On Saturday night, Drew and I went to the Grove to see Charlie’s Angels. We were meeting Victoria and Other Drew, but those two couldn’t make it for dinner. So it was just Drew and I at the Wood Ranch BBQ.

Given how long we had before the movie (we left extra time to line up, etc.), I figured it’d be okay to have a drink (which is SO unlike me). So Drew and I ordered fruity margaritas. Then the waiter said, “Hey, for $2 more, you can get an extra large margarita, which is 3 times as big.” Drew’s a big, big boozer, so within about half a second, he said, “Okay, sure!” We super-sized. So the waiter brings out these margaritas the size of my head. My head is fairly average-sized, but don’t let that mislead you. By margarita standards, that’s quite large.

Well, what the waiter didn’t say is that this would also be BY FAR THE STRONGEST DRINK I’VE EVER HAD. You could barely taste the strawberry — or even the ice. Did I drink the whole thing? You betcha. Did I need help walking out of the restaurant? Affirmative. Was my nightmare over? Not even close. We still had a movie to see.

The worst thing about being drunk is pretending not to be drunk. If you’ve seen “28 Days Later” (which I also saw, soberly, this weekend — great movie), remember the camera trick they used to show how the zombies moved? You know, that jittery, fast-frame motion? Well, as I walked through the Disneyesque streets of the Grove, it was like the whole world was moving at that speed. I just wanted with all my heart not to stumble or sway. To everyone else, I was the zombie.

As we walked, Drew ran into some of his friends. Would the nightmare never end? He introduced me, and I smiled and tried to stand still. “Say as little as possible,” my mind told me. “Whatever you say will come out sounding like drunk talk.” At least my sense of shame wasn’t drunk — yet. “Nice meeting you,” I told them (I think) as we walked away.

When we met up with Victoria and Other Drew, I made Drew explain to them why I was acting funny, and I was drunk enough that I insisted that he take all the blame for my condition. (Now that I’ve sobered up, I give him only about 90% of the blame.) Victoria made my night by telling me she had no idea I was wasted. “You just seem a little more talkative than usual,” she said.

Big news. I could “pass”.

And then we went into the movie. I asked Drew to get me an empty popcorn tub from the concession stand in case I needed to puke during the film. “They can’t give away empty tubs,” he said. “That’s how they keep their inventory!” (He used to work in a movie theater.) He brought me an empty drink cup instead. A small drink cup. It was obvious Drew had never seen me puke. He had no idea I also puke super-sized. (I’ll deflate the tension now, though. It was a regurgitation-free night. Whew!)

Do I remember a single thing about Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle? Negatory, my friends. I took the old $9 nap and fell asleep during the flick.

Which, from what I’ve heard, is probably the best way to enjoy the movie.

Thanks for making me drink, Drew.

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