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If I told you the things that made me laugh for the past four days, you wouldn't think they were funny. And that'd be fine by me. "You had to be there." That safety phrase applies in two fundamental ways here: "you had to be there" to get what it was we were laughing at and "you had to be there" because the "there" was Cayucos.
Every year, around December Twenty-Ninth to about January Third or something, a bunch of friends and I split the cost of renting a beach house up in Cayucos fourteen or fifteen or sixteen ways, however many people end up going. It's like The Big Chill, except if you cry in the shower, everyone else joins you. Cayucos—half-way between Los Angeles and San Francisco, thirty miles from Hearst Castle, not far from Cambria, full of sea lions and salt and big rocks and clouds—is how I've been bringing in the new year for the past several years, since about 2002, I think. The air is cleaner than a church, the houses are cuter than kittens, and the food is fantastic so long as you have good friends who make it for you. Nick made pizza (he made it), Eddie made a kind of Mexican cheese/bacon/hangover-sucker thing. Rusty made some kind of egg quiche thing, Sean made jambalaya, and a guy named Guinness made this drinky stuff that gets ya drunk for two of the four days you're up there. Weird. The music was seventies rock, the soup was bread bowl clam chowder and the game was Yahtzee (mixed with Sudoku and poker and a thousand-piece puzzle of two creepy German girls drinking hot chocolate).
Did I sleep outside for some of it? You bet your ass I did. Did I resume my drinking first thing in the morning with a Bass? You bet your ass I did. Did my phone ring at all during the four days I was up there and did I care? It didn't and I didn't. (Well, I was a little concerned it was busted, but not too concerned.)
We played this game where one person asks a question of the group, everyone writes down their answer, then the person who asked the question has to guess who gave which response. One question was "What is the last thing you would say on your death bed?" My answer: "Later, fags." Another question was "What is the thing that people say they like about you?" Eddie's answer: "The power of my cock." Typing it now, I'm laughing again. I related to the group a story of Eddie playing Scrabble and trying to use the word "toyman." I don't know if reading that makes you laugh, but it made all of us die for way too long. Like, "toyman" would be something you would say sarcastically to Santa Claus if you didn't like him. "All right, toyman! What's the story? Think you're a tough guy…toyman?!" We died and died. Of course—the killjoy I am—I can't laugh like that without also thinking shit like: "Is any of this gonna be funny in the morning?" And it was. I woke up giggling. I felt like someone had been dropping boulders on my stomach for three hours. My abs were ripped from laughs.
I normally stay two days on this trip. I stayed four this time. I was supposed to host an open mike Friday. Didn't go. Wanted to stay. Wish I were back there now. Didn't know what day it was up there. I was constantly asking: "What day is it?" If you're constantly asking "What day is it?", you're either suffering from sensory deprivation in Guantanamo, or you're having an absolute blast with some lovely, lovely people whom you don't see nearly enough.
I remain
Champagne
9:04 AM
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