The party had its share of glamour and violence, but no one fell and no one got hit. Several people who hadn't been to Western Bridge before told me they were knocked out by the size and beauty of the space, and everyone at The Stranger who felt Seattle School genuinely deserved the arts organization award felt punched in the face by Seattle School's unbelievably inane award-acceptance performance, and actually I almost fell on my face during one crucial moment of the evening--but, by and large, the Seattle arts crowd got through the Second Annual Stranger Genius Awards party in one piece. The morning after was another matter.

The stars of the evening, naturally, were the Genius Award winners themselves. Visual artist Victoria Haven wore a dress, which I'm told is notable; the writer John Olson wore sneakers, as predicted. Filmmaker David Russo said in an acceptance speech that he was glad to get the money but felt "conflicted" about the award because he doesn't always agree with The Stranger's movie reviews. And actress Sarah Rudinoff, who was off doing a show most of the evening, accepted her award by way of a burqa-draped proxy who drank, issued fatwas, and generally tried to offend everyone. Somehow, in doing so, she didn't tip into obnoxiousness like, again, the Seattle School guys, whose sodomizing-the-Savior-while-eating-fried-chicken skit might have been cool 20 years ago in the East Village on a bad night. (What was so disheartening about the skit--which they performed in lieu of making a few remarks, à la the other Geniuses--wasn't just that it wasn't funny or inventive or smart, but that it wasn't good, and Seattle School has been very smart and very good before.) After the awards reception, someone swept up the chicken and everyone tried not to look disgusted and the just-honored Genius Award winners rejoined the crowd wearing sashes.

The sashes were designed by Kathryn Rathke, who also designed the stage--a two-dimensional Roman bust that opened up to reveal a massive three-dimensional brain--and were handed out by Stranger editors, most of whom made an effort to dress up for once. (Stranger editor Dan Savage, a grown man who owns no ties, wore jeans and a T-shirt: black and blue, like a bruise.) Rathke herself looked formidably cool in a black dress and black feathers, standing against the tall white wall on which two of John Olson's poems were slowly scrolling. Meanwhile, in a dark theater toward the back of the space, a reel of David Russo's work--stunningly executed pieces about time, destruction, artificiality, and travel--entertained an audience in lime-green recliners. Above a staircase, footage of Sarah Rudinoff in various productions recapped her experience and range (if failing somewhat to adequately demonstrate the force of her onstage presence--theater just never looks good on video). And in a far upstairs room, Victoria Haven's depth-defying paper sculptures held their own in a strong, silent way.

The work on display was impressive and, by some accounts, humbling--several artists and more than a few writers stopped me to say how thrilled they were to discover here, for the first time, John Olson's poetry. This is, of course, the point of the Genius Awards: to share with everyone what The Stranger has discovered in the course of a year of the life of the city, and to call attention to the impressive and, yes, humbling talent that makes this town worth living and working in. A party to bring everyone together under one roof to celebrate all that only makes sense. (And certainly The Stranger couldn't have pulled off the party--or the Genius Awards at all--without the support of Rick Stevens, Hans Kehl, and everyone at Lucky Strike; the generosity of Bill and Ruth True, owners of Western Bridge; and the masterly guidance of Eric Fredericksen, who curated the event.)

Also impressive: the food. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by it, and held my own near a table piled with rare beef, thick fava-bean dip, herbed mozzarella, marinated vegetables, and cubes of raw fish impaled on skewers. The Stranger doesn't do fancy often, but when we do, we do it right--a point driven home by all the servers bearing trays of grilled truffle-and-cheese sandwiches and devilled quail eggs dressed with caviar.

The smokers installed themselves in the walled tent that extended north from the building and that nearly doubled Western Bridge's already considerable square footage. The tent had ambiance. "The lighting in here is fantastic," a friend said, her face glowing red. "It's so lurid." I'm sure there were high-minded conversations all around me, but I kept hearing things like, "Is it in poor taste to wear a cigarette behind your ear?" and "Wow, there's huge boobs falling out of that dress behind you." The actor Nick Garrison mentioned to a crowd of his fans that he was off to New York City to do a show with Mia Farrow, and then turned to me and said, "I'm telling everyone. I don't even care anymore. I'm not even trying to be cool." Just then I heard someone else somewhere else saying, "You have to understand, I love ironing." (Or was it "irony"? I was, by this point, drunk.) The acoustics at Western Bridge--and in that tent--were strange and you could hear distinct fragments of other conversations. At one point I heard someone say, "I have to kill the octopus and feed it to the shark," which was enigmatic and, I thought, appropriately artful.

Like many others, I took the free bus home. (The Stranger chartered a bus that made trips back and forth between the party and Bauhaus Books & Coffee, which is in my neighborhood, all night long.) "Fantastic idea," a guy across the aisle of the crowded bus said as we pulled away, referring to the bus and, more generally, to the night. He looked both exhausted and invigorated. "It feels like we're on a skiing trip or something," the girl next to him said. I looked out through a back window and saw thick clouds that were about to give way to two days of rain, and the party's bright searchlights, still searching.

This time next year, we'll have already announced a new set of geniuses and seen a new batch of work and thrown another big party. In the meantime, we'll keep our eye on the visual artists and theater artists and writers and filmmakers doing unique and deserving work. If you were at the party and haven't seen anything else Seattle School has done, the next Iron Composer is November 26 at the Crocodile--you should go. And, of course, you should see more films and see more theater and buy more books and buy more art than you already do.