“Geev me my dreeenk!” someone shouts at Pancho Villa. Pancho’s the one you’ve got to talk to if you want to get lit: He has a bandoleer of shot glasses and a holstered bottle of tequila. The house is full of bandidos—wearing sombreros, ponchos, and fake mustaches—who are prepared to drink furiously in the name of Mexico. They come from far and wide—a few are even actually Hispanic—and every time a shot is taken, partiers scream “Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi!” and Pancho blows a whistle to mark the occasion.
However, drinking is not the only game in town. People are giving Sharpie gang tattoos—”Oh, man, this isn’t a good idea,” someone getting a large “WS” on his neck says, “I have to go to work [at Microsoft] on Monday.” The birthday girl smashes a downed piñata so hard that the metal broomstick cracking into the concrete throws sparks. Everyone heads back inside to do body shots: “Leeek the salt off my neeeeeeple,” proclaims an open-shirted guero.
The main event is the sidewalk low-rider race. Cholos have brought all kinds of different wheeled devices: bicycles, walkers, wheelchairs, push lawn mowers. There are almost as many drunken wipeouts as there are winners. On a furniture dolly, I destroy my Plus One, who eats shit on a Barbie scooter, tearing half the flesh off her legs. Back inside, someone drinks a toast to her hand—no, there’s no context—and a newcomer pulls a fine bottle of tequila out of his pants. Predicción: Some of these vatos are gonna have resacas mañana.
Want The Stranger to find Jesús—”I was immaculately concepted”—at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.