Paul Constant

I arrive at the pig roast to find a paper plate on the porch bearing a black, sinewy wad of... something that was once organic. On further inspection, it turns out that someone tried to eat the eyes of the pig. I ask the eye eater how they tasted. "They were real chewy," he says, and takes another bite of swine-ass sandwich. In the back yard, the remainders of the Filipino Box Spring Hog are on a table, next to its severed legs—apparently, when everyone pulled the pig out of the fire pit, they snapped off—and the pig's desiccated, eyeless face, which stares angrily at me.

There are children present, full of pork, playing on the Slip 'n Slide. Currently, a man who looks just like Jesus (if the son of God had shiny nipple rings) is dominating the old-timey game of Washerbox, wherein players toss washers into a box. "Gin and Juice" is playing over the speakers, there's a keg of good beer for the tapping, and it's a laid-back afternoon party.

Partyers head downstairs to see Indecisive Rhythm play a basement set. The three-piece band have a late-'80s, early-'90s punk-pop sound—evoking Pixies without being a Pixies rip-off, and their female lead can shred her voice into a snarl at one moment and coo a Breeders-esque hook the next. I know that I'm making them sound like a retro act or something, but they're timelessly talented, and as of-the-moment as your new favorite band. It's music that any pig should be honored to die for. recommended

Want The Stranger to try to choke down your rotten-lawn-tasting artichoke liqueur because "it's my new summer drink!" at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to