James Buffette pours a fresh margarita that he just whipped up in his blender.

"Where's that lost shaker of salt. . . ah, f_ it!"

He drinks down about half his drink quickly.

How many of these has he had, today?"

"I think this is my 10th, or 11th—but I'm not quite sure. I guess you could say I'm spending the day in Margaritaville!"

He is barefooted.

"I blew out my flip flop on a pop top, earlier today."

He looks at his arm. A tattoo is there—a Mexican cutie.

"How the hell did that get there? Oh, yeah, I went out, last night!"

And why is he spending the day boozing?

"Some would say there's a woman to blame. But hell, I guess it's my own fault.

"Oh, look, I just found the salt!"