My Plus One and I have headed an hour outside of Seattle to join six other campers for a long-weekend-long bacchanal. I have fond, decade-old memories of camping: It seemed like, as soon as you'd set down stakes, someone would invite you to a campground party. Sometimes they'd be hippie parties, sometimes they'd be frat-boy fests, but there'd always be ridiculous amounts of booze and staggering caches of natural drugs (including the pill-shaped berry of the Ecstasy tree), and tent flaps would open for just about anyone with an urge to bunk down.

Sadly, the party situation at Denny Creek has proven to be dire. The campers here are families with very small children, most of whom barely leave their RVs for fear of contact with nature. The only campground displaying any sense of life is the one that we were invited to. We have gallons of beer and acres of firewood to burn, and so we bide time telling each other stories of freakish animal attacks and horrific adventures in bestiality. Someone tries to explain how online brokerage firms operate, which necessitates a third, fourth, and fifth beer. By the time I've polished off a six-pack, I'm nearly ready to deposit my entire life savings into e-trading.

The weekend turns out to be a great, beer-soaked time, but come on, Seattle: Have you forgotten that there's an expansive, piney wilderness just outside your borders, a lawless playground intended expressly for your illegal drugs and illicit sex? Where's your pioneering spirit? We can't trust these wilds to families, for Christ's sake. recommended

Want The Stranger to recoil in horror at the prospect of being beaten to death by a hippopotamus at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com