"We've got Craisins, Bac-o-Bits, and pickles," says the hostess, and someone points out, "Those are all diseases," and someone else adds, "We nickname all our social diseases around here." This party has a peanut-butter-sandwich-making bar, with the aforementioned STDs and a number of more-traditional accoutrements: chocolate chips, Marshmallow Fluff, and cheap white bread. Partyers construct sandwiches—PB and pickles is disturbingly popular—and wait for the music to start.

Word around the party is our hostess worked at a popular all-ages music venue until a certain hateful Christian organization took it over. Today, she's turning her basement into a nightclub named Crushworthy. People mill around and check out the featured artwork: photos of the insides of kaleidoscopes and beautiful embroideries sewn into mobiles and handkerchiefs.

The opening act is XballsweatX, who hunches over his computer like a mad, beat-constructing scientist. Next is Sorry Safari. "The apology is in the name," explains the lead singer, but there's really no need: The trio play lovely, slightly off-key confections about "robots hijacking UFOs," among other things. After all that, it's time for the headliner, PWRFL Power, seemingly just a guy with a guitar. At the end of his set, though, nobody's surprised when he says he's about to go on tour in Japan: He plays a motherfucking MEAN gee-tar, even when he's singing about whether he or an evil cat shat on the floor. When the show is all done, people start to fight over what goes best on their peanut-butter sandwiches: cucumbers or bananas? Since I write the column, I get the last word: beer. You're welcome.

Want The Stranger to hear how "The points of my fucking dreadlocks are sharp enough to cut your fucking eyes out" at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.