Bachelor Parties
I went to two bachelor parties this week; the first was a relatively tame affair—a baseball game with nightcaps afterwards—the second was a bit more raucous—PBR shooters around the barbecue, a stretch Hummer limo to the casino and a strip club; naturally, the one I ran into one of my students at was the latter; good news though: he was working on his final project for the Philosophy of Religion class, Go Find God.
That makes maybe half a dozen or so affairs of this type I’ve been to in my life. In some ways, my favorite was the first I ever attended: we lined up a hotel room above the Sunset Strip in Hollywood, played poker, and tried not to pass out drunk before the dancer showed up. Success was marked by waking up in a trashed room with a broken coffee table that the hotel never charged me for.
My own bachelor party was the most unusual I’ve been to: Jen, best man, Harley, and me rode a limousine around Santa Monica drinking champagne; I’m pretty sure we were all back at the house before midnight.
This morning I arrived home on my bike at around 4:30; the birds were just beginning to sing and the sky was lightening all around the edges, robin’s egg blue in the middle. Pretty good and late for an old guy like me, rock on.
An odd cultural ritual overall—sausagefest and stupid—I enjoyed feeling like one of the apes in Kubrick’s 2001 while the final hot dog burned to a crisp on the grill.
Good times.
The stretch Hummer was embarrassing, of course, but think about it: there were like 10 of us inside; if everyone drove, that would have been way more gas, and if all of us drove Hummers, even more.
Besides, I’ll probably never do something like that again; but, my luck: if I do, I’ll probably run into a student while I’m out.
That makes maybe half a dozen or so affairs of this type I’ve been to in my life. In some ways, my favorite was the first I ever attended: we lined up a hotel room above the Sunset Strip in Hollywood, played poker, and tried not to pass out drunk before the dancer showed up. Success was marked by waking up in a trashed room with a broken coffee table that the hotel never charged me for.
My own bachelor party was the most unusual I’ve been to: Jen, best man, Harley, and me rode a limousine around Santa Monica drinking champagne; I’m pretty sure we were all back at the house before midnight.
This morning I arrived home on my bike at around 4:30; the birds were just beginning to sing and the sky was lightening all around the edges, robin’s egg blue in the middle. Pretty good and late for an old guy like me, rock on.
An odd cultural ritual overall—sausagefest and stupid—I enjoyed feeling like one of the apes in Kubrick’s 2001 while the final hot dog burned to a crisp on the grill.
Good times.
The stretch Hummer was embarrassing, of course, but think about it: there were like 10 of us inside; if everyone drove, that would have been way more gas, and if all of us drove Hummers, even more.
Besides, I’ll probably never do something like that again; but, my luck: if I do, I’ll probably run into a student while I’m out.
posted by Professor Dave at 9:44 AM
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