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| Whooping it up with my girls. And Captain Sparkle. |
‘Challenge?’ I blinked, not comprehending. ‘You mean, like
trying not to get fall-down drunk?’ After all, the girl had done like a jillion squats. And our other bestie Marisa is a
notorious stumbler whenever liquor is involved, even when her quads aren’t sore.
It was day two of our annual girls’ weekend in Ocean City,
Maryland, and we were at wildly popular nightclub Fager’s Island, where
vacationers young and old come to revel amidst a back drop of DJ’s, live music and
reckless anonymity. Also, more bachelor and bachelorette parties than the Las
Vegas strip.
‘No, silly.’ Melanie shook her head, motioning to the colorful
cast of characters pouring into the place. ‘We need a quest for fun. What kind
of trouble are we going to stir up around here?’
Now I understood. Mel and I are pros at taking the piss out
of strangers, and this crowd was ripe for the picking on. See, as married moms,
there is only so much fun you can have without breaking vows or the law. And
overdrinking and binge eating can only take a girl so far.
Plus, I was game for a good story. Ever since we arrived the
day prior, our friend Andrea had peppered our activities with the one question
all web writers come to accept as an occupational hazard:
‘IS THIS GOING TO BE IN YOUR BLOG?’
‘I don’t know,’ I’d say, considering it. ‘Depends what the
point is. We’d have to think up a good angle.’
I just wasn’t sure that a girl’s getaway would be that
interesting to read about, especially without the vow or law-breaking that
makes these trips look so fun in movies. That’s not to say we hadn’t witnessed
any debauchery. Last night's visit to the infamous Seacrets beach bar was like
being on Spring Break, complete with girls dancing in bikinis in the surf as
waitresses (also in bikinis) served drinks to drunken frat boys at tables
set out in the water. We were even treated to a bachelorette in a white two-piece dancing with a dildo.
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| Seacrets beach bar. If the fish could talk... |
But witnessing is a far cry from participating, and my crew
wanted no part of playing in the surf, noting that this bay of iniquity just
had to be swimming in urine. Personally, I still wanted to take my frozen
libation and wade out to one of the floating rafts for a nap, but when I
noticed a couple going at it out there hot and heavy, it dawned on me that
those rafts probably don’t get hosed down much, at least not by the management.
Ewwww.
‘Maybe we could use fake names?’ Mel now was suggesting. ‘Or
go around photo-bombing everyone’s selfies?’
I love loved the idea of selfie sabotage, so we agreed that
would be a goal for the evening, along with another activity that has become a
Fager’s Island tradition: telling all the drunk bride and grooms-to-be that
they shouldn’t get married because marriage sucks.
‘Is tonight going to be in your blog?’ Andrea asked, sidling
up to me at the bar just as I finished terrifying a young bachelor party
with my deliciously exaggerated warning of doom and gloom.
‘Hmmm...What would be the angle?’ I asked her.
‘How about: We’ve Still Got It?’
I liked that, I really did, but I thought maybe the theme
was a tad expected.
Then, like a minute later, a large group of good-looking
guys huddled together for a selfie and I sprung into action, jumping up behind
them and into their pic.
Fun, right? Wrong! Let us just say that group was not happy with me. Whatever it is I’ve still got, they weren’t having any of
it. I guess the whole point of photo-bombing is to do it on the sly, instead of
whoop-whooping as you leap into frame. Whoops.
It would have been easy for me to slink off, embarrassed.
But then he walked in.
Known to many as the Ferrari Man, his real name is Eddy Maserati, but my friends and I call him Captain Sparkle due to his penchant for
bedazzled partywear and his effervescent attitude. We first met Captain
Sparkle at this same club a year ago, and were instantly amused by the spry senior’s leathery tan, short shorts, and over the top dance moves that he
was equally happy to perform solo or flocked by a throng of gyrating
bachelorettes.
So the point, the story, my angle is this: Long live girls’ weekends, guys’ trips and other trips down memory lane. Life is short and fun is what we make it. Sometimes you’ve gotta bling yourself out and shake it like you just don’t care. It just might be the fountain of youth.
The Ferrari Man is something of a legend on the Ocean City
party circuit, and I’ve read that he also splits time between night clubs
in Orlando and Vegas. I’m not sure how old the guy is, but I absolutely know
that he feels young at heart. And the fact that Captain Sparkle was still out
here whooping it up a year later, well it completely made my night. Following his lead, my girlfriends and I spent the rest of our evening shaking our stuff on the dance floor.
Forget about me and my girls, he’s still got it. And I can only hope that at his age, I can still get out there too.