Thursday
04/05/04
The Last Party
It’s been said that during springtime young men’s thoughts turn to love. That’s not exactly the way I remember it however; for me, thinking about "love" was sort of a constant, year-round thing. In any case, as I and my friends age into what might be charitably termed "seasoned adults" (40 isn’t all that far away anymore), I find that in the springtime our thoughts turn to golf.
Or, this particular Spring: golf, marriage and a final bachelor party. This very month the last of our single friends will be taking that long walk down the aisle, forever leaving behind the world of "Going to Dave and Buster’s? Sure, I’ll see you in twenty minutes." and entering the world of "Um, I dunno, I’ll have to call you back." And that’s all fine of course; I’ve been in that world for a long time now and certainly the pros of family and kids far outweigh the cons of losing the freedom to run around all night like a knucklehead.
Anyway, back to the confluence of spring, aging guys, golf, and bachelor parties. We hit Atlantic City on Friday night, got ourselves settled in, and, as is our tradition, made ready to take the ten-minute walk to the Irish Pub on St. James for some Guinness and great, cheap food. It was then that Bachelor-boy announced that he wanted to take a cab, and I realized with a start that we are all truly domesticated now. Even more startling to me was that I thought that the cab was a good idea. Wouldn’t want to catch a chill, after all.
And so that’s pretty much how the rest of our grownup spring/golf/bachelor weekend went: Responsible driving of clubs back and forth to the Seaview in my minivan, naps before dinner at Max’s Steakhouse, a mind-numbing check for said dinner, and going to bed well before dawn.
Well, there was a little excitement involving Bachelor-boy and a bunch of Southern Comfort manhattans, but that’s a story I’ll save for when his kids get married some day.
|
The Last Party
It’s been said that during springtime young men’s thoughts turn to love. That’s not exactly the way I remember it however; for me, thinking about "love" was sort of a constant, year-round thing. In any case, as I and my friends age into what might be charitably termed "seasoned adults" (40 isn’t all that far away anymore), I find that in the springtime our thoughts turn to golf.
Or, this particular Spring: golf, marriage and a final bachelor party. This very month the last of our single friends will be taking that long walk down the aisle, forever leaving behind the world of "Going to Dave and Buster’s? Sure, I’ll see you in twenty minutes." and entering the world of "Um, I dunno, I’ll have to call you back." And that’s all fine of course; I’ve been in that world for a long time now and certainly the pros of family and kids far outweigh the cons of losing the freedom to run around all night like a knucklehead.
Anyway, back to the confluence of spring, aging guys, golf, and bachelor parties. We hit Atlantic City on Friday night, got ourselves settled in, and, as is our tradition, made ready to take the ten-minute walk to the Irish Pub on St. James for some Guinness and great, cheap food. It was then that Bachelor-boy announced that he wanted to take a cab, and I realized with a start that we are all truly domesticated now. Even more startling to me was that I thought that the cab was a good idea. Wouldn’t want to catch a chill, after all.
And so that’s pretty much how the rest of our grownup spring/golf/bachelor weekend went: Responsible driving of clubs back and forth to the Seaview in my minivan, naps before dinner at Max’s Steakhouse, a mind-numbing check for said dinner, and going to bed well before dawn.
Well, there was a little excitement involving Bachelor-boy and a bunch of Southern Comfort manhattans, but that’s a story I’ll save for when his kids get married some day.
