In this edition (originally entitled "Bachelor Party II: Electric Boogaloo") our fearless fiend shares with us thoughts surrounding but never touching an actual bachelor party; as a bonus he throws in a "Real Life Rock & Roll Encounter." In the vein of the movie "Almost Famous?" You decide! He's a lot like a Cameron Crow, if you throw in some Black Crowes and a little Crow T. Robot. And a leprechaun crossed with a Smurf. Stir, until crazy. Unleash on an unsuspecting world. Insanity is a dish best served inebriated.
-Your humble serpent;
Jebby
* if I say "90's," do I then say "00's?" "The zeros?" Or do I say "the aughts?" Send your answer, along with a self addressed stamped envelope filled with naked pictures of Bea Arthur, to *address censored by Homeland Security*. Thanks!
BACHELOR PARTY II: Electric Boogaloo
Weddings come and weddings go, but bachelor parties are blackmail material forever. Not that that's bad, mind you, but that's one of the reason why typically in-laws aren't invited. If the future father-in-law ever gets to see just how depraved the husband just may have been, even for one night, well, death typically occurs. Hence, the initial concept of shotgun weddings. It's a major fallacy that it's when someone's forced to marry. Hell no. It's when the father stands directly behind the preacher, screaming at the top of his lungs, "I'll be dead and buried before I let this moron anywhere near my daughter!" Hence, eloping became popular.
So, the first question, then, is how often should one have a bachelor party? There are many theories to this dilemma. Some scholars think that people should only have one, typically a week or two weeks before the ceremony. Others attest that the party should be at least a complete weekend. Wishful males think it should be an annual event, regardless of proposals, decency, animals available, etc.
It should be fairly well known that what takes place at a bachelor party stays in the deep dark recesses of the demented minds of the attendees. Oh, and cameras. Cameras never lie, and, if placed just right, the owner rarely has to work after a decent set of photos. Not that bachelor parties are the only place where one can take them. May I suggest these other areas: hotels, doctor offices, alternative bars, Area 51, the Lincoln Bedroom, and anywhere in the general vicinity of Pamela Anderson. Not only will she somehow get into the photos, but they'll also instantly turn into streaming video. It's a little known fact that Tommy Lee only had a Kodak disposable (and waterproof) camera on his "honeymoon". Lucky for America, she's one of those strange anomalies which anything can occur. Such as breasts defying gravity, and the ever-loved black hole located between her thighs. Once there, no one can seem to escape. Not even Donny Bonaducci.
But, as I was saying, bachelor parties happen. Good, bad, indifferent, men of all ages attend the last bastion of stupidity, sexuality, drunkenness, and just basically having a good time. So, why am I talking about this for an unprecedented second time? Because I'm a male. Oh, yea, plus I went to one.
What's always good at going to a bachelor party? Well, because there's lots of alcohol. And that's what happened this last time. The first thing one must remember, when dealing with alcohol and men, good things happen, women get pretty, and farm animals go missing. One amazing fact: No matter what city you start out in, there's always a dairy or chicken farm within an hour. Does that matter? Only if you're the guest of honor.
So, with that aside, did we do that? Hell no. That takes guts and more alcohol than Yeltsin AND Kennedy can withhold. If you want to put that into some sort of human figures, the entire state of Utah can be liquored up with what they drink in a night. Or, one can string the empty fifths across New Jersey, with room to spare for the case upon case of Old Milwaukee. It would also take the stupidity equaling several fraternities. Yes, when I was younger, I'd have no problem with breaking into a farm. But, the actually take the bovine or fowl for someone to molest? It'd depend on the money, I suppose.
So, if such depravity did not really happen this time, why am I writing about the party? Well, let me tell you!
Being old and grey, I knew that I had to be getting homeward bound, so the wife didn't change the locks on me and I'd have to spend a night in the cousin's trailer. I'm sitting outside the Athenaeum in downtown Detroit, waiting for the ever-loved tri-toned pickup truck to be brought back by the porters. As porters, they had to know they weren't getting tips. Well, in fact, they must have had a nightmare in general. They had to know that they weren't going to get a tip - I mean, it's a God-damned rust bucket. Just driving it into the hotel was a testament in patience. Forward, stop, stall, restart, forward, stop, stall. I don't know how many molecules of break I have left on the wheels, but I feel sorry for anyone ahead of me who stomp on their breaks. Plus, I'm not sure how many people can operate a manual choke. Certainly not this guy; it took him a little while to get the vehicle over. So, as I was standing at the door waiting to see the cloud which would signify the emergence of my vehicle, the door hop stared at me and exclaimed, "Yes! It is them!"
I looked over, far over, two hundred feet away to the curb of the road. A bus was dropping off five elderly guys. "Who is it?"
The guy, hat not on quite right, moustache not trimmed decently, looked at me like I had three heads. "That's AC/DC!"
AC/DC. They're still around. Can you imagine? All these years, I thought they were dead! Sure enough, he was right. I could see Angus Young, his brother, and whomever Bon Scott was replaced by stride up. I was within handshaking distance of the drummer. He was carrying his own suitcase.
Twenty - hell fifteen - years ago, I might have cared. Back then, I'm sure they would have had security. Of course, it's 2001, and the only people to greet AC/DC were the doorman, myself, and... um... the individual members. AC/DC for crying out loud. They're still making albums, driving around, playing in arenas. They were in Joe Louis. Joe Louis! This is where the Red Wings play. Now, in 2001, AC/DC was playing there. This is a group who's last "big" album had one hit - two if you decide to include the Triskit commercial. I mean, these guys are the quintessential dinosaurs. Old, gone, buried, oily.
As the doorman was opening the door (he was damn good at that. It must have been his life-calling. He could open doors the same way Brett Farve could throw a pain killer.), he looked at them, flung his arms up and down in a vain attempt to produce a drum beat, and blurted out, "You guys rock!"
Poor Bon Scott replacement could only look at him, nod his head, mutter something like "Yea!" and continue into the hotel. I'm pretty sure they had to do the dishes.
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