I’d never met Stranger film columnist Lindy West before being
invited to her birthday party. Her column reminds me of a 14-year-old
with ADD and a film-screening list. I figure we’ll be fast
friends. The secret password for the party is “Christian Slater’s
eyebrows.” I’d never thought about those before—when I hear
Christian Slater I think “Dracula hair.” I find Lindy and introduce
myself: “Hi, I’m Trent Moorman.” “Why would you say that?” she asks
skeptically. “Yeah, you’re right,” I sigh. “I’m Donte Parks.”
She takes my hand and rubs it on her sweaty face, then sticks it in her
cleavage.
The party has a nice spread of Mexican dips and fancy cheeses, and a
table with homemade buttons, Everway Vision cards, and Chinese
cigarettes. I notice no one is eating the tray of brownies, so I
stick a sign in them that says, “Weed.” They’re gone within 20
minutes. I see Stranger editor Christopher Frizzelle cramming
several in his mouth. I laugh at him from across the room.
Later, the Frizz takes me to Matt’s “13th annual 28th birthday,”
where classy people in blazers are sipping nice booze and talking about
their marriages. I want so badly to eat some of the tray full of
Ezell’s fried chicken, but I decide there’s no way to look
sophisticated or refined while gnawing on a chicken bone. These
people seem important. I feel like a child here. Then Frizzelle dumps
whiskey on Brendan Kiley’s head, and I don’t feel out of place
anymore.
Want The Stranger to write more columns about parties full
of Stranger writers? Neither do we. Invite us to your house
party. E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to
partycrasher@thestranger.com.