Ten days or so ago, my phone rang with happy news. The downtown comedy club was giving me tickets to an upcoming show.

Basically, this means Comedy Works has a show that is not selling well. So they pick a name out of their fish bowl, call you and say, “Congratulations! You’ve won a shitload of $5 tickets!” This all sounds good. Twenty $5 tickets for you and your closest buddies!

But it quickly turns into a popularity test. Is it possible you have 19 friends?

If you’re like me, you e-mail a list of folks, stretching the definition of “friend” to include anyone on your e-mail list living in the Denver metro area whom you’ve seen laugh. You tell them, with great excitement, about the awesome deal you have for them – realizing only later that if they’ve ever been to the Comedy Works, they, too, have gotten this same phone call and done this same weeknight scramble.

Then, you sit back and wait for a flurry of e-mail responses. Who wouldn't want to go?? After all, it's some comedian of whom you've never heard! But he must be good. He's been on HBO! It says so right there in the mailer the club sent along with the tickets that look mimeographed.

No one responds immediately. Perhaps, I think, I'll manage to assemble half a dozen. But the e-mail inbox does not fill.

Come on, people! It’s a Wednesday night! That’s a good night to be going out. A perfectly fine night. Easy parking. Light traffic. The works!

I emphasize that the club will be calling for an RSVP list, that it’s vital to know how many people are coming some time in advance. Still … no reply.

One person finally e-mails that she’ll check with her SO and get back to me.

Two days before, two other people e-mail that they’re working, or their spouse is working, or they’re working on an excuse not to go, or something.

What I end up with is this: One friend. Her boyfriend. And his married brother, whom I’ve never before met.

We decide to carpool. On the night of the big event, the married brother hops into boyfriend’s RV with a six-pack cooler in hand. The door is barely closed before he opens it, pops off a bottle top and begins drinking. He pauses for a second when his brother introduces him, to reach around, shake my hand and mumble a “hey, nice to meet cha.”

We are 10 minutes into our half hour drive when he pops his second beer. He does not offer to share. Despite drinking an additional five beers before night’s end, he does not become obnoxious. I realize this likely is because his tolerance is quite high.

Parking is not easy. Or cheap. It is $15. There is much grumbling about this between the driver, brother and friend. But hey, we’re half a block from the door! This does not seem to cheer them and I realize that the trio accompanying me on this merry adventure is grumpy.

Because I have no cash to contribute to the parking fee, I buy boyfriend’s ticket, and offer to buy the first round. No one objects.

In the blink of an eye, the $5 ticket has morphed into a $30 entry fee. I swallow hard, knowing there is still a two-drink-minimum purchase during the show.

Oh well. It’s a night out downtown.

The only other problem is that my friend, who is under probation for a DUI, subject to random breath tests and who had testified she will not drink or smoke for nine solid months (and who does not read this blog), orders a beer while we're still standing in the lobby.

Boyfriend frowns. “You might have to blow tomorrow,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “One drink leaves your system in .43 hours,” she says. “It’ll be out of my system by the time they can get me in.”

I realize this statistical information is what she’s gleaned so far from her alcohol classes. And who said it would be a waste of time?

“Besides,” she says, “I’m only gonna have a couple. C'mon. Let's step out and have a smoke."

A couple, as it turns out, means four.

Their drink orders come fast and furious. Before I am halfway through mine, they order another. Each time, the waitress turns to me with a thinly disguised sneer. "And you? Are you ready?"

"No, not yet," I say, stopping just short of offering an apology.

Midway through the show, my friend leans over and whispers, “He’s all freaked out because I’m drinking.”

I whisper back, “I am, too.”

She ignores me for the rest of the show. Grumpy, like I said.

This is not my problem, I tell myself. Relax and enjoy.

Show over, we clamber back in the SUV and hit the road. Married brother pops a beer, takes a pull and laughs. He turns around and grins at me.

“Funny shit, eh?”

I give him a broad, genuine smile and a nod of complete agreement. "Yeah," I say. "Very funny shit!"

This morning, I programmed the Comedy Works number into my phone. Next time they call, I'll be screening.