The Robot's Thoughts

Brian, from BrianDylan.com is getting married to the love of his life this coming weekend. I'm not in the wedding, but I got an invite.

I was, however, invited to the Bachelor party. It was my first Bachelor party, and I was slightly disappointed that the groom himself had obeyed his fiance by instituting a "no strippers" rule. She'd kill him, he claimed. I was a minority voice in reminding him that it was supposed to be his night, as he will spend the rest of his life doing what she says. Alas, I was a minority voice, and it was decided that we would be doing a bar crawl at state college.

State College is essentially like any big college town, its essentially just like a mini-morgantown. What I mean by that is you can feel free to be a jackass, or to get closer to the point, I felt free to be a jackass.

Our first stop was an authentic Korean restaurant. It is apparently one of Brian's favorite places to eat. It was quirky: They had Japanese and Chinese dishes on their menu, but you couldn't order them. They didn't make them anymore. It essentially eliminated 2/3rds of their menu, but what they did make was good.

There was an incident, however, my former supervisor and good friend, who will we call "The Don" on this particular blog entry, had ordered a dish that they only served to Koreans. Americans, they explained, did not like it and wasted the food -- ate only a few bites and left the remainder.

It was the noodles, they claimed, they were thin and stringy, and it was hard to cut.

Now "The Don" is particularly well traveled, and has experience with Asian cuisine. They were speaking his language when they told him that they don't serve Americans. He felt compelled to try it. The waiter, bless his broken English, was adamant.

I jumped in, "Couldn't you make him an honorary one of your people for the duration of the dinner?"

That drew looks from the rest of the party. When the waiter left, Brian looked at me and said, "You know they're going to put extra jizz in yours, right?"

Those remarks set the tone for the evening. There would be stupidity. Think Dave Chappelle's skit "Dude's Night Out", minus the tranny sex.

Tis the season to be married: We kept running into bachelorette parties. The first one was driving by slow in a strech limo with their windows down, yelling at us. I did them one better by running into traffic, up to their window, and reaching in and shaking all their hands, and telling them to call me.

Our first stop was the saloon, where we proceeded to drink with intensity while the drink specials were in effect. We went through two pitchers of beer and two pitchers of a mixed drink known locally as bong water, and mingled with bridal parties, and then we were on our way to the second destination: The Rapscallion.

The Rapscallion is essentially a dive bar. Think Cumpie's, or Boomerangs, it has no class, and neither does the cliente. This is where I almost started a bar fight.

There are certain fashions that mere fads, fluff without statement, that exist merely so you can broadcast what demographic you belong to in the consumerist food chain. In this case, the fashion faux pas I'm talking about is the "wearing collared shirt with the collar intentionally up as an elitist statement".

Now it has been pointed out to me that I've worn a red visor backward on my head for the better part of a year when that was the "in-frat" style, the point I'm trying to make is that anybody could've said something to this guy, its just that I apparently said it with such hostility.

So, to the guy wearing a pink polo shirt with the collar up, I yelled, just loud enough that he might almost hear it (he'd have to make a saving throw on perception and awareness) "Hey douchebag, you're collar's up."

He didn't hear me. His buddy, however did. He started making comments about the fact that I was wearing my hat in the middle of spring and "how cold it was". I decided to keep hammering it home, with an insult that just hit me on the spur of the moment.

"Yeah, you'd better bundle up. You never know when you and your friend might get caught in a downpour of Its Raining Men."

At that point, his eyes narrowed, and he was sizing me up. I continued to stare him down.

"Why is it always the scrawny fuckers that start shit in bars," Brian said, as I sat between him and another 6'3" member of our party, Woot, "I haven't been in a bar fight in like six years. I definitely do not want one at my bachelor party."

Nevertheless, I proceeded to continue to stare this guy down. I had already figured he wasn't going to instigate a fight when his party had women with them, and that if it came to it, I don't see his friends risking spending the night in jail just because someone thought his buddy's outfit was laughable.

They left. We got another pitcher, and everyone continued to berate me for starting shit. That lasted until the morning.

We crawled to another bar, The Dark Horse, that actually had a decent live band. Mexican_AM_Radio, headed off in search of a dance partner. Brian continued to drink, as did the rest of us. The band was really good. Especially for an accordian band.

At some point, I decided to start talking to women for speed racer's behalf. I would approach a girl that "looked smart", and open with, "Excuse me, but do smart men turn you on? (not giving them a chance to answer just yet) My friend is a little shy, but he's a math graduate student, a Cornell alumni, an actor, smart, funny, well groomed, sensitive, and in possession of dick that is dinosauric in size."

They would usually laugh and ask, "Is this friend you?"
Note to self: I must look like I have a cock dinosauric in size.

The good thing is that speed racer actually talked to women. While not a first, I think this is first time he actually flirted, a little. I remember it was hard for me, but some of his acting lessons have definitely paid off. I think he blew it when he took off his long sleeve black shirt to reveal he had a red t-shirt underneath with a lithograph print of the Pentium II masks. In laymens terms, he had a "blueprint" to a C-P-U.

Brian, unlike most people, doesn't get sick when he drinks. He doesn't get rowdy, either. Quite the opposite. His body shuts down. While everyone else was having fun, Brian was falling asleep at the bar. In an effort to keep him awake, I began to poke and prod him and verbally abuse him. When it seemed like all is would be for naught, I ordered him a shot. "The Don" stopped me.

"Brian, take note," The Don said, "Chris really isn't your friend deep down."

We got thrown out of the dark horse around 1:30, before the band had stopped playing, because Brian could not keep his head above the bar. We walked back to the motel and let Brian pass out. Brian's fiance called and told us about her wild night. She had definitely had a few.

And then we slept.

This is a bad rendition of a great night, and a lot of details have been omitted, for the sake of keeping some of it as a private thing, something for the eight of us to own. While I was initially disappointed, I also realized why I came in the first place, it wasn't for some ridiculously fake-boobed strippers, but to see my friends from my hometown in good spirits. That alone was worth the trip.