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BE A FRIEND OF THE MOVEMENT!

In rehashing Fourths of July of yore, we realized two things: One, that we were never hammered, and two, we were always driving. The first goes hand-in-demon-clawed-hand with the second.

This year, there was to be no driving. Not only might that beget serious intoxication, but it would alleviate the irritating problem of leaving the marina and wading through gridlock on the way back home, which takes the happy memories right out of any merriment we could eke out of the whole drastically sober situation. So we decided to stay home -- which carried the added bonus of eliminating the other major problem with going down by the water to watch fireworks: The assholes.

To give a theme to the massive quantities of alcohol we intended to consume, the group decided that each person would bring a bottle of American wine that cost less than ten dollars. We had lofty ideas of doing a wine-tasting of sorts, amid the highly sexy and rapid consumption of chips, dips, steaks, corn cobs, devilled eggs, potato salad, and lemon pie.

Now, bear in mind that none of us know anything about wine tasting, beyond the basic principle that the wine goes in your mouth rather than on the carpet. Heather has the best advantage, having actually been to tastings in Italy, but at those tastings there were more people and no worry of opening a bunch of bottles at once that risked going skunky before getting a chance to drizzle down our gullets.

Ergo, we just went one bottle at a time, figuring that we'd still be "tasting" the wine in a technical sense, even if we weren't comparing bottles or even really appreciating the differences in flavors. Decorum went out the window when the first cork came out of the bottle of Smoking Loon chardonnay from 2002.

The cork is a wax job that's tinted yellow, with the word "WHOOH" printed on it repeatedly, except for one instance in which the word "COUGH" appears. This perplexed us. Then, we turned around the bottle and read from the back, which both muddied the waters and somehow made everything more clear:

"Besides his bein' kinda crazy, they called him the Smoking Loon 'cause he was so darn efficient," Jake began, stubbing out his cigar. "He'd take care of business an' get in an' out before anybody'd see him comin'... leavin' no trace 'cept the lingerin' sound of his eerie, loon-like cackle. No one was really sure who he was or who he worked for, but when word got out someone needed his services, the Smoking Loon just appeared on their doorstep, like outta thin air or somethin'."

Quite.

The wine was good. Here's a sampling of our comments: "This is good," "I like this," "I'd drink this again," "I like your pants," and "Devilled eggs taste good with wine." As you can see, our sophisticated palettes correctly identified every nuance of the grape.

The bottle was gone before dinner. Because we were eating meat, we switched to the red wine that Jessica bought -- a Castle Rock cabernet sauvignon with a deep ruby color and velvety texture that brings out the complex flavors of black cherry, ripe plum, and a hint of oak in its spices. At least, that's what the bottle says. But the bottle also said we should save it until 2007, so you can decide how much respect you have for the bottle's opinion. We laughed hard at the idea of patience and drank the entire bottle during dinner. This was a great wine that spawned the following observations: "I need another glass," "When do we go upstairs to see the fireworks?", "I enjoy drinking red wine," and "Where the fuck is my booty call?"

Here, things get fuzzier. We adjourned to the roof with the last two bottles, a pinot grigio from Carrie and a Firefly merlot picked up by Lauren and Heather based solely on the prettiness of its label art. We set up chairs and watched fireworks and gobbled lemon pie, and became so drunk that we forgot to save the bottles or even comment at all on what we were drinking, other than making loud observations about how empty or full our glasses were.

Jessica spent ten minutes skipping and hopping around the roof in her tightly zipped hoodie, stopping every few steps to flip up her skirt and moon Los Angeles. She then put Lauren's tailgating-chair covers on her legs and trotted around in what amounted to giant blue canvas legwarmers. Carrie slurrily rechristened the celebrity hospital Cedars-Sinai as "Caesars," Lauren flashed the city, and Heather was just really, really loud and generally hammered. Two of the neighbors came up there and tried to own a corner of the roof for a romantic moment, but they had to contend with various sexual discussions and drunk phone calls -- one of which went to Dan, and consisted solely of Heather screaming, "DRUNKYBUTFUNKYWOOOOOOOOOOO."

After the bits and pieces of fireworks had ended and the bottles of wine were officially kicked, we went back downstairs and played Catchphrase until such time as Carrie and Jessica could drive home. Lauren was too drunk to actually read any of the phrases, though, so it devolved into laughing and snorting and a wild stab at "Truth or Dare, Except Always Pick Truth, Because We Are Too Drunk To Complete Any Action That Doesn't Involve Lying On The Floor." Note to all: "Truth or Dare" is boring when you are a very outspoken group that already knows most everything about its component members. Desperate, we were asking what each others' favorite pair of shoes was, or how much we'd ever spent on sunglasses. Once Carrie resorted to "daring" Lauren to tell us the truth about whether she liked cream cheese better with or without chives, we decided both the game and the night had come to a firm end.

In all, it was a rousing return to excessive consumption.