As a kid, I did the majority of my underage drinking in the dark alleys and on the dirty street corners of Philadelphia. As I got older — you know, 16 or so — the party moved from the street to the local VFW Hall, where on any given weekend night hundreds of rowdy neighborhood teens would drink themselves oblivious at a tribal ritual of manhood known as a Beef & Beer.
Now, for those of you who never experienced a Beef & Beer — and I’m assuming that to be pretty much everyone who didn’t grow up in Philly since, like cheesesteaks and communities comprised entirely of extraordinarily obese people, it’s a regional phenomenon — all you really need to know is that B&Bs were good clean fun. We drank a lot, fought a little, and on the good nights got to play tonsil hockey with a big-haired cheerleader or two. The cops left us alone, because damn near every kid in the neighborhood was related to a cop, and because the guys who ran the B&Bs invariably left a “spare” keg outside for the Boys in Blue to have down at the station.
They don’t do Beef & Beers in LA. I’m sure they never did. And it’s a safe bet that the teenagers in Philly don’t have ‘em anymore either, but since I’m in LA now, and I’m an adult (at least, my ID says I am), and this story is about something that happened last weekend, well …. Christ, am I off on a tangent here or what?
My point is this: Kids today go to Raves. I dunno why they’re called Raves because from what I witnessed last Saturday night, nobody seemed to be talking with any real enthusiasm. Not much ranting either … in fact, nobody was talking much at all — they were too dazed, and definitely too confused. If you ask me, instead of Raves, they ought to be called “E&Es — Ecstasy & Evians,” since that’s what every pimply-faced kid I encountered seemed to be on.
And what, pray tell, was I doing at a Rave with a bunch of aspiring young rehab patients? Well, I certainly wasn’t looking for Robert Downey Jr., I can tell you that.
“Isn’t this great?” Tina yelled. Or maybe she said “I’m finally graduating eighth grade.” The DJ — who called himself Logic Bomb — had the music amped-up to such earsplitting levels that he made the sound man for The Who look like a wimp.
“Maybe you should go talk to Tommy,” Tina screamed. “I think he’s upset.”
Tina, in her dementia — and that is the fairest way I can describe the girl’s thought processes — decided to “reunite” me and my former best friend Tommy, her current fiancé, at a Rave. She thought it would be a “super cool and relaxing” place for us to hash out our differences — first and foremost being that I want, more than anything, for Tommy to be dead.
“Don’t you think he looks upset?” she hollered, gesturing to Tommy, who was bobbing his head numbly and utterly rapt by the condensation on his Evian bottle.
“He’s not upset,” I howled above the din, “he’s on E!”
“Ornery? What makes you think he’s ornery?” she shrieked.
“He’s not ornery … he’s on E!’”
“Well, of course he’s lonely. You’re ignoring him!”
It was like being a bad version of that cell phone commercial.
“Tina” — and I was now bellowing in her ear — “I can’t do this!”
“I know you’re cartoonish … that’s what I always loved about you! That’s what Tommy always loved about you. Look at him over there, he’s a mess without you.”
Tommy was rolling around on the floor, wrestling with what appeared to be a large glow stick.
“You are going to be his best man, aren’t you, Hog?”
I was about to tell her I’d rather dip my freshly shaved butt in jalapeno sauce.
“It’ll be fun … and you’ll get to plan his bachelor party.”
“Look Tina,” I screamed, “I’m flattered and all, but I just can’t … wait, did you just say I get to plan his bachelor party? Or was it ‘Hugo owns a spatula named Artie?’”
Tina looked at me as though I were crazy. And suddenly I was! Crazy with ideas about how to make Tommy’s bachelor party a night NONE of us would ever forget. Hell, I know hookers — most of whom have nasty diseases. And I know of sex clubs in seedy neighborhoods. The kinda places where a bachelor might go for his last pre-marital fling, and leave wrapped in trash bags in the trunk of some gangbanger’s hoopty.
As Best Man and Master of Bachelor Party Ceremonies, I will be in complete control of my ol’ pal Tommy for one glorious night that will certainly spell the end of his and Tina’s unholy union.
Ahh … Revenge … what a sweet, seductive mistress you are! (Next week: Tommy’s rocking-raving-cool bachelor party and the Meaning of Life … not necessarily in that order.) (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident and writes for Warner Bros. online. For more FunHog fun, log onto thefunhog.com)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on July 1, 2002. Read the original PDF.