Welcome to my personal hell

And notes on margarita time.

I've found my personal hell.

I found it when the band started playing a cover of Hotel California. A guy behind me - overly sun-ripened, muscle shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops - started playing the air guitar while walking back to the table with his wife and kids.

Over at my table, a tall aluminum chalice was laughing in my face, and the watery, tequ…