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.