For the last year or so, our host has been busy making Cthulhu, a movie based on H. P. Lovecraft's horror stories. He and other friends have lived and worked out of a run-down warehouse and, though the movie is still in post-production, today marks both a pseudo wrap party and "a celebration of the greatest country on Earth." Up on the sagging and treacherously hole-ridden roof, people are enjoying the gorgeous weather. One floor down, partiers are being spun in dizzy-making circles on a wheeled wardrobe rack.

I run into a woman who recently spent a month in Norway living in a shipping crate and she directs me to a Lovecraftian room of the warehouse: a never-ending hallway filled with, well, everything. "Our neighbor, Dan, is a bit of a packrat," someone understates, adding: "It's kind of like the junk pile in Citizen Kane." Another room boasts a mysterious yurt constructed from insulation. The walls are written up with lessons learned in the course of filmmaking; most mysteriously: "Redheads should not wear pink—or fuck each other."

Just before the piñatas get busted, two men decide to streak the party. One of the naked men puts on a sombrero that was functioning as the bowl for the tortilla chips and dances around in a shower of chips. The streakers run away, laughing, and our host looks at the decimation. Realizing that, without the chips, there's no way to eat the delicious homemade dip, he mutters, "I liked my guacamole much more than I liked his cock."

Want The Stranger to choke on the disgusting Mexicandy—chili-powdered mango lollipops, WTF?—at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.