You Know What They Don't Have in Amsterdam?
Abby has been a favorite Slog commenter for years now; her comments have always been fair, funny, and mostly positive. (Representative quote: "Hipster: catchall term for urban things you don't like since 2006!") So it's especially sad that she is hosting her good-bye party tonight in the upstairs of the Living Room, two nights before heading to graduate school in the Netherlands to pursue a degree in media studies. Why didn't she host a blowout party in her own home? Her European apartment is pre-furnished, and she gave all her American furniture away to her American friends.
And it's a fine collection of friends that America has provided her. Two hotties dance to Eurovision singles while sitting on comfy couches, a handful of die-hard Sounders fans begin a loud and frightening chant after a few rounds of drinking games, a woman has one of the best tattoos Party Crasher has ever seen ("Steady as she goes" scrawled across her forearm for easy reference), and a partyer stares into the depths of his sugary gin drink and proclaims, "I can see the end of my life in here."
Above and around the party, Joey Veltkamp's papier-mâché owls (part of a show titled It Is Happening Again at the Living Room through the end of August) peer creepily from their perches. They can see everything: the laughter, the tattoo, the anti-bobblehead rants. Abby, ignoring the omniscient eyes of the faux-birds, explains the worst part of going to Europe: no Netflix. As with all American discussions about Netherlandic topics, the talk turns to drugs, hookers, and wooden shoes. Not in that order.
Want The Stranger to lament a guest's keelhauling of the entire air-conditioning system at your party? E-mail the date, place, and party details to partycrasher@ thestranger.com.