Originally posted: September 18, 2004
I woke up that morning feeling pretty good. Dumber, but good. I scanned my surroundings. Dre, Leo, and Blake were sprawled out all over the room. I walked down the hall and opened the door to my left. Kevin B. and Mickey the Rat were crashed out in the closet-sized room. I walked to the room at the end of the hall. Chris, Corey, Z, Collin, and Mike T. were all passed out in there. It looked like a massacre-scene. Actually, it looked worse, as Chris and Z were sprawled out on one bed, both shirtless in jean shorts.
Now, I think the “rules” go something like this: Straight dudes don’t sleep in the same bed once they reach the age of 8, unless they’re drunk and they just happened to pass out there. In which case they gotta sleep on top of the sheets. And then it’s ok. I think those are the rules, right? Although, in this particular scenario, I kinda wish they’d been under the covers, cause I’m pretty sure I’ll be scarred for life seeing my little brother and one of his oldest friends crashed out next to each other, clad in nothing but rolled-up jean shorts… Man…
I walked down the stairs and saw a couple of tattooed punks snoring in the den – Kevin and Blackout. A line of skateboards leaned against the back of the couch. Budweiser and Coors Light cans were everywhere. The sun blasted through the windows.
Slowly, dudes began waking up as I repeated my rounds, making a little more noise this time. We all shook off our hangovers, gave each other the dude-version of “Good Morning” – “yeeeeaaahhh,” and laughed about how two different guys passed out sitting on the can at some point in the night. We then headed back to the diner for breakfast and Bloody Marys. My sunburnt back felt like someone had just savaged it with a lawnmower, and then set the lawnmower on fire and left it there. It hurt. We had the same waitress from the morning before. I fell in love. Not because she was pretty, although she was. But probably because she was the first girl I saw that morning. I was a little hungover, you see…
BRO’IN DOWN
The dudes with coordination decided to start off the day by hitting the beach for some early morning surfing. I decided to stay back and nurse my hangover with some warm beers. Throughout the afternoon, different pockets of the gang would come and go, but if I recall, I was the one indoor constant that day. Soon, it ended up with me, Leo, The Kid, Collin, and Mike T hanging out. As the beers did their magical oil-change and filtered out the rotten alcohol in our blood streams with some fresh stuff, the mood of the place began to get real bright again. The Kid wandered around the place, glassy-eyed and happy, nursing a 40oz for about two hours. Leo had never met The Kid before the weekend, and was really stoked on his overall excitement for everything. The Kid would start out every sentence with “Dude, dude…” and then go into whatever the hell happy thought was flowing through his malt-liquor-soaked mind. Leo and I would look over at each other, nod and knock knuckles and exclaim, “Yeah, The Kid rules.” There were some real good conversations going for those couple of hours.
Soon, The Kid got off his cell phone and announced, Ehinger’s on his way over. Ehinger, eh? Damn, man. Ehinger was a pal of ours back in the late 80s – middle school. Every kid around town knew this dude, and he had a legendary half-pipe in his backyard. I was later informed that the thing is still standing, opening it’s wooden arms to the next generation of a young Atlanta skaters. Anyway, I hadn’t seen Ehinger since Middle School and… wait, I take that back – once in high school Leo and I saw him upfront at a Bad Religion show. But that was the last time. So he showed up and everyone was super stoked to see each other after such a long time. We all stood around on the back porch drinking beers and catching up on the last 15 years or so.
Around 2:00pm, Dre came back and informed us that all the others had skated to a nearby bar to watch the UGA game. We all headed over there to join ‘em. They had commandered the “pool room” of the bar – a slightly raised section in the back that had one pool table, a couple drink tables, and a big-screen TV. When a married guy is given ownership of one room in the basement, it looks like this room did. Chris, Corey, Z, and Blake had been there a while already, and it was noticable. They were pretty tanked. Especially Z. Actually, Z was pretty much tanked the entire weekend. Poor guy probably didn’t have one rational thought the entire time there. But he has some strange kind of power to be able to do that without eventually losing it and doing something horribly regretful. Not me, man. If I tried going on a three day non-stop bender, I’d top it off by crying in public or something equally embarrassing.
So anyway, we sucked down pitchers and cheered loudly for the Dawgs when they did something good, and yelled “FUUUUCK!!!” loudly when they didn’t. We ruined many an old folk’s Saturday lunch, for sure. Fuck ‘em. They shouldn’t have been at our bar. As the game neared it’s end, and the barstaff neared the end of their rope, Z came stumbling up and announced, “The bartedurs hade us, man! They haaaddde ussss!!!” What would make him think that, I wondered? I then noticed that they had cut off The Kid from ordering any more beers. Well ok, maybe they do hate us. Finally the game ended, and I was ready to get outta there. It makes me nervous to keep hanging around a place where everyone there “hades” us. We got up to pay our tab, and discovered that Dre had paid for the whole damn thing on his way out. He does that a lot these days. Damn generous dude.
Chris, Z, and I were the last to exit our special section of the bar. As we got to the stairs, Z (I assume it was Z) accidentally knocked a pint glass off a table. We watched as it rolled across the floor in slow motion and then down the stairs. It bounced off the top stair… Don’t break, please…. Clink. It bounced down the second… C’mon glass, be cool… Clink. Then the final stair… Clink. And then flopped through the air towards the wooden floor below it. You can do it, little glass! You can… CRASH!
Fuck.
We stood there sheepishly as the waitress walked up to survey the mess. We repeatedly apologized and then scooted towards the exit. On the way out, we saw a pissed-off barback coming out of the kitchen with a broom. Yep. They hate us.
TASK 4: THE LEATHERMAN
We headed back to the pad. Dre and a couple others grabbed the surfboards and ran out to catch some early evening waves. Damn man, where do they get this energy? The rest of us sat around the pad and, well, drank beers.
Once we’d all regrouped again, we decided it was time for the grand finale. The Leatherman. The Mother Fucking Leatherman. If you’ll recall from the tales of Z’s bachelor party, we humiliated the poor guy by making him dress up as a male stripper and suprise some other unsuspecting bachelor party with a dance. The Leatherman. Well, there was no way in the hell that was gonna be a singular occurrance. But of course, as with any sequel, this time it was gonna be BIGGER and GROSSER. We presented Chris with his costume – the fabulous black leather Judas Priest hat, the silver bicep bands, the disgustingly small jean shorts, the horrific colored sun-glasses, and some new additions. We handed him an American flag bandana rolled up tight to form a chocker for his neck. We handed him a black mesh shirt with the word “FIERCE” emblazoned on it. And then we handed him the black leather roller skates. Not roller blades. Skates. They looked like boots, heel and all, with four wheels underneath ‘em. Awful, just fucking awful. We also equipped him with a boom box blasting Cher’s “Do You Believe In Love.” And then we presented him with his task…
“LeatherMan, your task is to zig zap through this line of orange cones…”
Yep, Z had brought some orange cones with him…
“… you will carry this boombox, and skate through the cones, and you cannot stop until you’ve successfully zigzagged through the entire set.”
Holy shit.
We headed out into the dark night and down to the sidewalk next to the beach. We laid out 5 cones, approximately 4 feet from each other. Chris skated away from the cones to give himself enough room to get some speed. The sound of Cher’s digitally-enhanced milk-drenched voice drifted away as the distance between the LeatherMan and the group grew. He then turned around, drew a deep breath, and skated his fucking heart out towards the cones.
Man, this kid was cruising on those 8 tiny wheels. He zipped around the first cone, then the second, then the third, and then… PLUUUMPHH! He bailed hard. Smashed into the ground and a sound of meat hitting concrete echoed down the beach. Followed by a roar of laughter from the rest of us. Oh my. Ohhhh my. What a strange feeling it is to see your little brother violently smash into the ground, and then uncontrollably laugh your ass off. You just can’t help it. I mean, the dude was wearing a mesh shirt that said “FIERCE.” Fuckin’ a, man.
Oh, and the sound of a boom box hitting the ground and Cher’s voice immediately stopping…and then starting up again as the boom box lay there like a dead dog, is just awesome.
The trooper he is, Chris got up, brushed off his knees, and then skated back to his starting point. He sped toward the cones again. One cone. Two cones. Three cones. Four cooooones…. BAAAAM!!!! Meat on Concrete. Boombox crashes a foot or so away. Cher goes quiet. Then starts up again. Everyone laughs. The LeatherMan is hurting. His knees are bloody. His arms are scraped and bruised. He pushes himself up, grabs the boombox, and skates back to his starting point.
If he wasn’t wearing that damn Leather Cap, I would have hugged the kid.
At this point, people are standing outside their beachfront homes watching the show. People are stopping on their bikes to observe the carnage.
Earlier, before this all started, Mickey the Rat and I were talking, and Mickey said, “This is one of those scenarios where you take it to that ‘just one more’ limit, and things go real bad.” It was beginning to look that way.
The LeatherMan pumps his legs. The wheels clack-clack-clack down the sidewalk. Smoke is practically coming out from under them. He reaches the cones. One cone. Two Cones. Three Cones. Four Cones…and….BAM!!! Leatherman’s down, Cher is silent, and now even the strangers are laughing.
The LeatherMan lays there a little longer this time. Uh oh. And then he’s up.
“ONE MORE TRY!!!” he yells.
Mickey the Rat and I look at each other… Shit.
He skates, now with kind of a drunken swagger, knees wobbly, back to his starting point. Now I’m nervous. He exhales, focuses on the cones. Becomes the cones. And charges.
One Cone!
Two Cones!
Three Cones!!!
Four Cones!!!!
C’mon little brother, you can do it…
BAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMM!!!!
Cher is silent. This time for good. The LeatherMan doesn’t get up. Not good. We run over to the crumpled heap on the ground with the mesh shirt. Are you ok??? Dude, you ok??? Visions of my little brother on crutches and a neckbrace at his wedding pound my brain….
“Yeah, I’m alright…”
Oh man, what a relief.
The LeatherMan is ok.
In the clutch of circumstance, I’ve not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed.
Or to put it in LeatherMan-speak:
FIERCE…
So we picked up the mangled boom box, helped Chris to his feet, and decided it was time to go out for drinks…
THE LAST NIGHT OUT
We headed out to the town and hailed a cab. Half the group got in, including a bloody and broken Chris, still in the LeatherMan uniform. The rest of us waited for another, which never came. But a bus did. We hopped in that thing. If I recall, it was long as hell. At one point on the ride, Z was laying on his back on the bus seats. I stuck my dirty bare foot in his face.
We all met up at UNO pizza for some pie and an attempt at an energy boost. The place was empty. Big and empty. A big ass empty pizza joint with one huge table full of drunk dudes and a guy in a mesh FIERCE shirt. Everybody was fading. The night was dying. I tried to inspire everybody with an idea for a game. “Hey guys, let’s take turns drawing a picture of someone in the group dying in a horrible way, and we’ll all have to guess who it is!!!” No one responded to me… Mid-way through the dinner, if that’s what you’d call it, I looked up and saw both Dre and Chris with their heads down on the table, snoozing. Two brothers. One in a leather Judas Priest cap.
As soon as that ridiculous meal was over, the gang decided to call it a night, and hopped in a cab. Only me, Z, Ehinger, and The Kid remained. Two young girls somehow ended up with us out in front of UNO. We decided to go find some bars with our new friends. But, to be completely honest, I don’t think these girls were old enough to get into bars. Luckily we never had any reason to find out. We headed down towards the popular part of the strip. It was hopping. We started getting really idiotic, trying to creep out the girls and take ridiculous pictures with them. I kept trying to get them to take a picture of me with my nipple out. Then I tried to get them to take a picture with me while they do the TNT – The Two Nipple Touch ie one girl each touches one of my respective nipples. They wouldn’t. They seemed to think that was weird. Weird, huh? I’ll show you weird…
As we reached an intersection, I yelled out, “The best thing about imagination is that you can do WHATEVER YOU WANT. I’m in a hot tub right now!!! A big hot tub floating above the ground!!! Come join me in my warm floating hot tub!!!” I pretended to relax in my floating hot tub. Ehinger stepped up the imaginary steps and dipped his toe in the imaginary water to test the imaginary temperature. I splashed The Kid with some imaginary water. The imaginary water stung his eyes.
According to Ehinger, the girls were cracking up at this. But they didn’t crack up at my next idea: “Hey girls, let’s pretend I’m dead! And you can stuff my body in your trunk!!!” They didn’t laugh.
We eventually seperated from the girls and entered some crowded club. The dance floor was packed. Shoulder to sweaty shoulder. Perfect, we thought, and the four of us did the Conga line through the crowd. No one joined in. I think we knocked a few beer bottles out of a few hands. As we were leaving the bar, we ran into 3 weird girls and started taking photo after photo with them. Well, except for me. At this point, I was done. Completely tired and void of zingers. I just stood in the background and waited to get home…
As soon as we got back to the pad, I headed straight up the stairs and crashed out on the floor. I kept waking up throughout the night from the throbbing pain coming from my sunburnt back.
THE DEPARTURE
When I woke up, I realized I had no right to be complaining about my pain. Chris was a mess. His knees and arms were bloody, scraped, and bruised, his chest hurt, and he had a massive pitch-black bruise on his ass cheek. Oh, and Z’s ankles had swelled up to a comical size. Apparently a side-effect of dehydration…
Like zombies, we all creeped throughout the house, collecting our belongings and stuffing them haphazardly into our suitcases.
I walked into one of the bedrooms where Blackout was packing his bags. He asked me how I was doing. I said I was hurting pretty bad. He replied, “If it don’t hurt, it ain’t worth it.”
As I headed down the stairs I thought about how damn appropriate that statement was for the weekend…
We checked out, grabbed a quick breakfast (no Bloody Marys) at our local diner, and then said our goodbyes. It was bittersweet. It had been such a good time, I didn’t want it end. But I was definately ready to get back home to Georgia and sit on the couch for an hour or two. I hugged my bros, hugged my pals, knocked knuckles, and hopped into Mickey the Rat’s car with Z for the ride back to the airport.
Z and I walked through the airport, through security, and then to the gates. I asked Z what gate we were at. He look at his boarding pass and responded, “12 S.E.P.”. Hmm, they got some weird gate numbers here in San Diego. We started walking through the airport looking for gate 12 S.E.P.
Gate 39, Gate 40, Gate 41… Where’s 12 S.E.P.??? Hmmm, must be in the other direction.
We turned around and continued our search for 12 S.E.P. Soon, it dawned on me.
“Wait a minute, Z. Lemme see that boarding pass.”
I took a look at it. It wasn’t 12 S.E.P. that he was looking at, but 12SEP. As in TODAY’S DATE. He had looked at “Date” instead of “Gate.” Holy shit. Two idiots searching for Gate Number 12SEP. That’s not even a number!!! It became immediately obvious that it was time for us to be home.
12SEP. Shit.
We arrived back in Atlanta safely and I hopped in my car and headed back to my house. It was dark, and everyone was driving like a maniac. I wanted to turn around and buy a one-way flight back to San Diego. Back to San Diego, where everyone’s pretty and no one works. They just sit at diners and surf and drink and provide ambient noise as me and my brothers and my friends have the time of our lives. Well, at least that’s how I’m going to remember it. Yeah, fucking San Diego.
Chris had told us a while ago that he had no interest in your typical Strippers and Limos bachelor party. He just wanted to get together with old friends and drink beer in the sun. And that we did. Drinking beer in the sun with your friends is a true gift of youth. Or a gift of adults who refuse to give up their youth. That was one of the best times I’ve had in as long as I can remember, and if my little brother had even half as much fun as I did, then he had one hell of a bachelor party. Good times.
Congrats on your upcoming wedding, Chris. Thanks for giving us all the opportunity to have so much fun. Looking forward to seeing everybody again soon.
…And looking forward to the next unlucky bachelor who gets to wear the Judas Priest Cap…
…Because the LeatherMan always gets back up…
