From the front, the house is not suspect. I'm expecting a rager, but instead I see about five chickens in the front yard and someone holding a baby in the living room. "All day brunch" was advertised, and I smell bacon, but in the kitchen, no one is to be found.

The party hits me like a dose of 'shrooms: At first I don't see a party and then I suddenly see it all around me. Out on the deck, there's a hand-cast metal cannon pointed at the backyard. A jubilant man wearing a cowboy hat immediately goes into the details of the cannon's history while packing it with calcium carbonate. He shouts, "Fire in the hole!" and a very loud flash of light explodes. Someone continues to fire the cannon about every five minutes.

Every corner of the lot has its own subtle purpose. Composting and vegetable beds on the right. People burning stuff in a metal barrel on the left. Naked hot-tubbing in the very back. Everyone here is basically the epitome of what people imagine Ballard eccentrics to be like. We're led to the basement, where I finally see the endless brunch offerings. The cannon man is cooking up some eggs and freshly made chorizo on a restaurant-sized griddle. It's Super Bowl Sunday, but there is nary a radio or TV broadcasting it. "This isn't a Super Bowl party, it's anti–Super Bowl," the owner of the house declares. Who needs football when you've got guns, fire, and nudity?

Want The Stranger to admire the sausage at your naked hot-tub party? E-mail the date, place, and party details to party crasher@thestranger.com.