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By Chris Vespoli

There’s a scene in the lukewarm 1984 comedy Bachelor Party where one of Tom Hanks’ pals is announcing plans for the stag night to end all stag nights:

“Let’s have a bachelor party with chicks and guns and fire trucks and hookers and drugs and booze,” exclaims actor Barry Diamond, who, according to his IMDB page, would go on to star in other timeless roles such as “Cop #1” in House Party and “Cop #2” in House Party 2, thus cementing his status as the John Wayne of the low-budget party movie genre. Diamond’s soliloquy outlining the perfect bachelor weekend was then, and still is, the rallying cry of most twenty and thirty-something males who are celebrating (or lamenting) their upcoming nuptials. But it’s not for me.

I love booze, I’ve tried drugs with limited success, and I’ve even shot guns, but the whole chicks and hookers part of the bachelor party equation was never an enticing prospect to me. I’d been to my share of New York City strip clubs during my single days, and though I had some fun, I never felt completely comfortable inside their mirrored, sticky walls. Believe it or not, a roomful of horny guys fawning over women who are way out of their leagues while trying to hide their boners from each other isn’t exactly my idea of time well spent. Sure, there are lap dances — oftentimes referred to as “private dances” in a futile attempt to class up what amounts to some poor college student rubbing her glittery boobies against a sweaty guy’s beer gut — but they’re way too uncomfortable for me. Whenever I’d get one, I’d always strike up a conversation with the girl to break up the awkwardness. I figured if I wasn’t allowed to touch her body, maybe I could touch her soul? One time I had a three-minute conversation (or however long Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” is) with a girl about where she was currently attending college. I really thought there was something brewing between us, until the song stopped and she asked me for my $20. Then I realized I was just another dick with a wallet to her. Oh, Cinnamon. Wherever you are, I hope you’re putting that DeVry University associate’s degree to good use…

When it came time for my own bachelor celebration, I chose to forgo the standard, stupid frat boy debauchery and do what any other mature, proud New Yorker would do: go away for a nice late-summer weekend in Boston, of course. I had actually never been to Beantown on account of my fervent love of the Yankees, Giants, and Robert De Niro, and my rabid hatred of the Red Sox, Patriots, and anyone who sounds like Ben Affleck. I was forced to put those feelings aside when my groomsmen surprised me with a trip to The City on a Hill.

Startlingly, the more I walked the streets of the Back Bay, the North End, and Charlestown, the more I realized just how misplaced my hatred of Boston had been. We really have more in common than we have in dissimilarity. Boston has Boston Harbor, we have South Street Seaport. Boston has Hanover Street, we have Mulberry Street. Boston has the Boston Bombing, we have 9/11. Boston has the Cheers bar, we have Central Perk…unfortunately.

For nearly 48 hours, we painted the town fat. We cheated on Ferrara and had cannoli from Mike’s…

Image courtesy of New York Natives, photographer: Chris Vespoli

Image courtesy of New York Natives
Photographer: Chris Vespoli

We ventured into enemy territory…

We saw too much history…

We ate, we drank, we farted and we were all in bed by midnight. And, to me, it was perfect.

Barry Diamond would not have been proud.

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