In an unscientific and informal one-person survey that I took, 100 percent of all respondents had no idea what Cinco de Mayo actually honors, so why not celebrate on Saturday night and make it a Sexto? This party is mostly international grad students—"Latinos show up really late to parties"—with the occasional Argentinean/Cuban musician/film scorer hanging about, for the sake of good conversation. As the DJs set up, a Brazilian lady is informing me that Seattle's beaches make for nice refrigerators. Our gorgeous hostess, also a birthday girl, is busy in the kitchen making tray after tray of delicious food—"I'm Chilean, and this is how we throw a party," she explains. Sadly, before things get crazy—"It's really gonna be peaking from 2 to 6 in the morning"—I have to bolt: There are other Sexto parties to crash.

And where better to celebrate The Day After Mexico Got Its Independence than El Ballárd? Although this party is entirely lacking in... well... anyone Hispanic, it's more than making up for the authenticity deficit with a butt-load of sombreros. The bartender makes a yummy drink, not uncoincidentally called a Sexto: one part rum, three parts POG juice. An underdressed and oversexed couple makes out on a beanbag chair that would ordinarily seat eight comfortably. Kabul, an abbreviated version of the classic drinking game Beirut, is being played by a pro who is skunking all comers, and one of my Plus Ones gets an important life lesson in how to shotgun a can of Coors Light. Viva la Whatever!

Want The Stranger to hear about a drink called a Heart Attack—five parts melted butter to one part gin, yum!—at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to