. Then I'll know for sure and I wont have some dude thinking I'm hitting on him with the ol' "Don't I know you?" line.

As it turns out, my gut instinct was correct. That was not Jim (And for the record, he is as cute as he is in pictures). I wandered toward the stage and caught Jim's producer's eye – "Are you Tom?" I asked... With the obligatory hellos out the of the way, finally meeting Jim in person after having interacted through My Space, and some much appreciated Score! love from stage, the show was on.

There is something utterly mesmerizing about watching an artist on stage. I'm not talking about those Lynyrd Skynrd cover band types. I'm talking about true artists who pour their hearts out into their music so much so that it shows on their face during performance. They could care less if they contort their visage into something that would make a baby cry -- they're in the moment. They're feeling it. Innocent bystanders beware. You find yourself swept up with your heart in their hands and grasping for something to steady yourself because you're pretty sure you're in the grips of a swoon. THAT, my friends, is how it's SUPPOSED to be done. And Jim manages to do this sans accompaniment beyond a guitar or keyboard, without bombast or theatrics - just real, honest, moving music.

But enough about that - what do you think this is, a live concert review or something?

After the show we spent some time talking, getting to know one another, Jim taking all kinds of interesting pictures which he promises to send me copies of (ah-hem) including one with me and my finger up the nose of a baseball player statue and me shooting some very bad pool--A game, which Mr. Camacho forced upon my person with much bravado and assurances regarding his expert teaching abilities and who later rejoiced when I not only managed to circumnavigate the ball I was supposed to hit, but scratched all in one go. Never mind the fact that this was a shot which held our entire game in the balance –AND was his shot to take in the first place! Thank you very much! I received a high five as he informed me "That is called losing with grace." How do you figure?

Much booze was consumed and I was accosted by one of the Lynyrd Skynyard cover band members who informed that I "have the most beautiful breasts from the outside" and he'd "really like to see them from the inside". What the hell is that? But apparently the UA (unwanted attention) index was high this evening because I also had some redneck tell me I was "all that and a bag of chips." Eeeeeshhh. I swear I felt like fresh meat in this club.

Other highlights include Jim chasing after a parrot so he could get his picture with it (which totally explained the old picture of him and a chicken on his myspace page - though I'd like to know who was running around a club with a live chicken, if a parrot isn't strange enough). The Lynyard Skynyrd boy making moves on a lovely woman in Jim's clan stating "She wants me." -- Yes, yes, I'm SURE she does. Don't hold your breath. -- My scaring the club owner after a discussion about karaoke wherein I informed him that Siren Cristy and I performed a rousing rendition of "I Touch Myself" for which Fast Eddie exclaimed "THAT is now my FAVORITE song!" And finally, my drunken and incoherent text messages to everyone in my cell phone directory.

After closing the bar, we said our goodbyes, received an invite to Miami, which I'm sure we'll have to take up sometime, and made our way home to the spinning bed and breakfast room at Mom's abode. Well it was spinning by this time anyway.

I awoke the next day with my first hang over in a long time (thanks Jim, I'm holding you responsible) and mom dragging me out shopping and attempting to talk me into stopping off for lunch and margaritas. I gracefully declined. Later that evening at dinner she all but physically forced me to try her drink, regardless of my curled up nose and outstretched hands, so I sipped it and replied dryly "Thanks, I needed more vodka to help me enjoy my vodka hangover."

The moral to this story - never go out with Jim Camacho cuz, aside from making you play bad pool, he'll get you drunk and you'll wind up paying for it in the morning. -- Do you think he conspired with my mother? Damn alcoholics anyway!

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www.jimcamacho.com