My best friend [fn1] Howard [fn2] is getting married on Saturday. I flew to Boston last weekend [fn3] so I could spend this week with him and his bride-to-be Holly. There were some questions as to whether I would be able to spend the whole week out here because of work, the "I'm moving to Africa in six weeks" thing [fn4], and then the
handcer scare. I'm glad I was able to make it. I hadn't seen Howard in about six months, and I only met Holly once before. It has been really nice to spend some time with them together, and to help them out with all of the pre-wedding details. [fn5] And, of course, I wanted to be here for the bachelor party ("bachelah pahty" as the locals say).
Though tradition calls for the best man to organize the bachelor party, [fn6] given my location (Anchorage) and lack of familiarity with Boston, Howard's friend Newton picked up the slack and organized everything. He did a great job, but even he could not anticipate that Richards, [fn7] Howard's sister's boyfriend, would turn out to be the highlight of the evening. Richards is an aspiring rock star from LA. I wish I could remember the name of his band--all I know is that it is similar to
Wyld Stallyns. Also,
he's in a cult. And he loooves to talk about it.
The pahty began around noon with a trip to an adult amusement park to play paintball. A few hours later the crew returned to Howard's house for lunch, showers, and beers. As evening fell we changed into our fancy clothes (I opted for the Summering on the Cape look: light khaki pants, white dress shirt, and a seersucker-ish jacket) we piled into the chauffeured van we rented and headed to a dive/hipster bar in Cambridge for cocktails. Dinner was next at a fancy-schmancy steakhouse in downtown Boston. The ride was uneventful save for one olympic-type event--Richards drank a whole beer in less than one city block!
At the restaurant, we, and Richards in particular, were loud. We got many nasty looks from the other diners including Tim Wakefield, a pitcher for the Red Sox who was seated just two tables away. [fn8] Our waiter, appropriately named James Taylor, [fn9] gave us a couple of soft warnings about our volume and language, but he didn't want to kick us out--he was having too much fun with us; he would walk by and drop little zingers (mostly making fun of Richards), which cracked us up. As a token of thanks for not kicking us out, we left him a 30% tip on the nearly $1000 check.
Four Long Islands Iced Teas (and several beers) into the evening, Richards made a touching toast at dinner. This led to the question the rest of us pondered for the rest of the night: what happened to that guy? The precipitous drop he made between Long Islands five and nine could best be described as a
Will Ferrell/Frank the Tank-esque shame spiral. In addition to long discussions about his cult (I was really happy to learn that I am a good person and I have great potential), we were treated to his (loud) views on religion ("I've tried 'em all--Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha...but I've got to say, if I had to pick one, I would pick Judaism. The Jews really know what they're doing."), international politics (I like the Jews, but the state of Israel is fucked up..."), and some freshman girls from the Boston University Class of 2012 ("Freshman year rocks!" "Can we come back to your dorm?" Okay, that was me, not Richards.) That was about the point where we had to start reeling him back in, lest we run the risk of (inevitable and unavoidable) inappropriate behavior at the strip club. The Richards Containment Plan (RCP) worked pretty well, and no one got arrested.
Though no true bachelor party is complete without a trip to a strip joint, Howard wasn't really into it, and neither was I--I'm just not a strip club guy. Granted, my experience is limited--my uncle took me out to one to celebrate when I got into law school (I spent most of the evening paying the girls to go away) and my brother dragged me along when the same uncle took him out to celebrate his admission to medical school. But at Lobo's bachelor party in St. Maarten I got a serious strip club education from a bunch of guys who
are strip club guys. Thus, I felt very comfortable negotiating the terrain of Centerfolds in Boston. Here are some random post-strip club thoughts:
- Inevitably, one guy will say, in reference to a dancer, "Man, she was really into me," or "We had a really strong connection." He's an idiot and should be slapped immediately.
- When a stripper sits on your lap and tells you that you are really cute and she "really needs to get some ass because it has been a while," that is code for "you can pay me for sex." An appropriate response (if you don't wan to fuck a prostitute): "Here's $20. Go dance for my friend over there, it's his bachelah pahty." However, if you do want to fuck her, it is best to ask how much it costs before you actually do it. Right, Ari? (Just kidding. Sort of.)
- Something you should never say to your girlfriend's brother: "Your sister is really hot. You should see her in a thong." (I'm looking at you, Richards.)
- A phrase you should never utter within earshot of your girlfriend's father: "My psycho girlfriend..." (Still you, Richards).
- If your best friend's father, a man who has known you since you were 10 years old (and who once prevented your own father from killing you after you totaled your dad's car) turns to you and says, "I really have a thing for Asian women," the appropriate response is to buy him a dance from the nearest available Asian stripper. It's even better if you can get the drunk guy next to you to pay for it.
Tomorrow we are headed to
SeaCrest Estate for four days. Thursday should involve some relaxation and kayaking, Friday is the rehearsal dinner, Saturday is the wedding, and Sunday is my fun day, my I don't have to run day.
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[fn1] Yes, that feeling you are experiencing is
fontrum, and it is appropriate when a nearly-32 year old man talks about his "best friend." But, there is no other way to describe it--we have been the best of friends since we met 22 years ago.
[fn2] His name is Howard Stern. Seriously.
[fn3] To the Alaska Airlines supervisor seated next to me who tried to get me upgraded to first class and who voluntarily moved to another seat so I could have more space for my handcerous limb: thank you again.
[fn4] I had been planning to move to Eritrea for an eight-month job working on an international human rights/war crimes case. I was scheduled to leave on October 15. That departure has been delayed indefinitely pending surgery on my hand. Also, while on the subject of Africa, I should mention that I recently (as in 16 hours ago) fell in love: her name is Africa (how fitting), she is from Spain, she is gorgeous, and she is (wait for it) a professional stand-up comedian. Oh, and she is dating Holly's friend Jose, so it's probably not going to work out. But if any of you want to get me a "feel better soon" present, something like that would be perfect.
[fn5] Holly is an event planner, so there are a lot of details. A lot of details. And everything has to be perfect, not just because it is her wedding, but because her professional reputation is on display. My advice: never marry an event planner unless you really want to spend a lot of time arguing about things like the flower girls' shoes.
[fn6] When it comes to bachelor parties, I am old-fashioned. I firmly believe that the bachelor party should occur the night before the wedding and it should include all sorts of sex, drugs, and debauchery. The best man's single most important responsibility should be to make sure the groom survives the party and makes it to the wedding--if he still wants to get married. Alas, no one does it like that anymore. Or, maybe they never did and my old-fashioned ideas are based completely on the movie
Bachelor Party.
[fn7] Not his real name, but an appropriate moniker given the similarities in his profession (rock star, self-described) and personality (self-destructive, self- and others-described) to those of Keith Richards.
[fn8] Wakefield's stares were not intimidating. Perhaps if he were a power pitcher, a guy with a blazing 95 mph fastball, we would have quieted down. But he's a knuckleball pitcher. He throws fluttery 58 mph pitches. That's not going to quiet down a bachelor party (even if most of the guys were Red Sox fans).
[fn9]
See note 2, supra.