Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details.Generational memories simply don't mix By J. G. Fabiano I've come to the conclusion certain memories and experiences are owned by the generation that generates them. These memories become entrenched in the lives and sometimes even change the people who experience them. A few weekends ago I was invited to join one of these experiences even though I was much too old to be a part of it. My daughter is getting married this October. This will end a trip through crazy land that started when she announced her engagement about a year ago. I assume everyone who has a child has to experience this but I am looking forward to the day after at which time they can experience their future and I can finally get some rest. One of the things I was told I had to go through was a bachelor party my future son-in-law's friends set up about a week ago. In my generation a bachelor party was held at some strip joint at which time we got the soon-to-be groom drunk and hopefully embarrassed. The night usually ended soon after it started with someone throwing up or making a total jackass out of himself. The newest generation of friends will have nothing like this. The 'best man' set up an entire weekend at a resort on Sabago Lake in Maine. At first this surprised me but after I was told by some young friends that this was the rule rather than the exception I accepted and made my reservations to go up on Saturday and leave the next morning. I was told the party started on a Friday afternoon and ended on Monday. Knowing my liver or wallet would not allow me to do this I decided to sign up for the shorter version. Being told the place where the bachelor party was being held was a resort I packed some nice clothes and the usual toiletries even though I assumed I would not need them. I grabbed the directions and shot up Route 302 deep into the center of the state. There is a big difference between southern Maine and central Maine. It is easy to see why southern Maine is considered northern Massachusetts. Finally arriving at the welcoming center of the resort I was checked in and allowed to go through the guard gates that protected the resort. At this time I hoped I grabbed clothes that would not embarrass me. I soon found out I didn't. Not for the reason of grabbing not fancy clothes but for the fact I grabbed any clothes I wouldn't wear out to mow my lawn. The resort was not what I would define as a resort. I would call it a campground. I drove into what looked like a group of FEMA trailers that were parked by the lake. I was greeted by the other party goers who had spent the night and most of the day drinking beer or anything else they took with them. At this moment I had my first feeling of jumping generations. Another reason I knew I was not in Kansas anymore was the fact every one of the other party goers were well over six feet tall. Most were even six feet wide. I felt like an old dwarf. Thinking back to my past I don't think men were that tall. It probably had something to do with fast food. Within seconds I was handed a beer and brought into conversations that included golf, Notre Dame Football, and the demise of the Red Sox. A car was brought close to one of the porches that were built besides the trailers in order to hear a channel on satellite radio use fowl language to rip apart any masochist who dared to call in. The afternoon was basically pleasant until I started getting hungry. I asked one of the giants who was a good friend of my future son-in-law where we were going to dinner. He laughed and pointed to a rusted grill thrown near the lake. I immediately realized a suit coat was not a necessity on this particular trip. The day was filled with nothing more than drinking beer and talking sports. I noticed that most of the other trailers had golf carts parked around them. I later found out one could rent the carts in order to get around the resort. Since the resort consisted of dirt and woods I assumed this was a good idea. The day turned into night and with the demise of many thirty packs of beer. New generational games started to appear. I never tried to 'shoot a beer' during my days of youth when I had energy and some hair. Since I had been drinking beer most of the afternoon the party-goers talked me into giving it a try. Watching them put a hole in the bottom of the can, putting it to their mouths, and opening up the top I thought gravity would do most of the work. I didn't know the beer would be forced down my throat, pushed into the nasal cavities of my nose, and ending up all over me. This would be my first and last experience shooting a beer. When the sun fell into the lake things started to get strange. The gold carts turned into go-carts with grown men driving them throughout the campgrounds. At one point one of the people of the resort drove over and asked it the group was going to take a yacht trip the next day. I later found out the yacht was no more than a party boat held afloat by a few 55-gallon blue plastic barrels. I sincerely believe the place had a definite problem with its identity. As the woman was talking to the best man about the trip one of the party goers spun his cart around the corner and crashed into the trailer. As to how the employee of the resort did not see or hear this was above and beyond my comprehension. I assumed she must have been on commission with the yacht company. The reveler in the accident simply spun away. Having a few too many beers not an ounce of food in my stomach, and a rather old liver I decided to call it a night about 10:00. Staggering into my suite aka trailer I jumped onto the bottom bunk of where I had to sleep. I haven't slept on a plastic mattress since I was two years old in a basinet. Because I needed some sleep I was glad to have drunk my weight in beer. The next morning I bid good-bye to the partygoers hearing their stories as to how they had cart races, stole a trophy from a bar, and how the resort's police took away some of their golf carts I noticed that few had coffees in their hands. Most were drinking cans of beer as if the festivities never came to an end. I came to a realization when I was driving south toward civilization that afternoon. In my time the party before a wedding was called a bachelor party. Today it is called a frat party. I just hope the party goers live long enough to realize this. The End.
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