Party Crasher

The few blocks between the bus stop and the party are prime practice
for the Ministry of Silly Walks: The precipitous angle of this section
of sidewalk descending from Capitol Hill into the Arboretum demands a
knee-jarring lurch, an awkward shuffle, or, most efficiently, a jaunty
skip.

“David Bowie vs. Bjork dessert buffet at Haphazard House”
read the mass text message advertising the house party. A wire-framed
deer greets Party Crasher on the wood-chipped lawn, lighting the path
to the metal-plated door of a 1950s retro-modern house. Inside, my gaze
instantly drifts upward to the carefully folded strips of aluminum foil
dangling around a pink and gold chandelier—a glimmering
sea on the ceiling of a near-empty dance floor. Its sole occupant
stares at me from the corner with unblinking eyes, transfixed and
topless, her plastic nipples gleaming, rimmed with gold paint.

Guests flit between the dessert/booze buffet and the dance floor as
the DJ struggles to find enough danceworthy Bowie/Björk mixes,
finally settling on a time-traveling mix that includes Ratatat, the
Cure, Britney, and Beyoncé. “This is a total clambake,” a
deep-voiced Björk—sporting a swan dress deftly constructed
out of newspapers—observes about the gender distribution of the
partygoers. The host emerges, glistening in silver body paint, and
assuages fears of a Goldfinger fate, “Don’t worry, my feet and
my butt are breathing.” Lightning-bolt-faced metallic guests pour
through the door as the night wears on, filling the home with the
timeless tradition of sweaty, painted bodies moving to a beat.

Want to demonstrate to The Stranger how lesbians dance to
“Single Ladies” at your house party? E-mail the date, place,
time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.