When: Sat Oct 2

"Shit, I thought Capitol Hill parties were crazy," some shadow was mumbling behind me. The comment, directed at no one in particular, captured all the sadly magnificent and riotous episodes of this young Saturday night--homepiss wasn't completely off the mark. We were only a half hour into the bitch and this U-District party had already served up sex, violence, booze, and records--all the necessary ingredients for the delicious 21st-birthday celebration going off at this house.

I'd just pried my way through a flock of burnt-out b-boys, rustic gothics, and no one in particular or spectacular, all parked and squawking on the front porch, only to be greeted and rejected by a completely empty living room. So I skate on through to every house party's most vital organ, the kitchen. First thing I see is some 6'3" rockabilly hoser leaning back onto the Frigidaire, spraying the napkin-lined linoleum with invisible, chunkless puke. This, more than anything, reassures me that this party is exactly where I should be and instantly propels me toward a counter lined thinly with vodka, whiskey, and beer.

Next thing I know, the crowd by the back porch starts surging back and forth. This could only mean one of two things. Either Yellowtard is playing in the backyard or a fight just broke out. It's a fight. And it's one of those times when you expect to hear wails of "No!" or "Chill out!" but instead it's all a very quiet scene with a couple butch grunts and manly squeals. After a few exchanged punches and some killer full nelsons, one of the dudes breaks away from the flesh pretzel and cowardly eggs on his foe with "On the streets, you're a joke, nigga... you're a joke!"

So I'm trying to snap some action pics of the usual and gratuitous beer chugs and headlocks when my camera runs out of batteries. Fuck! I ask an inhabitant of the house if she has any double-As. "Hmm... wait, I think I have some in my vibrator!" Word. After we trade out batteries, I spring back into the kitchen to find everyone looking over the porch railing, the whole lot of 'em emitting a hushed and unified, "Oh shit..." One of the dudes has fallen through a makeshift roof below the porch and into a concrete storage pit. Ouch!

Anyway, I head back toward the front of the house to the living room, which has filled up a bit. Some other kid, dipped in a fake Gucci sweat suit, has hooked up his own turntables and is rockin' Talib Kweli for the few kids shaking their shit on the floor. There're also a few couples lounged out and digging the scene.

I head back onto the front porch to see that the fight has now spilled out onto Roosevelt. As I'm attempting to snap pics, one of the dudes fighting steps up to me, threatening to bust my ass for taking pictures of him. I tell the little shit I have no idea what the fuck he's talking about. Suddenly I notice rockabilly hoser on the ground attempting what looks like one of those one-handed Rocky pushups, and then realize he's just trying to pick his shit up off of the ground. Anyway, the crowd gathered outside bids the meandering melee adieu as it makes a slow crawl north on Roosevelt. Later I heard that one of the guys fighting punched the birthday girl. Not cool.

So I make my way back to the kitchen to see how the liqs are holding up and find that shit to be drier than the Sahara. Fuck it. After talking it over with the crew, we decide to bounce and check out this other party two blocks away that we mistakenly hit earlier.

We split and make our way to the east side of Roosevelt. When we reach the other house, though, we're warned that the cops have already been called. We ignore "Troy" and troop in. The party is infested with UW frat bros and sorority brainiacs. Making my way downstairs to take a piss, I find a copy of Hitler's Mein Kempf next to the bleach in the ping-pong room.

Well, I guess the kids are all white... uh... I mean right.

Want The Stranger to come invade your house party? Make sure to restock the booze and e-mail partycrasher@thestranger.com.