cravin' more cravens.

Did anybody see that kid smoking the meth in the corner at Cravens’ house? I don’t really know how that party escalated, but I’ll tell you one thing, I felt like I was in one of those glorious teen movies, full of debauchery, recreational drug use, and most importantly: Steve Cravens.

Cravens was a sober Simon Cowell in a world of pilled out Paula Abduls. It was tragic, yet beautiful. However, I’d would like to reprimand him for lack of adequate parking. It would have been in everyone’s best interest to grab the guy with the light sticks outside Solid Gold that I feel obligated to provocatively double beep at because he’s wearing an orange tech vest at 2pm, to have him wave the VW’s and occasional Camry’s in and out of his tiny street.

That party was blazin’ (literally). Not only was the turn out sick but I saw kids I thought were as good as dead holding Buds and mingling with the bros. Killer. Yes, ‘twas a glorious Saturday night, even thought Saint Thomas was packing their kids into limos for a night of slow dancing next to the buffet and planning fights against the Chiefs (Indian warfare trumps Raiders, like… what the hell is a Raider?).

It was totally, boss, Cravens. Well done. I commend you on your ability to pack almost every senior currently or previously enrolled at Gibbons just two streets away from our beloved CGHS and two more streets away from a slumbering angel, Patty Burke. You’re a hardcore son of a bitch.

And though we heard there was a hotel party that was slammin’ (kind of, not really) we just want to say that a Steve Cravens party is like a Dorito, you just want more. It’s the MSG…or, maybe… it’s the rush of hearing Tara French got her shit copped out of her car.