It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, how else do you complete a bachelor party except to lash the would-be bridegroom to the roof of a car and drive around Center City at 4 in the morning? Convincing the cops of that was another matter.

But first, let me explain. This wasn't just any bachelor party. This was the bachelor party for my brother, who is (after this gets around, perhaps, was) to be married for the first time, at the age of 43. Yes, there are actually guys like that around. My brother, Bill (not his real name), will tie the knot on Saturday, and he'll need this week to recover.

Wasn't it a party! It started when Bill's best buddy, Matey (that's his real name; I'm hanging him out to dry), called me a few weeks ago to discuss the proper venue for our celebration of Billy's ascent into the sacred vestibule of matrimony. Matey suggested some high-tone surf-and-turf-type place out in the 'burbs. I convinced him that for Billy's bachelor party we needed someplace earthier, someplace with possibilities. I suggested a rock 'n' roll club on South Street. "And another thing, Matey," I said, "at this bachelor party no one says grace before we eat."

Arrangements were made to take over the second floor of J.C. Dobbs for a couple of hours of open bar and a Mexican buffet. Afterward, I figured, we could wander onto South Street and explore those possibilities. There would be about 20 of us. Somehow the image of plundering Visigoths danced in my head.

On the appointed day, Matey called me and suggested that I buy a suitable gift to present Bill for the occasion. "Why don't you stop down to Doc Johnson's on Arch Street and pick up one of those things?" Matey said. When I arrived at 13th and Arch Streets to buy Billy's gift, I looked at the sign over the door that showed a nice-looking man dressed in a doctor's white smock, and next to him were the words Doc's Leisure Time Therapeutic Sexual Aid Products. Under that was a neon sign that said, "Peep shows 25c."

Doc wasn't in when I arrived, but the pleasant fellow behind the counter (a Philadelphia public school teacher working a second job) gave me some information on the products and their uses. "You should see it when school starts and the college fraternity brothers come in here to buy inflatable women," he said. I told him I wasn't sure which of the therapeutic aids I should get. There were so many to choose from, in all sizes and colors and sexual orientation. I settled on one of each, male and female, and asked him if he had a bag with the store's name on it so that Billy would know that I cared enough to give the very best. "I'm sorry," the man said, "we don't have anything with our name on it. Most customers prefer plain brown paper bags."

The therapeutic products were a big hit at the party later. One of them ended up covered with guacamole dip, and the other was proudly displayed on the buffet table covered with hot sauce. When we wandered onto South Street later, one of the fellows (who will remain unnamed - I don't want to look stupid) placed one of the products under his shirt but left enough visible to get double takes like you wouldn't believe from passers-by and the members of the all-female band we saw at a club up the street.

After closing that place, we journeyed to an after-hours place where I belong. It would be called the Word Processor and Tape Recorder Club were it founded today, and we invited the patrons therein to enjoy our celebration. Some of them eyed us warily. It could have been that product that fellow kept waving around.

Finally we left and - I don't remember if it was Matey or Norm, but everyone seized on it as a great idea - it was suggested that Billy be lashed to the roof of Norm's station wagon like some moose from Maine. Billy readily agreed, and Matey secured him with rope. I believe we laughed the entire time. We were still laughing when the cop shined his ever-loving light on us less than two blocks later. It was a moment I'll savor always. The policeman pulled up alongside in his patrol car, regarded us for a moment, glanced at my smiling brother and said, "Are you guys serious?"

Indeed, I explained, this is my brother's bachelor party. The laughter from all involved convinced the officer that this was not a rather brazen mobster disposal unit. He looked at us again, and before turning right on Spruce Street he said, "I didn't see nothin'."

I put Bill to bed on the sofa in the living room at my house that night. During the night he got cold and pulled the Oriental throw rug on top of himself. Later he moved to the den, leaving a trail of clothes behind. When I woke up, I found him snuggled up next to the dog.

My brother, I think I'll keep him.

THAT'S WHAT I WROTE at the time Bill got married to Maureen 22 years ago. And to think, that since that day, I have had my older brother Bill with me, in life, longer than I had my younger brother Doug, who died at the age of 21. They both died suddenly in August. Dougie in a plane crash in Venezula on Aug. 29, 1972, and Bill of a heart attack at his summer home in Beach Haven on Aug. 21, 2006. Technically, Bill lived in West Goshen, B'goshin, Chester County, in the greater West Chester Airport metroplex. But he really lived his life in Beach freakin' Haven, LBI, where an evening on the front porch was as good as it got, and what you got was just fine, thank you.

His ashes will be scattered at Polly's Dock in Beach Haven during a brief bayside service at sunset on Saturday, Aug. 26. You're invited. Six-thirty, sharp. (Yeah, right.) No black tie allowed.