Things were bound to get messy when my friend (the man to be) picked me up at the airport in a driving school car with a bunch of tall boys of Tsingtao in the front seat. During the ride along the crater-ridden G308 to the old downtown, he brought the good and bad news. The good news was that he has held my position as best man at four or five weddings before, so he knew everything that was gonna go down, and I needn’t worry. The bad news was that he has held the position at four or five weddings before (he couldn’t remember for sure, what a surprise) and it’s because he can drink like a drain.

When I inquired as to the statistical break down of the drinks, he replied that it would mostly be beer, with the occasional shot of baijiu or wine thrown in to keep shit real. This put my mind at ease, for I knew that strategically speaking, if I kept my stomach devoid of food, I could easily down a couple 40s of beer give or take, and the odd shot would be diluted with no affect. By his estimates there were to be about 100 guests. That would be grounds for entry into the century club right there. Not bad. Not bad at all. Then more bad news. The baijiu served would not be just any baijiu, but Kweichew Moutai baijiu. In Chinese, this drink isn’t even called a wine or a liquid, but a “sauce”. One time, I gave my friend back home a bottle of it for his birthday for shits. He took half a shot and then everything that was formerly within his digestive track was ejected at a remarkable velocity. Later he passed out in a bathtub somewhere. That should give you an idea. In summary, I would sooner consider tapping a volcano and taking a shot of liquid magma than deal with Moutai…repetitively.

Despite checking into the hotel around 11:30pm thanks to Air China and their mysterious “air traffic control delays”, my friend insisted on taking me out for beers. He also explained that in China the debauchery of bachelor parties has yet to fully catch on, but knowing I was very much not Chinese, assured me he still wanted to get into some trouble. His idea of trouble of course was me undergoing excessive beer consumption, dancing on bouncy dance floors and him living vicariously through me as I hit on girls that looked like they would have had more fun watching rigor mortis set in.

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