Tito’s home-boy was in town for the weekend. To celebrate, a bunch of the homies stayed up all night drinking Patron and High Life. Tito did the right thing and slept at his friend’s crib even though he had to get back to the east side early in the morning, yo.

He left at some-thing like 7 AM with blood shot eyes and a headache and sped down the 110, taking advantage of the clear roads. From out of nowhere, a cop pulls him over.

The cop proceeds to give Tito a field sobriety test. The sun rises bright and clear over the po-po’s shoulder and Tito’s eyes directly hit in the morning glare and it’s messing him up. “Hey, man,” he says to the cop, “Can I do this . . . like . . . not staring directly into the sun, sir?”

That was the best part of Tito’s day, because the officer obliged. Try as he might, the cop could not declare him drunk, even after dragging the test on for five rounds of the same finger-tracking exercise. And indeed, he no longer was drunk, just hurting with hangover. He escapes with only a speeding ticket. Happy Holidays, Tito . . . from your friends, the LAPD.

He doesn’t get much sleep during the day. There’s another big party that night, but he’s still crabby and cranky from the morning. “Let’s go to the club,” says Tito as the party winds down. “My cousin will be the designated driver, yo. I’m not risking it again.”

So Tito and his friends go to the club. They stand in a long line in the cold in front of The Havana Club in Alhambra. Anna doesn’t stand in line for a club, ever, for any reason, but she concedes this time, because Tito had a bad day and all he wants to do is get into this club and have a pitcher of beer with his friends.

They get to the head of the line. The doorman looks at Tito’s clothes, shakes his head and says, “Man, your pants are too baggy and you gotta lose the jacket.” He points to a sign on the door that says “Strict dress code enforced.”

“Man, we don’t need to go in there anyway, dawg,” says Tito’s friend.

Tito’s sister is already inside, however, and he can’t just leave her there. She comes out and yells at Tito in front of his friends for not dressing better. His cousin drives him twenty minutes to his home where he changes his pants and loses the sports jacket.

Tito returns to the Havana Club, irritated cousin in tow and re-enters the line, which of course, is much longer now. He stands there with his friends for over an hour. The line doesn’t move, but somehow many people who seem to know the doorman are ushered inside by his wide gracious arm, including three Alhambra cops in full uniform. Tito, hoping to find out if his pants are acceptable, attempts to make eye contact with the doorman on more than one occasion, but is ignored.

The three Alhambra cops saunter outside the club a while later, grinning and carrying ziplock baggies of cigars in one hand whilst keeping a finger on their night-sticks with the other. Tito is still freezing in line with his cousin and his friends. It’s nearly 1 AM by this time and any buzz he might have had earlier has melted away.

Then the line moves. The doorman approaches Tito and says to him as he shakes his head, “Man, I wish I would have seen you earlier. Those pants, they are still just too baggy, man.”