Holy shit. Holy. Shit. This place is swank. It has a red carpet and a photographer! Oh, man, there's a bouncer? And he's throwing you out if you're not dressed in black and white? And he's bald?! Okay, calm down, whooooo, take a step inside. Holy SHIIIIIIT. The Broadway Grill has been transformed into a gay fortress of clean black countertops and bejeweled peacock feathers. This is swaaaaank. Underneath draped linen bedsheets, some floating light-globes, and tinsel, people coagulate around the fabulously white trees imported from Gondor, two cheerfully sweaty bartenders, and HOLY SHIT, a photo booth (!). This must be what heaven is like. Or ur-Ikea. I snag a lobster ball and eat it.

It's time to try mingling. A very, very nice restaurant remodeler rescues me out of the throng and buys me a drink.

"I'm a bit of a Renaissance man," he says.

"Oh?" I ask. "How so?"

"Well, I'm bi."

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"Oh," I say. "Yes." Mingling is going well. At least I can understand this guy, as opposed to the girl with the bead-tie stuffed in her mouth. He describes his plan for windproofing a house—a complicated application of steel nets and a circus pole—which I do not understand at all. He would be so helpful if the Apocalypse came and we were all trapped here in our shreds of two-toned clothing, with peacock feathers as our only shelter and a dwindling food supply of candle wax, tree bark, and mahimahi mini-tacos. With balsamic glaze. Okay, I suppose I could stay a bit longer.

Want The Stranger to eat lobster balls at your party? E-mail the date, place, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger .com.