Spontaneous celebrations that erupt after a team wins a big championship (the Super Bowl, NCAA hoops, whatever) are cool. You never know when a cop car will get torched, and you get to see lots of people aggressively displaying firearms. A nice change from the workaday boredom that seems to envelop American life.

Planned celebrations, of course, are uncool. They're tedious, boring and without much value at all. The immediate rush from the championship moment has faded, and worse, most celebrants are still nursing hangovers or other wounds.

After the Kansas City Royals lost the 1980 World Series, the city decided to throw the boys a parade anyway. Some bright fellow strapped the players to horses. Many hurled and George Brett, rather famously, was so far gone he couldn't even stay on his mount. Note to civic boosters: Keep hungover (if not still-hammered) athletes away from the livestock.

The team eventually made it up to the Liberty Memorial (a monument to World War I dead that stands on a bluff above downtown) and the speeches ensued. And continued. And continued. I thought it was great, but I was ten. A lot of adults gave up after the first ten bon mots.

Like I said, planned celebrations are the epitome of uncool. Nonetheless, when I learned Tuesday morning that the Stanley Cup-winning Carolina Hurricanes would be holding a parade around their arena (!?!) before the usual speechifying (in front of the arena), I decided I had to go. Max had to go, too. I hadn't been able to make any of the games, but damned if I wasn't going to see the Cup (in person) raised in real celebration. Many go a lifetime without such a moment.

I did the math. Five or six hours down (depending on traffic), two or three for the party and then another five back. We'd be getting back home around three in the morning. No way I could hack that drive alone. So I pitched the idea of a full family outing to Barbara, who happened to be home Tuesday morning in order to take Sam to routine doctor's visit. She thought the idea was crazy, but in a good way. She called her boss, arranged to go in to work, write her story in the late morning and then interview a few congresspeople from the passenger seat while I drove down that afternoon.

So I picked up Max after his summer school finished up at 1, drove into the city, picked up Barbara and then we hit the road.

The parade was scheduled to start at 6:30. We had to be there by 6:30. Except that when six o'clock came around, we were half an hour away and the boys needed supper. So we ate a quick supper and dashed to the arena. We were a little late, but it didn't matter.

There are advantages to holding a mass gathering at a suburban arena which happens to share space with a college football stadium and the state fairgrounds. Foremost is the availability of parking. Some 30,000 people came out, and all of them found places to dump their vehicles. A lot of smart people brought coolers and grills and all of the accouterments of tailgating. I hadn't even thought about beer, and considering the drive home that awaited, I wouldn't have brought any if I had.

We planned to meet our friend Kevin and his son Holden at the festivities. Julie (the wife/mom in the equation) was in Amsterdam and had better parties to attend. Her brother Steve, a Pittsburgh Penguins fan from birth (or thereabouts), stood ably in her place. But finding three people in a crowd of 30,000 isn't easy, even if everyone has cell phones.

Like I said, I hadn't even thought about beer. But while standing in line to take Max to the portajohn, I heard "Hey, Jon Worley!" I turned around and there stood Sean Wilson, president of Pop the Cap (the group which successfully changed North Carolina beer law last year), family members in tow. He held a sign that said "Last Monday my wife gave me a new kidney. This Monday the Canes won the Stanley Cup. I love Mondays!" We were happy to see him and even more happy to hear he'd gotten his transplant. Sometimes life is better than good. His girls wanted to see the parade up close, so they wandered on. After Max's requisite leakage, so did we.

Parades in parking lots take just as long as parades on the street--which is why it didn't matter if we were a little late. Unlike the folks in Kansas City, the Canes were smart enough to put their players in open-roofed cars or pickups. This, of course, allowed for even more celebratory quaffs from bottles and cans, but hey, you don't win the Stanley Cup every day.

Max soon tired of the parade (he didn't recognize any of the players, and in any case he more interested in seeing Kevin and Holden), so we moved to a space where we could see the stage (and the dread speeches). The parade ended somewhat near us, and I noticed that the last truck held Glen Wesley and the Stanley Cup (or as Max calls it, "the trophy") We walked over and got within ten feet of the hardware. He wasn't in awe or anything--give him a few years for that--but he thought it was cool. He was right.

We found Kevin, Holden and Steve, but not before the proprietor of Sam's Quik Shop--my old beer store in Durham--found us. I told John's daughter that I had bought a lot of beer from her daddy. Barbara walked over, shook John's hand and agreed, telling the little girl, "He bought a lot of beer from your daddy." We briefly talked shop before the speeches started and (not entirely coincidentally) our partymates arrived.

The politicians (governor, mayor of Raleigh and at least one other) talked a blue (or rather, red) streak. Peter Laviolette, the coach of the team, had more than a few things to say, as well. But Rod Brind'Amour (the captain) kept his speech short and then, that was it. Ten minutes of fireworks ensued and it was time to drive back to Takoma Park.

As it turned out, Kevin, Holden and Steve had arrived moments before us, and Kevin's car sat about 20 feet from ours along the fence that surrounds the state fairgrounds. So we were able to hang out a while longer as we made the long trek past the N.C. State football stadium and back to the cars. A little after nine, we said our goodbyes and left. We stopped briefly at the News & Observer offices downtown to pick up some souvenir newspapers and then we headed home. We made use of the rumble strips once or twice, but at 2:45 a.m. Wednesday we pulled up in front of our house, Stanley Cup quest complete. After another half-hour unloading ourselves and tossing the boys in bed, we fell in, exhausted.

Were those two-plus hours of lame planned celebration in Raleigh really worth ten hours on the road and the resulting exhaustion that is only now beginning to let up?

Oh yeah. I'd do it again in a heartbeat--though if the Canes repeat, I probably won't haul down there next year. After all, there's nothing like the first time.

Jon Worley doesn't have one piece of Carolina Hurricanes fan apparel. That might change soon.