I arrive at the pig roast to find a paper plate on the porch bearing
a black, sinewy wad of… something that was once organic. On further
inspection, it turns out that someone tried to eat the eyes of the pig.
I ask the eye eater how they tasted. “They were real chewy,” he says,
and takes another bite of swine-ass sandwich. In the back yard, the
remainders of the Filipino Box Spring Hog are on a table, next to its
severed legs—apparently, when everyone pulled the pig out of the
fire pit, they snapped off—and the pig’s desiccated, eyeless
face, which stares angrily at me.
There are children present, full of pork, playing on the Slip ‘n
Slide. Currently, a man who looks just like Jesus (if the son of God
had shiny nipple rings) is dominating the old-timey game of Washerbox,
wherein players toss washers into a box. “Gin and Juice” is playing
over the speakers, there’s a keg of good beer for the tapping, and it’s
a laid-back afternoon party.
Partyers head downstairs to see Indecisive Rhythm play a basement
set. The three-piece band have a late-’80s, early-’90s punk-pop
sound—evoking Pixies without being a Pixies rip-off, and their
female lead can shred her voice into a snarl at one moment and coo a
Breeders-esque hook the next. I know that I’m making them sound like a
retro act or something, but they’re timelessly talented, and as
of-the-moment as your new favorite band. It’s music that any pig should
be honored to die for. 
Want The Stranger to try to choke down your
rotten-lawn-tasting artichoke liqueur because “it’s my new summer
drink!” at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and
party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.