Meeting a drunkbot in New Orleans

We're in New Orleans. We have friends here, meaning a shower and a guest bedroom. We arrived around 10pm, and by midnight it was time to cross the street for beer.

An extremely drunk man across the street loves me. But then he changes his mind and decides he hates me again. I entertained this for a few rounds before I realized he was not a man at all. He was a drunkbot. No short term memory. He didn't know who he was, or where, or why. That he could even see me or communicate was itself merely a mirage. He held two beers; both 24oz tall boys. Still, he had one free hand to gesture. Between index and middle was crammed a tall Steel Reserve. Pinched slightly between middle and ring was a Corona. Both cans were long since emptied.

After we left the bodega, the drunkbot's heat sensors picked our signal back up. He began to accost Ian, who is at least 6'4 and could bulldoze him with a shove. But then he declared admiration, forestalling the need for action until seconds later when the tides turned again. Fortunately, a young couple was crossing the street in the direction of the bodega, and his attention was diverted to a fresh audience.