When we walk into the apartment around 12:30 a.m., a tall guy is policing the beer supply by yelling, "You don't fucking pay, you don't fucking drink!" It seems two dudes tried to skate by the $5 cup fee, and one of the hosts isn't having it. A scuffle ensues, beer is spilled, and after a couple of "Fuck you!"s, the cheapskates leave. Guys in Abercrombie shirts, collars up, and girls with low-cut jeans and exposed thongs go back to playing drinking games at a table.

We work our way into the small kitchen, where the "pay to party" keg of PBR sits in the corner. A drunk/stoned acrobat, eyes half-closed and face fairly red, decides to do a keg stand. With two spotters in charge of his legs, he's been upside down for about 10 seconds when he lets go of the keg without warning, falling to the floor laughing. "Oh, man," says his friend. "You're that guy."

Back in the living room, a shaggy-haired kid's feasting on chicken sandwiches from Jack in the Box and drinking warm beer from a pitcher. His fanny-pack-wearing friend yells that his legs no longer work. We tire of the shitty country music ("Whiskey Girl" is playing on repeat), and make our way down the stairs (where someone's wiping down a wall that's been puked on) and out into the night.

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