Zac’s 28th birthday party was what every respectable social gathering should aspire to be. Everybody at the Golden Hill house near 20th and Broadway was dressed as an approximate Tony Soprano, Louise Brookes, Blues Brother, or Susan Sarandon circa Thelma & Louise. The witty and often unruly banter barely left the realm of good-natured bullshit long enough to exchange names. Moments after reaching the kitchen with my roommate Leif, photographer Brett, and muse Enrique (who invited us to the party), I was immediately engaged in a conversation about the virtues of jean shorts with a Humphrey Bogart.
“Jorts are the crux of San Diego casual,” I conjectured.
“San Diego classy!” he shot back.
With no apparent provocation, a bubbly blonde named Jessica bent over and showed us her “vintage” white thong, a disclosure that would become a staple of the evening. Next to a table of deviled eggs, candied pickles, jungle juice, and loaded Jell-O, Jimmy Stewarts and Greta Garbos took photos with cardboard signs reading, “I believe we have the chance to make some extremely poor choices” and “She was one cocktail away from proving his mother right.”
Out front, Astro introduced himself and we all did the same. “While we’re at it, my name’s Leif,” said Leif. “Did you say Borat?” Astro asked, genuinely confused. Somehow, this was absolutely hilarious and everyone exploded with laughter. Later, Zac’s roommate Shaffer showed us his motorcycle in the garage, saying, “We’ve been here a week and basically found out the house is haunted.”
“So it’s Halloween and I’m dressed like Courtney Love,” Zac began. “I looked very good, actually. White dress, lipstick, wig, a needle. Bruises up my arm like nobody’s business.” He went on to describe how he drunkenly fell in love with the Mexican national anthem after a costume party, which was also hilarious, though I’m not sure why.
Back in the kitchen, Zac suspended Jessica over the keg by one leg like a prize marlin as she drank from the tap, her ostensibly old-fashioned undergarments again proudly on display. I briefly discussed the prospect of going for a keg stand with a dude who appeared equal parts Pee-wee Herman and Jason Biggs à la American Pie, but we couldn’t get motivated. Fortunately, Shaffer burst into the kitchen wielding a large knife and howling for lighters to ignite the birthday candles. We sang the song, and, in a potentially symbolic gesture, Zac put on a yellow life vest and inflated it with the yank of a cord.
Outside, Enrique raved about a J Lo jam that features the theme to “the forbidden Lambada dance.” When it was pointed out that he was the only person who had any idea what he was talking about, he exclaimed, “There was a movie about it back in 1990, squares! I was precocious!”
A Neon Indian song moved me to attempt the Charleston, but I was quickly humbled by Jessica, who did the dance in high heels and proceeded to explain that “the real quest is the Freddie.” Someone gave it their best but was immediately derided as just another Eddie. “You’re missing the F! It’s like this.” The Freddie is a ridiculous, flailing dance which, if the eponymous 1965 song (“Do the Freddie”) is to be believed, will inexplicably make you the envy of all the kids. Minutes later, for no good reason, we broke into a perfectly harmonized “Kokomo” in the kitchen before grooving out to Justice, LCD Soundsystem, Eddy Grant, and Rod Stewart jams in the living room until only a handful of Al Capones and Coco Chanels remained. ■
Crash your party? Call 619-235-3000 x421 and leave an invitation for Chad Deal.