Within moments of introducing myself in the kitchen, I am handed a
Jell-O shot. Moments later, I am handed another. Then another. I look
in the fridge—trays and trays of Jell-O shots. Terry and
James have prepared well for their spring-break party. I meet a
stumbling man named Jessie who claims he’s from Montana. “I’m here
with my brother… who’s really my cousin.” After a few minutes of
bizarre conversation (in which he praises my friend Jason as a genius
for coming up with the idea of “video”) he loses himself staring at
Christmas lights: “These lights are trickin’ me out!”
On the front porch, the neighbors are passing around a “cigarette.”
They make fun of how white our names are: “White people ain’t called
Grip or D—they called Kevin.” The neighbors head back across
the street, and before I realize what’s happening, there are girls on
the porch lifting up their shirts. Spring break! “American women are
afraid of their tits,” Stephanie tells me. She gives a passionate
speech about how showing her breasts is empowering, and how it’s her
decision. “Let me tell you why I pierced my nipples… it’s all because
of me.” Jason comes out to the porch and belligerently explains,
“I’ve been inside telling everyone that I’m you, and that I’m writing
about this party for The Stranger. Is that okay?” It’s late; the
Jell-O shots have long since been devoured. I tell him it’s fine.
Chances are most of these folks won’t remember what I looked like
anyway.
Want to creepily promise The Stranger in a Rip Torn
affectation, “If you stay the night, I’ll make rancho burritos
in the morning?” E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to
partycrasher@thestranger.com.