The fun conversation at the open house on First Hill—was Hannah Arendt really the model for Scooby-Doo‘s Velma?—quickly gets derailed when somebody starts frying steak. There’s already a ton of food here—plus our hostess’s brilliant mojitos—but the steak really massages our salivary glands. There’s a bowl of edamame making the rounds, salty and seared to perfection—no, fuck it: Sarah Vowell has called food writing the art of finding as many synonyms for the word “delicious” as possible, and damn it, it’s true. The edamame is delicious, as is all the food at the arty soirée.
Later in the same evening, I’ve moved on to a Decadent Vegan Dessert and ’80s Dance Party on Capitol Hill. There’s a panorama of treats: brownies, “chocolate pear goo,” vanilla-orange custard, raspberry cheesecake, and the appropriately labeled “Tasty Little Fuckers.” Everything is delicious.
After dancing with the malt-liquor-guzzling crowd, I decide to get some fresh air. In the back yard, a woman is telling someone that her boyfriend has a giant schlong—”Not that that’s essential, but, you know, I’m pretty lucky.” My stomach lurches hard to the right and begins gurgling along with Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations,” pounding out from the house—it’s time to go. While fleeing, I’m surrounded by two boys and a girl who, to the rhythm of “Kiss,” rub their crotches into me. Ordinarily, this would be another Prince-Inspired Magical Moment, but all I can muster is a weak smile and a belched “thank you” before bolting, a victim of Way Too Much Deliciousness.
Want The Stranger to stay drug-free—so put the crack up—at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.