The invitation e-mail was refreshingly straightforward: "Ian is having his birthday. Why should you come? No fancy tricks. Just great music, kegs of beer, and happy fun people." That's why I'm a little concerned when the birthday boy immediately asks me if I want to see "where we keep the chicks down in the basement." With grisly images of women held against their will as sex slaves running through my head, I nervously follow Ian downstairs. We round a corner and I'm staring at an incubator full of chirping baby chickens. Turns out, instead of white slavery, the house is a part-time orphanage for chicks.

Upstairs, a shirtless man in flip-flops is being held upside down for a keg stand that goes on for a life-threatening amount of time. Another partier is tending to the oven—alongside the traditional party fare of chips and salsa, trays of freshly broiled steak and pork tenderloin are being served up with homemade mustard. The music is courtesy of the Otis Johnson Band, a group that plays meat-and-potatoes rock and roll that's so classic it sounds fresh all over again.

There are maybe 40 people here, dancing, drinking, and flirting up a storm. A man in a white jumpsuit at first accuses me of trying to bust the party for fire-code violations, but soon enough he's telling me all about the vibration of the universal mind. Vocalist Scott Peters joins the band with a fiddler and they make a hellacious, bluegrass-tinged racket that gets people dancing like mad. The keg is blown before midnight, and everyone is sweaty, full, and smiling. What more could you ask from a birthday party? recommended

Want to tell The Stranger how "[redacted name of famous local journalist] is either autistic or just deeply creepy" at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com