Sat Jan 21


Queen Anne

In the most beautiful home that we've ever (legally) been in, a man named Randal is throwing a 28th birthday party for a friend. Everybody here—and there are artists, famous music producers, hot new bands, hip restaurateurs—has either attended or desperately wanted to attend a Randal Party. "The best thing about tonight is that I only invited two people," Randal explains. "And now..." he gestures at the 50 or so stylish people munching on one of the four birthday cakes. One of the guests proclaims Randal "The Ambassador of Fun," and he couldn't be more right-on, even if this column were purchased in the Strangercrombie holiday auction.

The generosity of our host is unquestionable: Everyone here has a "Touched-by-a-Randal" story, and the feeling in the kitchen, as we all assemble to make and eat falafels, is a genuine, cockeyed family vibe. There's a make-out bungalow in the back yard—a man watches the two girls he came with head for the little house until someone slaps his arm, shouting, "You should go fuck them!" Duly reminded, he runs after his dates and isn't seen for a while.

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Our Plus One is nearly killed in a conflagration when the fireplace acts up, but, several cognacs later, she's hugging Randal as readily as people who have known him for decades. Out on the deck, with its commanding view of the Sound, Randal is gazing in at his party. "Everywhere I look, I see people I love," he says, shaking his head in gentle disbelief. "That's such a special thing." He steps back inside, greeted by hugs and smiles and cheers, and it's obvious that the feeling is mutual.

Want The Stranger to hear how a third of that very chic objet d'art was destroyed by a stripper at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.