Spirituality Behind the Ritual of the Traditional Bachelor Party

just so you know - we will not be doing this

My best friend is getting married. Being my best friend I have the opportunity to be none other than the best man. As the best man you are in charge of arranging the bachelor party, the sendoff of your friend into the new and exciting realm of matrimony. To perform this function correctly one must reflect on the spiritual aspect of the bachelor party, the debauchery, the objectification of women, the wild romp through the night before the union of two lovers. In our current politically correct society we must slough off the reins of morality to a point and carry on like the animals we are. Aside from the base pleasure orientation of the crusade, I propose there is a spiritual underlining to the ritual of the traditional bachelor party.

In the past I have been in four other wedding parties, this one will be the fifth. The very first I was a groomsman to the highschool buddy just graduating college to go off and have a life with a wife, who was also a mutual highschool friend. They hated each other in highschool. He asked her to prom and she declined because one night he dropped in the bushes next to the Sonic. Now, they have two children and a third on the way if it has not got here yet. My second wedding I had a shared best man duty with another guy. There was a bachelor party – sorta. More about this later. The marriage ended in a bitter divorce with affairs and distrust. The third was unmemorable. He was a good friend at the time. We lost contact. I was a simple groomsman that did not attend the night before sendoff. I think they played golf. I have no idea how they are today. The last wedding was my sister’s. Being the minister I took my role seriously and did not participate in the debauchery, which took place in New Orleans on Bourbon street so you can imagine there was some serious debauchery going on. They are still together.

The traditional bachelor party can wax and wane in structure, however, there is one key aspect that needs to be upheld: 1) The women and men must be separated on the night before the wedding. And this goes for ALL women and ALL men. Just because the groom is better friends with this girl he has known forever does not mean that she should come to the bachelor party. If they are really that good of friends the bride should invite her to the bachelorette. And this goes for the brother of the bride as well and that guy she has known forever. The typical modern pre marriage get together is the combination of both groups of bride and groom for one big blowout. That is what the wedding reception is for. Save it for the rehearsal dinner, split the parties on the night before. The bride and groom will be all mushy mushy the whole night and you do not get the chance to have a special moment with your buddy where you tell him how awesome she is and that he is making the right decision right before you send him and the stripper into the private room for a VIP lap dance. At my first bachelor party I watched the groom’s father, the guy who was always viewed as an authority figure through highschool when we were upstairs in his game room carefully trying not to mess the groomed fuzz on his pool table, slipping twenties into g-strings. This was the moment I started feeling like an adult. It passed.

Another bachelor party I attended did the whole strip club thing with one MAJOR exception. The groom was also friends with my girlfriend, who came with me because she was invited. Thanks pal. His marriage failed. Good. Maybe next time you will split the genders, dumbass.

Failed bachelor parties end in failed marriages. I have theories about this. The co-bestman wedding with the bitter divorce had one of those dinner at Chilis night before gatherings with both parties represented. Lame. Halfway through the night, myself and the rest of the groomsmen kidnap the guy out the back door to hit the town. One guy yelled, “Tittie Bar!” and we were off to our destination. None of us really cared to go, but it was traditional so we did. The groom lasted no more than ten minutes in the place before he paid the bouncer fifty bucks to throw him out. A half hour of searching later we figured out what happened. That pussy had already called a cab from the payphone outside to take him back home to his woman. They woke up together on the day of the wedding. If that was not bad luck, what is?

This anecdote brings up a few of my theories as to why that marriage did not work based on the failure of the bachelor party. Having the parties together hints on distrust, whether it is the bride distrusting the groom or the other way around. Distrustful people have either been burned really bad in the past or are not loyal people to begin with. Then there is the issue of distrusting yourself. Putting yourself into a lustful position with a potential and almost certain one night stand situation is a test of your fidelity. If you do not love her enough to resist that casual urge, much less do not trust yourself in that situation, what the hell are you doing marrying? Obviously your wild oats have not been successfully sown.

Then, there is the matter of going home to her and waking up together on the day of your wedding. You are roped. There is no out. Not that you would take it, but it needs to be presented for you to reject it. Get a hotel. Sleep alone. It may be the last chance you will get. A fundamental part of the bachelor party is for the groom to have that soul searching alone time where he accepts his future. Your brain has been so wrapped up in her and the catering and sending out invitations and getting a minister on top of normal life stuff like work and bills and keeping the house clean. You are stressed. You need a wild night of release where you can ask that one fatal question: Is the sacrifice of all of this worth her for the rest of my life? In a drunken stupor you sleep it off and answer yourself in the morning. Then you go get married.

This is what the whole shebang, the ritual of, the purpose for the bachelor party. This one question is what it is all about. The job of the best man is to be the devil, to throw temptation into the face of the groom to be. The rest of the attendees are minor demons assisting in bringing those temptations to the forefront. It is not because we do not want him to marry. Do you really think Satan, sent by God, really wanted Jesus to cross out of his circle of stones instead of dying on the cross? Hell no! He just wanted him to be confident he was doing the right thing.

Fun, but only in Designated Areas

The Boulder Creek Festival – Saturday

Once a year Boulder throws a party that their cold stoic regulations cannot handle. It is sanctioned by the city. It is filled with travelers overtaking the town in tents, vans, backpacks, scarves, and wings. The Boulder Creek festival, held every year on Memorial Day weekend, is designed to officially ‘kick off summer.’ They open the dam in Nederland and let the water gush down the canal in near flash flood conditions. All along the banks are the white tented temporary establishments selling fair merchandise or information. The carnies come also with their rides and darts and stuffed animal prizes next to magnetic core milk bottles daring the passerby to knock them down with cabbage sized soft balls. Bands, solo musicians, dance troupes, drums, and quiet hawkers dominate the soundscape with the eternal hush of running water consistently in the background. The faeries play. You are allowed fun, but only in designated areas.

Fae folk care not for these silly human rules. They will bow to the event coordinators with badges dangling around their neck until backs are turned and they have found another crevice to mischievously grace. They excommunicated the hula hoopers from the front of the bandshell because of the highway pedestrian traffic that would allegedly course through their path. They wanted them to hide on the side near a Ryder truck, avoiding small children without the mindset to not walk near the spinning disc or twirling drunkards kicking up dust. They would move the drunkards if they could, but if the beer garden next door did not give these alcohol imbibed cause to dance then the simple fact that live music was playing does. Casually they tell her, “As soon as I no longer see you on your shift, I am coming back.” She, the festival assistant, did not like this. Her face creased into a stern furrow. You are allowed to have fun, but only in designated areas.

There are invisible and visible markings all over the ground. This fenced in yard is the place you may drink beer. This parking lot is where you do carnival things. This stadium is where you sit and watch music. This row of chairs and tables is where the teenagers hang out with their highschool battle of the bands judged by adults. This bleacher is where you watch dancers. Oh, the dancers. They twirled and whirled and stepped and leaped with modern, classical, ballet, and belly moves. I like the belly moves. The belly movers use scarves.

We sought more play in the section dispensing information on how to be more body, mind, soul, and eco conscious. Proudly, a friend brings his idea of the Bikeopolis to fruition with his own tent and flyers about the once thought as a pipe dream, Front Range Eco ranch. Around the corner is the designated fun area for hula hoops. You could hear the drums beating, but you could not see the performers. This will not do. We leave to dance in front of the ignored by the musicians stage. They have opted to stand on the level with the audience because they want the audience to make noise alongside their trash gamelan. They do. They hoot. They holler. They clap. They dance. There is much dancing today. There are lots of areas designated for that.

And then the rain came. Rain has the tendency to erode quickly those perimeters set by either man or nature. The creek rose another foot. The chalk lines of fun designation faded away as the majority of patrons ran for the community tents to keep dry. Those like myself, the beloved rainmakers, the winged tricksters, the spirit dancers, and family waited the warm dark skies for the cooling mist of droplets on our weary sun weary brow. This is when the change occurred. This is when they allowed me to walk with them for the day. They saw my appreciation of the weather sprites was genuine. She ran out to a sidewalk median between the grass and the drum stage parking lot. She was beautiful, frolicking in the pour, damning the denizens who sought refuge with her teasing motions, slipping on the wet, and laughing at herself, rolling in it only to fluidly arise to her feet once again for more play. She withstood the hail. That was my limit. I had seen it golf ball sized here before. I had felt it rebound onto my leg from the front door ajar and it had stung. I did not want to feel it on my scalp.

We hurried back to Bikeopolis, stopping along the way to introduce myself to Domino, the rainbow dancer. We had met before in another dimension with different faces, but we knew each other. She called the inner faerie inside of me by named association. She called me family. We dodged the discomfort of the sky water by running headlong through it, splashing in puddles the whole way. A new traveler would join our bus. She needed, however, to be blinded first. Sometimes it takes closing our eyes and letting our vision blur to truly see. I promised to bring her back a neodymium magnet to retrieve the screw of her spectacles.

Further along the course we were saturated with this new environment. The veil of the maya had been lifted. At our respective houses, Blake of Moab was with me, we changed from shorts into pants, he from shoes into boots, me into a jacket. Night was around the corner. It would get cold, maybe. It did, but I would never have a chance to be deterred by it. After the resupply we returned to the body, mind, and soul arena. It had spilled out from the roped in area to the streets. The town had been cleansed. A moment of sun refracted into double and triple rainbows on the balcony of a Himalayan cuisine balcony adequately named Sherpas. These monks had our baggage carefully stored for the climb to the top. They fed us Chicken Tika Massala, Chai Tea, and Vegetable Yak stew with Naan. We would need the roughage for the next leg of our journey. Little did I know that this chain of events would yield a crop of flamingo nunchuks. Whenever you see a rainbow, two faeries fall in love.

Some stereo music and liquid libations served directly to our seats on the couch later we remained unsure of our energy levels. I left the gathering to stoop on my gargoyle perch outside. It was too beautiful of a night to waste inside. The rest of the posse felt similarly. They joined the battle, unleashing a Super Smash Brothers style force with day glo hoops and those dastardly hot pink nunchuks. The beating was a massage that would continue throughout the nightly walk. Domino and her pan like friend brought us to gyrations outside, clanging street signs and newspaper vending machines with our sticks. The dead club would jump tonight. The DJ thought it was his own fault. Down the streets we sparred without bruising. We found the end and kept going. We looped the circle through the back alleys where topless dancers have an entrance to their stage. We united with more of the crew. We danced with fae. Blake has his own name for these creatures. He calls them Serendipity.

We stopped along the waterway to watch the falls careen off the ledge on our way home from the night. By this time golf cart security guards had reestablished their boundaries. They found us before we could play and explained that they were cool with us having fun, but it had to be in a designated area. This was not the place. We walked along the banks until we found one. Under the library on the other side, a Frisbee throwing celebration commenced. We hollered the Mardi Gras anthem at them from our vantage. “Throw me something, Mister.” They did. The first launch established my credibility as a dedicated servant of disc retrieval. It almost made it, but a post balked the completion. Down to the stream of heavy flow it fell. A moment of consideration was all that was necessary for my mind to track the trajectory of the current. It would be pushed to the side. I could get this. I stepped to it. It swept out missing my hand. I stepped again and then again. I was wet now. A little more wet would do me fine for the sake of this fun. I had not had a chance to throw it yet. Success. They cheered from the other side. They lauded my bravery with enthusiastic kudos. Back and forth the yellow saucer flew across the creek staying dry until the famous last words were spoke. “This is my last one.” It was. I missed. It went down. They did not have the shore to bring their feet to the edge. Their bank was high. The game was over.

(I will put links on later. I have to go experience sunday now.)

New Daudi Rainmaker Story!

I just posted a new Daudi Rainmaker story – Through the Desert. It is part 2 of a multi-part set. Over the Mountain is part 1. There is also a stand alone short introduction to the character called – beloved trickster. I am still trying to catch up on posting all of my past stories here, so you do not get a neat header and all that yet. For some reason I like to keep that stuff in order.

But I thought you might like to know.

Plus, a photo review of Cameron Grant.

Zombie Jesus Health Care Reform

I had a dream last night that Jesus rose from the dead again to heal a bunch of people. When He touched their heads to offer Salvation, their clothes spontaneously disappeared and they fell on the ground in worshipful bliss. The adults did. When he touched the heads of children, they just became starry eyed and remained fully clothed. I watched limbs grow back from the lame, scarred and wrinkled faces smooth, blind eyes see. I started to think how great it would be if Jesus fixed my missing tooth. I wondered if that was why all these people were worshipping him, because he could fix them up. Was their faith self serving or altruistic?

When Jesus took a dead man’s hand with a kiss, causing the deceased (I do not know how I knew he was deceased, it was dream logic) to rise, I said a little louder than I expected, “I knew it. Jesus is a Zombie!” He heard me from across the room. I thought he would be pissed. He walked over and put his hand on my head. My tooth grew back, but my clothes were still there, too. He smiled at me and handed me a note. Jesus has terrible penmanship. You would think it would be ornate. It was nearly legible chicken scratch. It said something to the affects of, “You are healed for now, however, the date of your salvation like these children has not yet been set. It will come, but the date is up to you. – JC”

I don’t really know if he signed his letter JC or not. If I was Him, I would. Everyone who was healed was baffled that I got to keep my clothes on. They did not think I was really healed. This was fine by me. I did not have to participate in their stupid group prayers and candle vigils. Only the children understood. That stuff was pretty boring to them too. We winked at each other and went about our own un-predestined life.

I think Jesus admired that in us. After all His whole existence was set in stone to be hung on a cross from the time he was born, according to the lore. How is that for destiny without choice? Some say He did have a choice. Martin Scorcese got into a little controversy saying he had a choice with The Last Temptation of Christ. Honestly, though, that movie said he was tempted. Christians hate that. It makes Jesus seem too human, but isn’t that the point. He was human. He was tempted. So are you. God sent this man to show us how we could live a better life as humans. Did he have a choice, though?

Not really.

Neither did all those other people greedy for Health Care. They were willing to parade around naked, pretending to worship, overlooking reason for blind faith. Neither me or the children were willing to sacrifice those very things that makes us sentient beings for immediate gratification. This is why I think Jesus admired us. He wrote me a note. Did you get a note? No? I didn’t think so.

The Opal Deception

I spoke with a jewelry seller at one of those southwestern mall shops today. They had fabulous rings made from cut glass and opals. It was difficult to consider the semi precious speckled stones garnering the sides of the shapely ring were real. The metalwork was a twisted silver beauty, but the finely cut glass to resemble diamonds threw me because of its placement so close to the opals. I would even go so far as to say the colored and sliced glass jewels (purples, reds, greens, etc) stood out in aesthetic much finer than the actual gemstones placed along the sides. It was the uglier type of opal anyway. The kind that has too many miniature rainbows cluttering too small of a space.

The sales lady talked about a broad range of new age christianity with me. She could tell i was interested. I always am. We discussed Gnostics and the Enochian Keys and the plight of Anton LaVey with intellectual satanism, as opposed to christian satanism. The difference being that the former believes in God and directly refutes his goodness, which is typical among rebellious teens. The other are predominately atheistic and use the story of the tree of knowledge as an iconic pursuit of life. Usually, they do not mind who gets hurt in the name of that power.

The babies of the Renaissance, who look more like diminutive old men than children, were intoned with equal passion during the discourse. We decided that life and death are intwined. Where one source says the Enochian Keys could open the gates to Hell, another might say it opens that of the netherworld, a place being neither Heaven nor Hell. I say the passage of life and death are closest when we are born and when we are old. This is why the babies look like that. They represent the two embodiments of corporeal form nearest the transition of worlds.

Like all who are passionate about their spiritual quest, she ventured to find out more about her conversation partner, which happened to be me. She was hesitant when she asked, not knowing exactly the right words to phrase the question. I have been asked this very thing by so many diverse beliefs that I have nailed down a pattern to their own general belief system based upon their approach. Agnostic Semitics ask if you believe in God. Christians ask if you believe in Jesus. Ritualists ask what you practice. New Age Spiritualists ask about your Journey. Eastern religions do not typically ask. I told her what I tell everyone, I believe in faeries.

Strangely enough, the questions got more personal. Do I talk to them? Yes, we play often. Am I psychic? Not necessarily, but I have been considered “in tune” by my psychic friends. They say I have a secret gift that I hide. There, the secret is out. I told her. I might as well tell you too. She had a way of putting me off guard and making me reveal myself readily. It was refreshing. Normally I am the one in her shoes doing the off putting to their guard. Not very often does someone do it to me. I liked it. It makes you think. It forces you to consider. With those considerations we come to decisions until the next time a consideration is made.

Thank you jewelry shop lady even if your opals did suck.