-All it took was a three-word text message and I knew it was on. My buddy Chi is getting married later this year and the text from his brother Danny simply read: “vegas or coachella?” And with that, the planning for Chi’s bachelor party had begun. Bachelor parties are an odd phenomenon, perpetuating the tradition that the sacred bonds of holy matrimony be preceded by 48 hours of drunken mayhem and utter debauchery. But while a strip club isn’t the type of place that I’d want to spend my final nights as a single guy, I do understand its appeal. Only once a man is paying topless women to cavort on poles can he truly be in a position to fathom the magnitude of his impending nuptials. Enjoy the lap dance, my friend. That’s the most action you’ll be getting for a long time.

-The husband of a friend of mine had his bachelor party in one night – on a Wednesday. I guess no one had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong. That was one of the few times I’ve been truly happy to see a guy get married – that chump needed be removed from the single male population immediately before he gave the rest of us a bad name.

-Personally, I’m not that big into strip clubs. It’s a lot less enjoyable than you would think to get a lap dance from someone who is dead inside. Plus those places are so dirty. Washing my hands in the restroom actually makes me want to wash my hands again.

-There’s always that one stripper at the club who’s really good at pole dancing. She’s upside down, balancing with just her legs, and generally showing off. I always think to myself, wow, that’s really impressive. That must have taken a lot of practice. But wouldn’t that time have been better spent, I don’t know, trying not to be a stripper?

-There’s also always one guy in the bachelor party who falls in love with a stripper and decides it is his duty to rescue her. “Listen,” he’ll say, “I’m an investment banker. Here’s my card. I can take you away from all this.” Because nothing says true love like blaring Def Leppard music and strip club buffet popcorn shrimp.

-Another common bachelor party character is the guy who is obsessed with finding out the strippers’ names. “What’s your name?” he’ll ask. “No, I mean what’s your real name?” Dude, just let Magenta do her thing. You don’t need to know her name. I doubt she has a Twitter page.

-Some dudes get their strip club rush not from the girls themselves, but from the negotiating. Everything is negotiable in these places – lap dances, private dances…other stuff. At one bachelor party, my buddy got a little overzealous and started negotiating immediately upon arrival. He was like, “Hey, beautiful. How much for, you know, a little extra?” I was like, “Dude, relax. We’re still at the coat check.”

-The last bachelor party I attended was for my buddy Gadi in Tel Aviv. Somehow it fell to me to calculate the tip on our tab even though the bill was in shekels and the waitress didn’t speak English. I either stiffed her or paid for a summer home. Interestingly, Israeli strip clubs are a little different in that the lap dances last much longer than just one song. You really get to know your stripper. Nevertheless, I did not leave my business card. After every bachelor party I like to wash my hands of the whole experience – literally and figuratively.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-If some of these UFC fighters don’t have six-packs, what chance do I have?

-I have never not been perplexed by a piece of mail. Anything that’s addressed to me that’s not junk mail I just stare at with a quizzical look on my face. What the fuck could this possibly be?

-Ever notice that the best play is very rarely #1 on SportsCenter’s Top 10 Plays?

-My three-year-old laptop is like a three-year-old child. If it goes too long without sleeping it gets cranky and stops cooperating.

-I love being an innocent bystander to reply-to-all email chains where my buddies are good-naturedly bashing each other. Inevitably, someone goes too far and crosses the line. It’s a real treat when that person is not me.

-Whenever I see some kind of leaked camera phone picture, I can’t help but admire the image quality. How do these weirdos have so many pixels?

-I bet the founder of Carfax vehicle history reports was really pleased with himself when he came up with a name for his company that explains how the reports are distributed and also sounds like “car facts.” Less so now that fax machines have disappeared off the planet. Not so clever anymore, huh?

-Olympic athletes are daredevils for sure. But when I attempt to take my hoodie off while running on the treadmill, I come pretty close.

-I was recently at a club in West Hollywood and the music – which I never notice – happened to be really good. Soon I realized that I actually knew the DJ, and began to send him a tweet. Then I remembered where my testicles were, put the phone away, and started to talk to girls.

-“Sex rehab” sounds hot – which seems counterproductive.

-And, finally, as the ranks of my single friends dwindle, I have increasingly found myself as one of the only guys at a bachelor party who isn’t engaged or married. Being a single guy at a bachelor party is an immense responsibility, as the other guys live vicariously through you. Sure we can all hit the bars after the strip club and chat up girls, but I’m the only one who can both look and touch. If I don’t take advantage of that freedom, my defeated, married friends and their doomed, engaged counterparts won’t know what they’re missing. It’s a line I want to use on a chick I’m trying to hook up with one day: “Listen, don’t do this for me, do it for them.” And home we shall go, while my poor friends in relationships can only look on in envy and think to themselves, “Fuck me.”

HOME