Sat Dec 31




Our arrival at the loft brings with it a certain relief: Pioneer Square, full of breakup shouting matches and drunken machismo, is downright scary tonight. But then we realize that this party, too, is a little off the hook itself.

In the back room, where the artists work, there are dozens of people drinking champagne straight from the bottle and making sexy New Year's talk. In the front room, on the other side of the living spaces, there are over a hundred people dancing to one of the nine acts on the bill, which includes Truckasaurus, Plan B, and Scientific American. Party Crasher's ass gets grabbed more times than we can count, trying to pry our way across the dance floor.

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Somebody tips us off to a "man under the table in the kitchen who's from Tokyo" who is "very interesting, really kind of a genius." We try to investigate, but Mr. Tokyo has vacated, and now, under the table in a cloud, is a man wearing lime-green Chucks who is shrieking and kicking at anyone who approaches. Somebody pushes a woman into a pile of paintings, which incites a very tall Ashlee Simpson look-alike to holler: "That's art, man! You're fucking with art!" People are sweaty and gropy and everyone is too drunk, and everything resembles the Fall of Rome: 2005 is ending with an insane bacchanal starring a cast of hundreds, and people just keep coming. It's beautiful how everything here tonight is just too much—it's the throbbing heart of 2006, just catching its strange rhythm, literally born to party.