The following collection of poorly written words is a vague timeline of my first, and judging by my friends fear of commitment, possibly last bachelor party as a groomsman. Before you get your hopes up about a story involving strippers, trashed hotel rooms, and poor decisions keep in mind the bride to be will probably read this so none of that happened. What did happen was a group of friends took a road trip in a “rented” Escalade to a very nice condo on the beach for a long weekend escape from the real world. I had an incredible time with one of my friend’s even closer friends, by the end of the weekend I considered them to be my close friends as well. I can honestly say that I had one of the best times of my life and I hope you have half as much fun reading this as I did writing it.
10:19 PM: The drive in wasn’t bad, then again, the road beers and good company might have made it a lot easier than it actually was. We made a couple of stops along the way but nothing that impeded our progress too much. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a sight I can only describe as “baller”. The view, perfect. The weather, perfect. This, is paradise; I want to be buried here. The whiskey might be writing more than I am, but the words need to be written. We are on the strip, the center, the Mecca. While this town may be sleepy now, the remnants of today’s party still lingers in the air. The faint shout of “Shots” rings out every so often from the floors below us, acting as a constant reminder that we are in a party town.
11:00 PM: I worry about my presentation amongst the young professionals I am surrounded by. Will I be the drunk of the party? Is my desire to slip away to write being compared to the guy who keeps calling his girlfriend? Is this a love affair? Yes, yes it is. I’m full of inspiration. Perhaps it’s the waves. It might be the whiskey. All I know is this, is paradise.
11:15 PM: I keep looking up from my screen to take in the view from our top floor balcony. The groom asks me, “What are you doing?” I lie as to not seem too pretentious. I say it’s for work. It’s not. This is just for me (and you, the reader). I can’t stop touching the keys. Is this what writing feels like? I hope so.
11:17 PM: We take in the view together. I ask, “Does this feel surreal?”. He responds between occasional drags from my cigarette, “It hasn’t set in yet.” Perhaps tomorrow it might, but right now, he just loves the fact that his friends were able to get off work and join him here.
11: 35 PM: We kick around the idea of going to a bar. That notion goes out the window with the crash of the waves and the fact that Uber doesn’t exist in this town. I ask if there is pizza left, but the answer is no. My hunger is now louder than the waves.
11: 45 PM: I find a power bar to calm the rumble in my stomach. I lied. It was pizza (I found the box under the power bars in the back of the fridge).
11:55 PM: The group draws restless. I go back inside for another beer and to stir up the talkative member of the party by asking him to tell the story about the time he saw Blue Man Group live, knowing that it would take at least 10 minutes, which is long enough for me to slip back outside to smoke another cigarette and keep writing.
12:05 PM: I am in love. This is an escape. It’s better than a high, which admittedly I am a little bit. Perhaps that’s fueling the fire as well, regardless I am in a state of bliss.
1:15 PM: Black-out.
5:50 AM: I was awoken by a phone call from the bride to be. (Side note I need to change that “Rugrats” theme song ringtone) My mind darted to the groom.
We ended up going out last night despite the previous log. Did he make it back with us? It was a bit shit show last night from what I can remember. Indeed he had. In fact, I’m told that he threw up on himself while trying to choke down stale pizza. Turns out the call was to instruct me to let a last minute straggler to the party who had to sleep in his truck last night because no one was present enough answer their phone the night before.
6:00 AM: I greet him in the lobby as the sun greeted the sand. It was 6 am. How was I functioning? How was I awake? Oh thats right “Rugrats”. God I need to change that. I wanted to walk the beach a little. He wanted to smoke a little. We are now friends. After 2 miles, the high started reside. I’m lying.
7:00 AM: I’m still a little high.
7:22 AM: We made it back to the building that contained our penthouse and were let in by a very welcoming maid. We do not look like we should be let in to this very nice building, but we were nevertheless. As we made our way back into the room, cigarettes still lit, I quickly darted to the balcony door to minimize the smell left lingering in the room and was met by the sun rise cascading over the lounge chairs on our patio.
7:29 AM: I doubled back to retrieve my laptop to put this down, and realized I really was having a love affair. I am that groomsman. Not on the phone with the significant other, but the one constantly slipping away to write.
7:35 AM: It occurs to me that I haven’t described our accommodations yet. We are on the top floor of a high rise condo overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Destin, Florida to be exact. Our room keys say penthouse and the view alone lives up to the name. We are staying in a three bedroom loft fully furnished with the latest Beach Decor furniture straight out of this months White Privilege Magazine. Its perfect. I want to be buried here. I’m posting this from the balcony sipping a cup of coffee made exactly how I hate it: black. The reason being because amongst the abundance of alcohol and tanning oil, we forgot to pack sugar. That’s ok. Whiskey will suffice.
Last night was exactly what I didn’t want it to be: expensive. Believe it or not, writing articles about your drunken adventures with friends and telling dick jokes to strangers on stage, isn’t exactly a lucrative business. I am on a budget this weekend and a fourth of it was spent last night at the bar. Correction. A fourth of it was spent on a cab ride home for my friends. As beautiful as this place is, the town hasn’t yet joined the rest of us in the 21st century. To be more exact, there are no public transit options or Uber drivers here, so our only option was to pile in the back of a Prius with a magnetic sign that read “Taxi”. Because this “cab driver” was the only one in town, and knew it, he got to set the price for a 3 mile ride at $60. Normally, I would have walked that distance, but the groom was far past the point of putting one foot in front of the other. So the money that would have gone towards getting me on his level went towards getting him home.
8: 50 AM: As I wrestle with the idea of making another cup of shitty coffee or cracking the first beer of the day at 9am, the rest of the party starts to awaken. I am met on the deck by one of the groom’s brothers with 2 beers. Decision made.
Day 2 has begun.
9:22 AM: While everyone else throws on bathing suits and cut off shorts (yes, we are that hipster), the groom’s brother and I feild emails from work while sipping lukewarm PBR from the road cooler we had packed before the drive down yesterday (Again, yes, we are that hipster.) A third party member joins our makeshift conference room with doughnuts. Where he got them from, I’ll never know but they were exactly what I needed to remind myself that I was on vacation. I closed my laptop and took a shot of the view with beer as a chaser.
10:19 AM: We head down to the beach with intentions of relaxation, and a bottle of rum to match.
6:30 PM: The sun is still out on the beach, even if I wasn’t. After spending 9 hours drinking heavily with zero shade, due to one of the sand soldiers confiscating our pop up tent under orders from the umbrella Nazis, who apparently own the monopoly of shade on our private beach. $45 an hour for an umbrella is not only outrageous, it’s downright un American. So the only way I could dull the feeling of the sun’s rays was to pour one tropical cocktail after another down my head. A technique perfected by the early beach party pioneer, James Buffet.
Due to the liquid diet I was on for the entire day, my stomach was now sending pain signals louder than the ones from my sunburnt shoulders. Luckily, there was a red neon sign that read “Seafood” casting a glow in the parking lot adjacent to where we had parked our “borrowed” Escalade the day before.
7:50 PM: Shrimp Po Boy in one hand, tropical drink in the other, I stumbled back to our penthouse and pulled a lounge chair up to the railing of our balcony in order to hear the sound of the waves crash against the beach I had just left.
9:45 PM: Black-out
9:11 AM: I don’t remember falling asleep in this chair outside, but I was awoken by the pain shooting from my back. Apparently, Tempurpedic doesn’t design lawn furniture yet. Do you know what the best cure for the symptoms associated with a hangover is? Sunburn. The reason being, the pain from your burnt flesh distracts you from the pain due to your headache.
9:19 AM: I pull my sunglasses down from my head and walk into the kitchen. My logic being, the overhead light will hurt my retinas more than the sun rise will (apparently). I pour out the now stale coffee from the morning before and make a new pot. I look around the cabinets for sugar but turn up empty handed. Oh well. I guess whiskey will have to suffice. Déjà vu.
Day 3 had begun.
10:30 AM: The party starts to assemble in the common area and we start comparing battle scars from the day before. None as bad as the one groomsman who didn’t apply sunscreen below his knees. After a healthy roasting from the rest of the wedding party, he carefully slips his lobster feet into a bulky pair of boots and texts a girl from the night before to see if she wants to go for a ride on his motorcycle, which he rode in from New Orleans, and which he let me take a drunken photo shoot on last night.
11:11 AM: As he walks out the door with a shit eating grin on his face, the rest of us turn back to Sports Center on the flatscreen and argue over who will win the big fight tonight. Floyd Mayweather was set to square off against Manny Pacquiao. A huge bill, and the cornerstone for tonight’s plans. But first, we decided that we deserve a relaxing day by the pool to shake off last nights debauchery.
11:30 AM: I changed into my bathing suit, still damp with yesterday’s surf, and joined the rest of the party at the delightfully empty pool with the intentions of relaxation, and a case of beer to match. It was an oasis, inside of paradise. I want to be buried here.
4:35 PM: We reassemble on the penthouse patio hours later with a touch of sun and a shove of booze. The groomsman that didn’t apply sunscreen past his knees asks me to rub prescription strength aloe on his back. I oblige and ask him to return the favor.
5:15 PM: We are greeted by the girls from the motorcycle ride, and I’m too drunk to entertain them, so I turn back to my laptop. Another groomsman shouted from inside the condo that the restaurant we had planned to watch the fight at will not be taking walk ups tonight. Plan A has been scratched.
5:19 PM: I suggest the bar that I acquired seafood from the night before and the party agrees. We stumble down stairs, beer in pockets, and make our way to a table.
7:20 PM: Black-out.
7:57 AM: We never saw the fight. I’m told that Mayweather won after 12 rounds. I could make a comparison between my hangover and Manny’s, but I would hope that you expect better from me. Our night was a blur of cheap whiskey and trashy bars. I woke up in bed with the groom. Not like that. But so what if it was; mind your business.
8:15 AM: I walk out to the patio to greet the day. I can’t tell if I’m still drunk or hungover. Regardless, I pull out the laptop to write this. One by one, the party joins me overlooking the water. Each one recounting their version of the night. I wish I could tell you exactly what happened during our last night in paradise. I’m told I swore an oath of silence, but honestly, I don’t remember.
8:35 AM: While the rest of the party cleans up the room for inspection, our traveling friends quickly dip out.
9:05 AM: As the guys deal with the front desk, I attempt to pack our bags in the Escalade. I’m not sure if it was Karma or just my poor packing skills, but just as I would bend over to pick up the next backpack, the previous one stored would fall to the pavement forcing me to repeat the cycle like some bastardized version of a Jacob’s Ladder.
10:19 AM: We eventually make our way to the interstate after stopping for gas and nicotine. The groomsman who had been on his phone the entire trip looks up long enough to demand cheeseburgers.
11:30 AM: The group agrees and we pull over at the first place that has a drive through window. The SUV is now filled with the smell of fries, milkshakes, and hangovers. As the groom recounts his version of the previous night’s tomfoolery, I take in one last view of the water as it fleets away in our rear-view mirror. I can honestly say that I had the time of my life. I’d love to buried there.