The invite implied a crust-punk aesthetic and warned "There may or may not be blood (fake of course)." The party is in a yellow house on the corner, and it becomes apparent from a block away that the crust-punk presumption was way off. Boys and girls dressed in their '90s best sit on the front porch and smoke as they eagerly await more guests, presumably more boys and girls dressed in their '90s best.

People drink Rainier with straws, and a quick inventory of attendees reveals an unabashed and completely unironic love for '90s fashion, including but not limited to Starter jackets, combat boots, and Marilyn Manson T-shirts (well, one). Young people with braces sit on a couch and grin as they share watermelon-flavored malt beer out of a huge, bright green can purchased at what must be the Seediest Store in the Whole Wide World.

Someone smells poop. "Who's tracking in poop?" the hostess demands, but she doesn't really seem to care. Out comes the Swiffer anyway. She leads an enthusiastic tour of the house while hobbling in a foot brace bedecked with kitty stickers. When she gets to her roommate's bedroom, she points to a photo of the girl's dad. "He was best friends with Slats." She pauses and quickly adds, "Well, that's what he says." The first band starts, kind of. Stops. Starts again. The poo smell is starting to disappear, but the party is just getting started.

Want to tell The Stranger all about your drunken fibula-breaking antics at your house party? E-mail the date, place, and party details to partycrasher@ thestranger.com.