Stairs, stairs, and more stairs are what I find at every turn of
this party. The host house sits at the midpoint of one of those
ass-improving concrete stairways linking north Capitol Hill to
Lakeview/I-5, while the party proper is reached only by ascending a
tight spiral staircase. Guests arrive slightly flushed and short of
breath, with eyes brightened by the cardio; it’s a good look.
At the top of the stairs, I find an enclosed deck with
floor-to-ceiling windows and an amazing view of downtown, filled with a
classic scene of urban revelry: beautiful girls gussied up in
consignment-store treasures with guys who look like hoods. One of these
guys sports a button on his jacket, featuring what looks like the face
of Mick Mars, the guitarist and ugliest member of Mötley
Crüe. “Is that Mick Mars?” I ask the owner, who responds in the
affirmative. He’s in a band—Ivory in Ice World—and wears
the button to honor his status as “the Mick Mars of the group.” I ask
him if this means he’s the guitarist or the ugliest member.
“Both!” he replies.
Around us swirls a party entering its latter stages, when booze and
time conspire to push conversation beyond the personal to the abstract.
I overhear an impassioned treatise on the visual poetry of old
wallpaper from a lovely lady—the hostess and birthday
girl—who wasn’t above posing for a photo with a Notorious
B.I.G.–eyed dog in a hula skirt.
Want to assist The Stranger in its quest for buns of
steel? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to
