The inspirational catalyst: Portland, Maine.
This was the first trip we decided to take in what would become a series of epic day-long adventures. After a long night of heavy drinking, we arose waay early to hit the road; like, 9am, before God wakes up. First order of the day: Coffee and eats. So we hit up the evil that is starbucks, grab some shitty breakfast sandwiches, 2 liters of water each for proper recovery, coffee for some, and naked mango juice para mi. Still intoxicated, we invariably irritate everyone in the shop for a solid 15 minutes before we hit the road. Aaand we're off! Banning the radio for conversation sake turns out to be genius, as we make up our own songs, tell stories, and other random funny facts that we had on our minds. Including the "scoop," for those in the know.
The car ride itself is a blast, and upon arriving in Portland, we are already bursting with energy and excitement for the day. So we find a pay-lot to park, and hit on the 65 yr-old snaggletooth attendant with lines like, 'how often do you use your looks to get everything you want?'* before we grab predestined silly hats from the trunk. Now we look as ridiculous as we're about to act. The first shop we happen to come across has more silly hats, so we upgrade a few to the fisherman/ lobster genre and keep moving. As we wander the town, stopping in every shop we come upon, we lose two of our five men. Unfazed, we decide immediately to go to the liquor store. This is good idea. They have a walk-in humidor - an awesome bonus, so we buy stogies. We are chatting up the owner who decides he likes us so much, that he will impart us with gifts. Eyes closed, palms up like children, we are given leis in support of our shenanigans.
Despite the cell phones in our pockets, we decide it is better to have the locals help us track down our missing compatriots; "Hey, have you seen Uncle Sam and a Pirate?" ...."well if you do... tell him their test results came back positive, and I'm sorry."
Naturally, people need to know why we're wearing silly hats and leis, and "Uh, duh. It's Saturday," generally doesn't satisfy most that ask. So we magically transform into a bachelor party, and I transmogrify into the groom - POOF!
The rest of the day I am continually congratulated or harangued that my decision will haunt me for the rest of her days. Goodbye freedom and fun, hello diapers and daycare. The enthusiatic people earned my favor by generously buying us drinks, including an Oyster shot at J's restaurant where we ate. For the record, an oyster shot is not pleasant. Judging by taste alone, it would be fish, salty ocean water, vinegar, cheap vodka, and dirty urine. (coincidentally the same flavor as the last date I took out...) By texture, a slimy lump covered in sand. Despite this god awful drink, I do highly recommend this little hole in the wall - great seafood and Long Islands that even Robert Downy Jr. could appreciate.
As we leave J's, hammered into a blissful state of inebriation, we stop and reflect next to a thorn bush. We have been in Portland for mere hours, and have become local celebrities for the day! Each grasping a thorny branch, we make a pact to return should any of us actually get engaged. We are on cloud 9, and soaking up the glorious attention we're getting! Our stories and reputations actually precede us as we move from place to place. "You must be the Bachelor Party from Boston - let me buy you a drink and tell you about my 2nd and 4th failed marriages."
It's great. Just before this, we found an abandoned train yard and harbor. I tried to commandeer a vessel, but my pirate skills don't include hotwiring boats. Plus, jail and I don't like each other, so this is probably for the best.
Mike is now giving piggy back rides around the bar by request. I have just traded hats with a stranger at the urinal in the men's room and we've decided to stage a fake fight for our friends. These guys are lobstermen. Not quite as hardcore as Deadliest Catch crews in the frigid Alaskan waters, but gnarly just the same - having caught over 100lbs of lobster that day alone. It's 7pm and we've had a great day, but realize that it must end at some point, so we reluctantly head out. It's about 40 seconds before we hear live music and decide against our better judgement. After rallying a whole new bar, dancing up a storm, proposing to two cougars and getting put in a headlock by their younger brother, someone tells us to check out a bar called Styx.
Styx happens to be a gay bar. I have never been to one and am intrigued with the prospect of it. I mean, how much easier could it be to meet girls than when there is no competition? Did someone say genius!?
Enter Styx. This place is like pink dolphins covered in rainbow glitter; I don't think I have ever seen so many men in mesh shirts... I immediately decide to drown any remaining discomfort or inhibitions in gin. I strike up conversation with Hotty McBartender. It's going well, but I haven't discovered the best transition to "I'm straight, let's get out of here," so I say just that. I am firmly shut down - pfssh. Silly lesbians. Within minutes, our troop of "groomsmen" finds a stage with a stripper pole and goes to town with it. We look flamboyant and fantastic. I get another g&t, and am actually a little disappointed I haven't been bought any drinks. I blame Mike, who helped break my nose on a hardwood floor during a wrestling match the night before. I look like Owen Wilson and pay for all my drinks.
Round 2: For those that know me, I have a few weaknesses. Blondes top this list, and I have found one that would make a puppy cry. Stunning and a great conversationalist, we hit it off immediately and talk for a solid 30 minutes. I had decided to delay the inevitable admission of being hetero until she had fallen in love. But we're at that point now, so I 'm getting ready to spill the beans when another beautiful Italian girl walks by. I can't help but look, and simultaneously notice that Blondie checks her out too. Are you kidding me? So, I just lay it out; "I like women, by the way." "Me too," she says with Helen of Troy's smile. It's now 2:00 am and the bar is closing, which means we are probably about to head home. I guess trying to get blondie to pinch hit would be moot now. My little boy heart, broken, we part ways forever. The car ride home regurgitates the same travel shenanigans as on the way, but at a booze-fueled, exponential level. There is a solid 40 minutes of hashbrown requests from the backseat, which once again, are firmly rejected.
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