It was Easter in Santa Cruz. What to do? Well, we had a plan.
A dinner of epic proportions. A Thanksgiving feast. That's right, Thanksgiving. Because who doesn't absolutely love Thanksgiving dinner? It's definitely the best one. The stuffing. Oh, the stuffing! If I could have stuffing for dinner every night I would. But alas, it's only served on Thanksgiving, and I don't know why, and I don't know the first thing about cooking it. Luckily, we lived with BB and Monster, two cooking machines when the occasion arises. And arise it had. It was to be Thanksgiving on Easter, and it was to be an ugly sweater dinner-party. This was a caveat we were all remarkably ready for with a number of ugly sweaters already on hand.
[stop]
"Error. I don't have an ugly sweater," I said. "I only have handsome ones."
"Oh, I have the perfect sweater for you," said BB giggling. "It's perfect, trust me."
"Whew! Crisis averted!" I always trusted BB when it came to clothes because her dark, drafty attic of a closet, with it's stolen store sale racks on wheels, was littered with them. And the racks were packed. And out of that cave of vintage fashion counter-culture she pulled me out a gem. Something from the Salvation Army downtown I think she'd told me. It was a white knitted sweater with little knitted ice cream cones on it. Awesomely ugly, almost to the point of coming full circle and being the most epic sweater ever. "Haha, yes! BB, your an ugly sweater life-saver!"
"And don't I know it," she said. And like that she was busy in the kitchen, again, with Monster making all sorts of Thanksgiving favorites and baking pies. And me and Boom just got high. Spliff high, so that the manly task of moving couches and tables around to fit our two huge houses was a bit more of an adventure than a chore, and more manlier still with some thuggish-ruggish Gang Starr and Andre Nikatina beating and rhyming in the background. The nice thing (not really nice, per se, but at the very least convenient) about living in a big house with a bunch of people was that there was a silly excess of certain furnitures. Boom and I put our two dining tables together end-to-end in the living room parallel to the one old love-seat we still kept in the house, which was handy because the one thing we were short on was chairs. Chairs one could actually sit in without breaking anyways; we only had about four. So we also swung around the lower stadium-seating couch to face the love-seat across the table. We did the same with Lizzie's favorite lazy boy that always swallowed you whole and a random ottoman as well, so that the seating arrangements were quite eclectic to say the least. But it looked super comfortable.
"That ought-a do it right?"
"Buhh... I think," said Boom. He had on a not-quite-white, thick knitted pull-over with a set of big, off-centered buttons on the collar. Super ugly. "Hey BB! Get your lady-boy ass out here and tell us if you think we'll all fit at this table! You too, Monst!" So they dropped their mixers and their mashers and came out to see our delve into the world of college interior design.
"Ooo... cozy," said Monster. She was wearing a glittery American flag sweater. It was a little short and certainly tacky enough to work for the occasion.
"Hmm, it might be a little tight, but we'll probably all be able to squeeze in," BB told us after looking it over seriously, having counted the spaces to herself. Her sweater looked maybe twenty years old and was black and velvety with leafy gold and definitely ugly.
"Awesome! That's good enough for me," concluded Boom. "Hazzah!"
"Hazzah!" I said and we all cracked beers, and Boom packed himself a bowl of hearty sorcery in the ole' bong-a-roo for his efforts.
[stop]
Both the D's, Dillon and Dylan, had gone with Kam to Trader Joe's for some cheap wine, but when they came back they were also toting some Glenlivet. "We made a stop by U-Sav, nickaa," Dylan said, holding it high. Wicked.
"Put on your sweaters, idiots!"
"Yeah! What Boom said!" That was BB. "And D-hole come here. We're straightening your hair."
"What?! No! Fuck that."
"Please?"
Dillion sighed heavy, but agreed. His hair was definitely over a foot long from the bet he had going with Matty Campbell over at King Street. It was a simple bet: first person to cut their hair gets dangly nipple piercings. "Ok, FINE. Just let me get my sweater first." His sweater was actually a black turtleneck. Nothing flashy. He might've looked a little smart in it if he didn't look so much like a transvestite hooker after Monster and BB were done straightening his hair. Maybe because Monster also curled it. Definitely ugly.
The other Dylan, D-buns, was rockin' a poo-colored striped one, and Kam had a deep-V black, red, and white houndstooth one. More of a sweater-vest than than a true sweater over turtleneck with stripes of black and aquamarine. Ugly to a tee. Dinner was pretty much ready, so we set the table. It was all paper plates and plastic silverware. And dixie cups for the wine. Classy. Then we were just waiting for King Street, those lackadaisical bastards. They showed up with a surprise.
"You sluts! Where are your sweaters?!" BB was beer-drunk livid, but not really.
"Whoa easy lady-boy," Mike held his hands up innocently, then spotted Dillion. "Wait. Scratch that. Dillion is definitely the king of all the lady-boys tonight. Or is it queen..."
"Flannels? Really?" It was Monster's disapproving Mom face. She wore it well, even at eighteen. What a baby.
"At least we all have flannels on. And also we couldn't find any sweaters, much less ugly ones. And we also didn't really look for any. But hey, flannels work right? So we can tell who's from each house easier," said Grant. BB was giving him the disapproving Mom face as well.
"I got a sweater!" shouted Sasha awkwardly, another freshman baby. Taylor's girlfriend.
"Woo! Team sweater! Good job, Sash," said Boom. "The rest of you are a bunch of friggin' idiots!" Even Lizzy had a little San Diego Chargers puppy sweater.
"Yeah, what the hell, Sasha. No flannel?" Taylor said it trying to be serious.
"But I thought..." But none of that mattered really because none of us really cared. We were about to chomp on an awesome Thanksgiving feast on Easter Sunday, and we all looked hilarious sprawled out around the two tables, drinking wine like water.
The food hadn't been served yet and Dillion said, "Before we eat, guys, I've got a little song I wrote that I'm gonna play for you right meow," and he picked up his guitar and sat on a high stool at the head of the table.
"You look like a trannie kook, brah." It was Matty.
"I heard that," said Dillion. "Somebody straighten hippy-fagboy's hair over there."
"Haha! Yay!" BB and Monster jumped to their feet and grabbed the straightener and the curling iron.
"Huh? Ah, fack," said Matty.
Dillon interjected. "Wait. After I play this song."
"After dinner?" suggested Matty. And so it was. We were all hungry anyways, and turned our feasting eyes towards Dillon as he shifted on his stool.
"Dude, Dillon, don't be nervous. You look so pretty." said other Dylan.
"It's gotta be the hair-cut," I said.
So Dillon played his song, and it was a sweet, silly one about all the folks living under that roof on Western. Quite poignantly, to the tune of "The House of the Rising Sun".
There was a house in Santa Cruz, and they called it 440 Western
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know I've won
Count Boom he was a great sorcerer, he smoked up all of the green
And he's been the culprit of married misery, but that don't stop his sorcery
And then there's that little lady-body, she don't shower during finals week
And don't let her fool you because she's a skanky bogen, and quite the Asian sneak
Dylan O'Carroll with two r's and two l's, thank you for teaching me the guitar
Your dog is a whore, and your car, a hoopdy, but you're a freakin' cool redhead so "har"
Nickse you are one hairy fuck, you fucking idiot
The first and only one to go 9-5, glad I am not
But we can't forget about the little redheaded freshman, she pissed in our lady boy's bed
She says she lives rather simply, in the house called 440
He lazier than that whore Lizzy, fairer than the fairest fair-weather surfer
He's always smoking and COD to play, because that shit's his forte
There was a house in Santa Cruz, and they called it 440 Western
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know I've won
[stop]
The applause was joyous and the song riddled with laughter. Then we feasted. We stuffed our gullets full of stuffing and gravied mashed potatoes and cranberry pudding and some tasty cheese-covered veggies and wine wine wine. And beer. And in the end, of course, Glenlivet. With vanilla ice cream and pumpkin pie.
"Now close your eyes and open your mouth," Taylor said to Max.
"What? Uh, no."
"C'mon just do it. Don't be a bitch." Taylor had a can of whipped cream in one hand and gave it a good shake.
"Really, man?? Ok, fine. This one's for all the ladies." He winked and tilted back his head and Taylor shot down and creamed him with some whip until his mouth was full and everyone was laughing. It took a couple seconds for him to suck it all down, choking more than once on the aerated sugar. "All right. Matt's turn."
"What?"
"And wasn't someone supposed to straighten your hair?"
"What?! Oh, gah damnit." Matt was in for it now. He got creamed and BB and Monster straightened his hair out proper and braided it for good measure while Minh rolled a spliff. Two times so we all got high before the family portraits in front of the fireplace. First the Western sweaters, then the King Street flannels.
