Fuck. The bands have already finished playing. My plus one and I can
tell because of the postperformance devastation: Furniture has been
upturned, beer bottles litter the floor, and the faint, sweet smell
of sweaty bodies lingers in the air. Disappointed but undeterred,
we make our way through the house to the backyard, where everyone is
smoking and deconstructing the bands’ performances. The crowd seems
sedate but good-humored. A dreadlocked, leather-clad behemoth shuffles
around looking for a light, and a slurring guy named Kyle introduces
himself as the guitarist of one of the bands that just played. How’d
the show go, Kyle? “Lots of sixteenth notes.”
A little later we meet the host, Lindsay. She is wasted and
completely charming. Lindsay seems like she could be a
student—she has that earnest, interested air about her, you
know?—so I ask her if she goes to UW. Her face sours, and she
responds, “Absolutely not.” My question was gauche; this is an
antiestablishment household. Lindsay goes on to explain that her
home is officially known as the Green Stripe Haus, so called because of
the green stripe around the perimeter of the downstairs bar. (The
German spelling of “house” is, I gather, affected.)
As we leave, somebody cooking noodles in the kitchen offers me some
ramen for the road. I gratefully decline, but I’m left thinking: Are
these the nicest drunk folks in Seattle? They very well may
be. 
Want The Stranger to miss the musical performance at your house party? Send the date, place, and party details to
partycrasher@thestranger.com.