Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Strippers and Acid 2: The Deal With Jefe

Given Beardking's comment, I guess I'd better give you my theory on bachelor parties, and where it came from. I'm going to skip over all the obvious rationale for not behaving like a drunken asshole because, well, I am a drunken asshole. I don't need a reason, and I also don't like seeing a bunch of fucking amateurs run around and get killed (or kill others) just because Billy Ray is gonna get hitched. This is the same reason I don't go out on Halloween and New Years (at least not in this city-being able to flee to NYC for the ending of the year has really given me a new appreciation for the holiday, but that's another post) either. Amateurs. And many, many more cops looking to make busts.

Furthermore, I've already done what I consider my time in strip clubs, and I'm over it. A sculptor I'm not--the female form begs little study from me, unless it's actually in my bed. Or on the couch, or in the shower, or wherever--but I never got any gratification out of just seeing a girl naked, especially once I realized that this is her job, and I was paying her salary. That put me at loose ends, because I tend to want to leave people alone and let them get their job done, whereas the whole point of her job is to keep me in her face.

Anyway, once you realize that no stripper's going to go home with your randy drunk ass without a serious amount of leveraging with drugs I've always considered too precious and dangerous to waste on strangers, the whole situation begins to pall. Let's face it, you don't get the best crowds in these places anyway (on stage or off), and it didn't take me long to realize my taste for slumming was pretty limited.

Oh, and then there was that stripper I took out of The Midway and attempted to make an honest girl of (in the loosest possible definition of that term-not marriage, but not rolling drunks, either). We nearly killed each other, her bartending nights and me working my ass off during the day, and during that time I got to see an even seedier side than most people get to see.

So by the time all THAT was said and done, and I crawled out of the cave I had half intended to die in, I pretty well felt like I'd seen the whole "get fucked up and take strippers home" scene come and go. No mas para Jefe, ladies and gents. It was depressing.

Not that I'm not against bachelor parties in general--I just hate the "this is the last time you're ever gonna see another chick naked, dude" mentality so prevalent around here. And frankly, the whole "men behaving badly" thing is a lot easier to slide into if you're in a place where men are already being encouraged to do just that.

My purpose, then, is this: make that boy GLAD he's getting married. Make him so scared of his friends that he flees to a different city and won't be in the room with you alone, ever again. Make him ingest more of anything he's ever been inclined to do than even I would think wise, because given the penchant we have towards dualism, he'll think twice once he gets married about falling back on a safety net. "Fuck that," he'll say after the first big argument about the checkbook or whatever, "I'm never sleeping on THAT guy's couch again."

A bachelor party, then, should be half sendoff and half warning to Never Fucking Come Back Here, Ever. And you can't accomplish that by going out and having what's basically a slightly above average evening with your friends--it's only accomplished by careful planning and subtle abuse. Preferably for three or four days, close enough to the ceremony that the fear doesn't wear off beforehand, but early enough that all parties can be out of jail and cleaned up for the rehearsal (or at worst, the rehearsal dinner).

[For what it's worth, Dan's bachelor party went pretty much how I wanted it to, except that I still had to give a toast at the wedding. Ideally, you're disinvited completely, but I guess there's some small part of me that's too cute and cuddly to exclude completely. And to all you poor wedding guests that heard that shit ad nauseum, I apologize. I don't do well in crowds.]

Anyway, besides the brutal beating my liver and brain take on an AVERAGE weekend, I KNEW that a bachelor party for someone I didn't know was going to be a nightmarish affair, full of abused limo drivers, strippers, and sticky limo surfaces. There's never enough ice, the mirror's never big enough, and it's always very loud.

But it was too late, kids. As you know by now, my motto is "give me one good reason why not." And I was kind of bored.

I got in the limo.


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