If someone calls you and says, “Want to go to the hospital and look at sick people?” and you say no, and then they say, “Want to go to the drive-in then?”, you should say yes, because there is nothing better than the drive-in in a convertible with a bottle of wine on a summer night, even if someone can’t manage to get their Swedish-precision-engineered car to manually tune in the radio station, or turn off the headlights but still leave the motor running, because then you’ll both just say, “Fuck it, let’s drink,” and that person might be concerned about the cops coming up to the car, to which you will exclaim, “We’re drinking merlot in a Saab at the drive-in! We may as well be reading The New Yorker!”
However, after the second bottle of wine, I was pretty sure that The Hulk was being shown in black and white, and I’ve yet to be convinced otherwise. Then we ended up at the Byrnes’, where everyone is always glad you came, and evidently I called someone’s father in London, but at that point the evening gets a little fuzzy for me, although I vaguely recall being slapped on my patio.
Want to read about my weekend told by someone a lot cooler and using code names? Of course you do.