As I pause to double-check the address, one partyer yells from the porch, "If you have beer, you are in the right place!" Yes, this is a college party. We are to celebrate Chris's birthday and Alison's departure to Spain, dressed in one of the "optional" themes: "long T-shirt and no pants, or a character from any Robin Williams movie." I was hoping to see someone in drag, straight out of The Birdcage, but am sorely disappointed to find that only one girl dressed up—a tall blonde in a not-so-long T-shirt.
The house is packed with recent UW grads. The sangria is already gone and no one is drunk enough. Many guests seek redemption in cans of Four Loko (a get-shitfaced-for-cheap alcoholic energy drink). Soon after my arrival, a succession of karaoke singers ensues. There is truly nothing like a September rendition of Mariah Carey's Christmas carols to clear a house, fast.
I make my way to the kitchen, where I meet a soft-spoken young documentary filmmaker named Sean who announces, "I'd rather read Bill Clinton's memoir than stay here." Other emerging talents are in attendance, including hairdresser diva William who boasts, "I blew out Jen Graves." Later in the evening, the East Coast transplant resurrects his old high-school step routine. As he dances, his herringbone blazer is flying and his expensive shoes are stomping, and you can feel all the glory of past performances returning to him. Just after 2:00 a.m., the party's remaining guests are finally enticed to the dance floor by a techno mix supplied by the birthday boy.
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