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You Know—We’re The Boy Band by Ray Printer Friendly

So I made it back from my bachelor party last night. I got to New York City around eleven o’clock on Thursday morning, made it to Trey and Carey’s around twelve thirty or so, and had a few hours there where I wasn’t completely wrecking my body. I got a piece of pizza, watched The Life Aquatic, and shot occasional glances at the nervous-looking dog.

As I’m not sure exactly how much information I can divulge without getting other festivity participants in trouble, I’m not going to be able to give you a play by play. That’s why—it isn’t because after the first subway ride into the city, the next three days are a alcohol filtered haze. Really.

Thursday was basically a pub crawl, although we did end up at a couple of dance clubs at the end of the night, dancing around Carey, who was the only female in our four-person group. To be honest, I didn’t do any dancing—I was too busy getting all sorts of free lighters they give you for taking a short survey. We got a lot of lighters that night.

I woke up on Friday morning with a headache so bad that I’m pretty sure my eyeballs were bulging out a little bit. We decided to go into the city for a bit of touring (one of the members of our party was a first-time visitor to the city, so we decided we should do some tourist stuff). Carey was wise enough to leave the state. And her little dog, too.

We had a fun day of touring, eating, and walking through the city, and that evening, we went home to figure out what our night’s plan of action was. There was talk of strip clubs.

Let me tell you something right quick—I am not a strip club kind of guy. I went once when I was nineteen, at the urging of a friend who swore to me that they were the coolest things ever. Other than the fact that everyone’s vagina smelled like strawberry, I didn’t see the appeal.

The second time was on my 21st birthday. I was drunk out of my mind (had to numb the pain after getting a tattoo) and ended up having a pretty swell time with a couple of friends. It’s very surreal to have naked women dancing all around you, but the reason I had a good time was because I was hanging out with friends, you know?

So when the mention of strip clubs came up, I did my best to shoot it down. I didn’t think it would be all that difficult, especially considering that nobody else I was hanging out with likes strip clubs, either.

“I say we just hit a few bars, do a bit of drinking, and have a good time,” I told Trey. “Besides, after last night, I’ve got to take it easy on the booze.”

“No. It’s your bachelor party—you will not be taking it easy on the booze.”

No room for argument…plus, he had a good point. He got on the phone with another friend, who also doesn’t like strip clubs. And made arrangements to go to a strip club.

“This is stupid,” I said. “A strip club?”

“See, it doesn’t matter that none of us want to go. We’re obligated to do it. I mean, we have to.”

He handed me a big bottle of bourbon. A bit later, we headed out to the strip club.

There was a thirty-foot pole on the stage, and there was a woman who would climb hand over hand all the way to the top, hang from her legs, and then slide down, upside-down, stopping herself when her face was about three feet from hitting the floor. Like Mission: Impossible, but with tits. It was truly amazing.

I don’t think you can understand how truly awesome it is until you actually see it—I missed it the first couple of times, and whether you’re strip club people or not, it’s horribly disappointing when your back is to the stage and you hear every single person in the club go, “OH! DAMN!” You turn around, she’s standing there smiling and waving a little, and you know you missed something important.

But, yeah, it was incredible.

The other dancers were pretty great, too. I spent the first forty-five minutes being teased about being tense (Trey’s favorite expression was “pull the broomstick out of your ass—you’re here to have fun.”), until one of the dancers came around offering massages instead of lap dances. Nothing crazy, just a massage—she started at my head, did my shoulders, back, arms, and hands. It was also very amazing. I mean, I wanted to be tense, but I just couldn’t.

Between that and all the vodka I was being force-fed, I was eventually able to relax and talk to some of the dancers. And I have to give props to the women of the Hustler’s Club, here, because they really seemed to give a shit about the things you said. I mean, I know that they’re there to make money, and that they could give a damn about anything I say, but these women did a great job acting like they did. It was like engaging in actual conversation, which is much better than just having some topless chick bounce around on you for a second, grab her cash, and take off.

In fact, I even found myself telling one girl about this site. “So you write?” She asked me. I have no idea how she knew this, unless she had been passing by when I was pestering everyone for a pen—nobody had a pen, by the way.

“Yeah, I do a little writing,” I told her.

“What do you write?”

“All kinds of stuff. That guy over there in the glasses, he made a website so I write on that, a lot of times.”

“What’s the website? I’ll go visit.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to pretend to be interested in it.”

“”No, really—I love to read!”

“You seriously want to know?”


I told her the name of the site, not really believing that she was going to remember, or even try to remember, for that matter.

“I’ll check it out tonight,” she said.

“Do you want a card?”

“No, I uh…I’m not sure we’re supposed to take cards from people.”

Not the smoothest lie, but I appreciate the fact that she didn’t make me waste a business card that she was going to be throwing away as soon as she left the table.

That was as close as I got to being that ridiculous guy that thinks strip club dancers are actually interested in them. “Maybe you should have invited her to the wedding, too,” One of my friends said to me after she had left.

“Thanks, asshole. Why didn’t you tell me to shut up?”

“It was funny.”


So it ended up being a pretty fun time, to tell you the truth. Especially considering we had to force ourselves to go out in the first place, and that none of us are into strip clubs.

The next day…well, that was bad. Words you never, ever, ever, want to hear: “Well that’s what happens when you drink two thousand dollars worth of vodka in one night.”

I spent most of Saturday worrying that I would be attending my wedding with newly-acquired brain damage, and trying not to vomit on myself (succeeded in not puking, too, so way to go Ray).

Quick little bit of trivia: I have not felt as bad as I did this weekend since I moved away from New York a couple years ago.

We went out to Chinatown for a while that afternoon, because one of the best things you can do when you’re hung over to the point of insanity is take a long subway ride, and then surround yourself in a crowded neighborhood where there’s all kinds of weird dead animals strung up in the windows.

We went back to Trey’s pad and crashed for a while, before going out to meet up with the notorious Sarah Sweeney. We didn’t get to hang out long because she had to wake up early to go to work (I’m not sure if it’s a secret, since I’ve never seen her post about it on her blog, but at the moment, she has one of the coolest jobs in the world—or else she’s lying about having one of the coolest jobs in the world). It wasn’t because her and her man didn’t feel like hanging out with a bunch of wastoids that reeked of old booze, stale smoke, and stripper sweat. Really.

She was taller than I expected, and much nicer. Also, she’s the first person I’ve ever heard say the word “snarky.” I’ve read that word a lot, but until meeting Sarah Sweeney, I had never actually heard anyone say it out loud.

So that was fun. We went home after that, watched some South Park, and crashed out early.

The guy who had come up from Texas to attend this weekend of debauchery left on Sunday morning. Trey and I met up with some friends for lunch, and then took a long walk through Astoria. Carey deemed it safe to return that evening, we grabbed a bite to eat, and then they walked me to the subway station.

I barely made my flight, and once I did, it sucked. And then I was home. Which is nice.

I woke up this morning with absolutely no idea where I was. It took me a full ten seconds to recognize my surroundings, and I realized that I am still not a 100%. I might have broke my…uh, what’s that thing? You keep it up in your head, you use it to remember stuff? My think-ball.

Entered By Addie From Milwaukee
2006-11-06 19:13:22

Okay, so now "think ball" is my new favorite word. So, thanks for that. Now I just have to figure out ways to use it that don't seem toooo contrived and ripped off. Sounds like you had a good time. And by good, I mean cerebrally painful.

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