Party Crasher

The party begins on the 72. We are barreling down Lake City Way and
somehow resisting the urge to swing by Rick’s. A few minstrels from the
local music scene are dangling from the ceiling of our bus, and
I nervously crack my knuckles as we fly past 125th Street, the farthest
north I’ve been in a decade.

It is Valentine’s Day, and the party has tons of booze, music, hot
dogs, art, and fire. A huge mural looms over a controlled blaze in the
backyard. More than a few rusting children’s playthings are scattered
around the grass offering themselves as ironic sitting devices until
the joke is over and your ass hurts. I succumb to my hunger and
cook two hot dogs over the flames. I follow up by roasting a few
marshmallows, which aren’t so much a food as they are the glue that
holds our cells together. A heated debate erupts over the
acceptable method of marshmallow cookery: burned or toasted. It is not
much of a fight (burned is better) because I am the only one currently
holding a roasting prong that could clearly put out somebody’s
eye if somebody was being too belligerent about how daintily toasting a
marshmallow is better than burning the fuck out of it.

Victory achieved, I do that weird and always-awkward half walk, half
run down the street so that I don’t miss the last bus out of Lake City.
Unfortunately, my friend fed me bad information (see: weekend
schedules) about tonight’s Metro timetable, and I begin the long trip
home.

Do you want to assign The Stranger a glow stick to
identify our current dating status at your house party? E-mail
the date, place, and party details to party
crasher@thestranger.com.