By the time the party really gets going there is hardly room to move inside the 24/7 Haus, host of the Trashies' last show ever. The living room is charmingly covered in different handmade posters for the party, like the housemates and all their friends got an assignment for it in third-period art class. One of the first people I meet, Woody, is wearing a full African dashiki that he purchased two blocks away at the Ethiopian hiphop store. "They wanted $60 for it, but I talked 'em down to $40," he says. He's drinking gin and juice out of a mug and exclaims, "Now I'm ready to do acid in the Pacific Northwest!"

No one seems to care that the PA shits out after the Trashies' first song, or that the lightbulb overhead gets smashed, leaving the band to play in darkness. Some guy tries to crowd surf in the two-foot space between heads and the ceiling; someone in the pit gets their tooth broken off by a bottle. There is a back-and-forth chant between the band and the crowd of "USA! USA!" and "Get daddy a chicken sandwich!" The performance is a giant, beer-soaked mess that ends abruptly and without grace. It is a fitting farewell. Bassist Andrew tries to kick everyone out of the house, warning that the cops are coming, but a massive crowd lingers on the street and they don't feel like leaving. There's not much room for him to complain—his band said it best themselves: "Life Sucks Trash Fuck."

Want The Stranger to pee in your backyard after giving up on the bathroom line? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.