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.