The Local Bachelor Party
These broken chairs are just a snapshot of the fallout from an incredible bachelor party Saturday afternoon in my backyard. Everyone from son Max (16), who served as referee of the Beer Olympics, to us older guys in our fifties and sixties who merely watched and gambled on the events, had a great time, many declaring it the best bachelor party of all time.
It was one of those “glorious” days when everything lined up: the weather, the mosquitoes, the first post-COVID lockdown party of spring, great mix of guys, good planning, understanding neighbors who turned a blind eye to the commotion, friendly faces at every turn, big personalities who kept everyone entertained. Eight-plus hours of hardcore drinking and camaraderie.
When I was marrying age, virtually no one had destination bachelor parties. You just found a local venue (normally, the basement of my current house, which my parents made available due to its large size), brought in a truckload of beer, cigars, music, and primitive gambling games, and “had at it” with lots of rowdiness. I’ve been to a few destination bachelor parties and enjoyed them. They no doubt have their place, depending on your number of friends and a variety of other factors, but I’ve long disliked the notion that a person “must” have a destination bachelor party. A local one where boys are boys, the older men can hang and watch the boys be boys, and everyone drinks alarming amounts of beer still have their place and, I dare say, ought to be the norm.
I think Saturday proved it.