Boy, Papa Luigi, I dunno ... you sure know how to live dangerously, askin' for another one of those Cadillac Margaritas. I was talking to my squadron leader only this morning about the evils of alcohol, tequila in particular. And now you waltz in here wantin' a double shot. It's a sign, I tell you. An omen.

I used to flirt with Tequila from time to time. Never anything serious, you understand. No commitments or anything. Then one day I found out what the fuss was all about.

It was the summer of '79. The Great Flood had recently washed over us, enlarging the bay by 50 square miles, so it must have been August of '79. My friend Kevin had really suffered in that flood. His house got water in it and he couldn't get to it for a week.

All his friends pitched in once the water receded. We tore out sheetrock, ripped up carpet, jerked out baseboards and trim. Maybe you're familiar with the routine. Finally got his house back in livable shape in about two weeks. About three days after we finished working on the house, I drove down to Seabrook, just cruising around, and decided to stop in at Maribelle's for a cold one.

Maribelle's by the Bay is a Seabrook institution. It's been there forever. Burned down two or three times but keeps coming back. Maribelle Herself has even been dead for several years, but the bar keeps operating. It's like her ghost is running it or something. I can't even begin to describe this place. Fish nets, license plates, posters of all kinds, sea shells, any piece of junk you can imagine that may have washed up on the beach ... it's all there. An eclectic delight. I walked in and climbed up on one of the massive wooden barstools.

"What'll ya have?", the bartender asked.

"Cuervo Gold," I said without hesitation. "Straight up."

He poured a healthy shot. "Want any salt or lemon?"

"Nah. I'll take it plain."

Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys were wailing on the jukebox. In those days, Maribelle's still had THE jukebox in the Bay Area. You could find the oldest, weirdest, coolest songs in the world on that jukebox. They were all there. I walked over and plugged in a few quarters. (Yes, it's been a while, folks.) I made my selections and walked back toward my barstool.

"Youngblood!"

I looked in the direction of the voice. It was Kevin. What a surprise! He perched on the barstool next to mine and asked what I was drinking. "Tequila," I said. "Gold, straight up." "I think I'll settle for a beer." Kevin's wisdom knew no bounds.

We sat there jawing for a while and suddenly the bartender came back. "That guy on the other side of the bar is buying a round for the house," he said. He shoved another shot of tequila in my direction and a beer in Kevin's. Wow. Cool. We toasted our newfound friend, and went back to our conversation.

Pretty soon the guy bought another round. And another. And another. There were only about five people in the place at that hour, so it wasn't bankrupting him or anything, and he was a very generous sort. I reached for my shot glass. Dang, there were about five of 'em sitting there! Our benefactor had been busy drinking while we were talking.

I asked the bartender for a cocktail glass. He gave it to me. I poured all the little shots of tequila into the 8-ounce tumbler. It was a pretty full glass. That was much better. Kevin worked on his beers and I slugged down the tequila. Then Kevin asked, "Hey, do you want to go with me to a friend's house? I promised him I'd come by."

"Do I know this friend?", I asked.

"No, I don't think you've met him. I'll introduce you. His girlfriend will be there, too."

"Cool," I said. "Just need to go the ladies room and I'll be right with you."

I slid down off the stool and turned toward the ladies room. That's when the room started spinning. I reached out and grabbed the barstool to steady myself.

"Something wrong?", Kevin asked, a devilish grin spread across his face.

"er ... I'm kinda dizzy, Kev. I'll just steady myself here and I'll be alright."

I waited. It didn't get any better. I finally made it to the restroom by hanging on to the wall. I got back the same way. Kevin thought it was just too funny. By that time I was seeing double.

Now the Dream has taken us home safely in many a similar situation, but I knew if I got in that car in my condition, it was certain suicide. "Can I ride with you?", I asked weakly. "Yeah, come on. We'll come back for your car." He poured me in the passenger seat of his Camaro and we hit the road.

It wasn't far to his friend's house, maybe a couple of miles, and I did alright for the first 500 yards or so. After that, I began to feel sick. By the time we arrived at Mike's (I think that was his name), I was in a bad way. Kevin rang the doorbell. I held my stomach. The door opened. The contents of my stomach started defying gravity at just about the same time.

As Kevin was introducing me, my hand to my mouth, I mumbled something about "Where is your bathroom?" Mike told me. I rushed past him, down the hall, hooked a right, and dashed through the bathroom door just as the first wave of vomit saw the light of day. Barely made it to the porcelain god in time.

That is where I stayed for the next 14 hours or so. Once I ventured out when I felt a little better, but went into the kitchen to find Kevin, Mike and Mike's girlfriend cutting up a side of beef. That sent me bolting back toward the bathroom again.

I threw up everything I had eaten that day. Everything I'd eaten in the seven days before that. I threw up things I had only thought about eating. I threw up until there was nothing left to regurgitate, and then blissfully settled into several hours of dry heaves. Popped two buttons off my blouse, which I never found. And made a hell of an impression on Kevin's friends.

Now, Luigi, do you want that Margarita with salt or without?