Best Man/Bachelor Party

So my brother Terry and I don’t agree on much. He used to bounce a mini Nerf basketball off of the back of my head while I annotated back issues of GQ. When we would go waterskiing as kids, Terry would undo the towrope and my dad wouldn’t notice for a few minutes. He looks like Dane Cook and has an authentic Bud Lite neon sign that he stole in high school and made me keep under my bed until he went to college. He always introduced me as his sister, Rick.

When you choose a best man, it should be someone who’s known you forever, right? Someone who knows all about you. Someone who can shame and mock you relentlessly without remorse because you're somewhat obligated not to kill them. Someone you promised your mom you'd ask to be your best man. Or whatever.

Anyway, I chose Terry to be my best man, so it’s up to him to plan my bachelor party. And if it’s going to be perfect, planning needs to begin ASAP.

I had a couple suggestions (the Wordstock book festival in Portland in October, winery tours in eastern Washington) but Terry thinks they sound like “girl bachelor parties.” When I told him they were actually called “bachelorette parties,” he just said I was definitely a girl. So I guess those are off the table for now.

Anyway, Terry’s insisting on a Vegas weekend. I guess he knows a guy he took real estate classes with who has a financial adviser who has a brother that works at The Palms who can, apparently, “totally hook us up” with the Real World suite. So, there's that. Vegas has never really been my thing, but Heather said I should hear him out, so I made a pros/cons list about Las Vegas:


This is going to be tough.

--Rick