Sat April 8


First Hill

Granted, a "Mustache Party" sounds like an illegal Ukrainian swingers club, but there's no better way to throw a successful party than to have a simple theme and stick to it as fiercely as possible. The dining-room table is replete with orphan mustaches: There are the requisite handlebars and pencil-thin John Waters jobbies, but there are also some $10 real-human-hair toupee-staches. Dozens are here to party, and every one of them is sporting a Burt Reynolds, a Ron Jeremy, or a Bea Arthur.

The barbecue is fired up and a keg of Fat Tire awaits its impending emptification in the backyard, which is protected from the rain by an impressive 100-foot tarp. "It's our Katrina-themed party," someone says, gesturing at the tarp, which inspires groans of "Too soon!" "It's never too soon to make a goddamn joke!" comes the reply, and everyone agrees that the 30 pounds of fake facial hair wandering around kind of pokes holes in serious social discourse.

One partier, who cut off his dreadlocks three weeks ago, has glued one severed lock to his upper lip—"This fucker weighs a half a pound," he says, proudly. My Plus One and I gladly offer our barren baby faces to the cause, but our lame-ass mustaches don't begin to compare to the hair on the ladies. Someone greets a woman by saying, "You look like Clark Gable!" She responds, sweetly, "That's what every girl likes to hear." It's a lie, though: A blind man could tell that she's a dead ringer for John Leguizamo.

Want to inform The Stranger that we look like Ned Flanders or Mr. ("Speedy delivery!") McFeely at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.