Arrive at my house and consume a whistle-whetting shot of somethin’ strong. Another thing I need to do, it occurs to me, is buy some liquor. At present the only form of sustenance in my new house is four bottles of Lagunitas IPA, which is strong enough for sitting by myself and playing Uncharted 2, but hardly befits a prologue to the well-dressed evening of benign skullduggery we have planned.

Steaks at Wolfgang’s. This part is going to be cuh-razy esspensive. But darling, what’s life for if one can’t periodically spend money one doesn’t have on savory meats? Also, I just realized that I chose this place based on the lunch menu prices, which I found strikingly reasonable. The next time you are on Menupages, best beloved, be sure to scroll all the way down the menu page.

Strong drink and see-gars at Hudson Bar & Books. I have tried two cigars in my life, one of them contraband (as in Cuban, not as in phat blunt). The first gave me a cough and a headache, and the second gave me a cough and a headache. So I might personally stick to Pimm’s n’ peanuts for this part of the proceedings, but the Gentleman In Question specifically requested cigars, so cigars it shall be.

Jazz at Small’s. If you like jazz and you’ve never been to Small’s, you, sir or madam, are doing it wrong. It’s buried far below 7th Avenue around 10th Street, and they have music generally until 3 or 4am. And when I say music, I mean real jazz—strange, crazy, patient improvisations by cats* you’ve never heard of; urgent, wild, mindfuck music in a basement with a threadbare carpet and a ramshackle bar. Needless to say, I am excited about this part.

So, there is always the Strip Club Question. I, myself, have only been to one such place, on the occasion of another friends bachelor party a few years ago. We went to the Hustler Club at the end of the night, and it was, I don’t mind telling you, the least fun portion of the entire evening. Sure, the scenery was nice, but there is, and call me a fuddy-duddy if you will, something very gross about the whole experience. It was $35 to walk in the door, and then the one guy in our crew who actually makes a decent living sprung for “bottle service,” which meant we got a little table on the second floor and a 750ml bottle of Mount Gay for $400 (which he graciously paid for, and of which there was enough for everyone to have basically a sip). Then, we sat there in an awkward cluster whilst naked ladies came over and offered us lapdances and massages for $25 a pop, plus tip, which none of us could afford, on top of feeling guilty and awkward even being there. In case you haven’t guessed by now, we are some real cool cats.* Anyway, it has been my limited experience that the possibility of such debauchery looms always o’er top of the bachelor party experience, and it remains to be seen if the Gentleman In Question desires such things at the close of business on Saturday night. Personally, I would much prefer to shut things down at The Patriot, where you can get free shots for knowing all the words to any song in the jukebox, and where, for those seeking the peepshow fix, the barladies often do not wear pants. However, the only actual goal at this point is to be so rife with drink as to follow only the whims of the heart.