Heading down to Bend tonight. Big plans are in order. Noah Rosen is currently enjoying his last day as a aimless, bumbling testosterone roman candle, free from the chains of marital union. A group of dudes–of questionable status in society–are coming together to celebrate one last hurrah for this 6-foot-plus Jew from Leucadia. Bachelor Party time, in the shadow of Mt. Bachelor.

Dinner is planned, as is a stop by Bend’s one and only “flesh general store,” a ratty joint that goes by the name “Stars.”

Bad neon, local meat, g-strings flossing weathered birth canals, Motley Crüe songs, hopeful dickheads, etc.

Last time I was in town, I was herded into stopping by for a lackluster stint, bored to tears with each “dance” and strained bits of “So how you been, man?” conversation.

I’m just rower on a boat full of dicks with Noah Rosen as our captain, guiding us for last night of freedom. This is what goes down. Anything could happen. I’m watching out for any number of things.

Fuck the “titty bar.” I say we take the sonofabitch out into the high desert, get him real drunk and ornery and then let him “survive” his way back to Bend, “Rambo” style. This way Noah is out of his element, forced to think like an animal one last time. Maybe we’ll get him arrested, forced to call his gal’s parents or something, all teary-eyed from jail? Lots of options. Big talk. We’ll share the recap after the lance dancer calls it a night.