It was just another lazy Sunday. I woke up around 11, drank a beer, ate a burrito at Taco Bell, and had a few too many cocktails for brunch. After taking a satisfying if socially inappropriate piss on Belmont, I made my way to an open mic, took a nap in a parking garage, and... OH SHIT! Time to take a shit. Fortunately, by a stroke of serendipity I had an invite to a birthday party.

One of many benefits of having showbiz friends is that no one bothers to question you if you head straight into someone’s bathroom upon entering their home—not even if you palm a slice of marinated carne asada along the way. The only minor hiccup was a brief and cordial passing of the guard with a few other comics exiting the party to get to their next gigs. As you may recall from a previous party review, comedians care far more about stage time than friendship, because we’re good and reliable people that way.

After relieving myself, I was able to fully appreciate the spread: the aforementioned carne asada, pilaf, pasta salad, grilled chicken, and some sort of sausage I probably can’t afford. The Sunday banquet even extended onto the rear deck, where a sunny buffet of ice cream sundaes had been arranged. As you may have surmised, the homeowner was not a comic, but comedy adjacent—a promotions professional.

I really can’t speak highly enough of this home. It had multiple floors, but no sign of anyone sleeping in spaces that hadn’t been architecturally designated as bedrooms. It felt as if I’d entered an alternate realm, in which functioning adults could afford their home without subletting to every drunk they met at a showcase, festival, or open mic. There was also a bathtub larger than the sofa I call a bed, a fully furnished basement, and a kitchen that didn’t double as an entryway. What strange magic these people must have known.

Upon entering the basement, I was greeted by a small flock of children and their suburban parents. They were all quaint and friendly enough, and the conversation didn’t stray from polite greetings, which suited me just fine.

In a small hollow sat and lay an all-female indie band, tuning their instruments as they recovered from a collective and no doubt well-earned food coma. The band was an especially nice touch and reminded me of my own days as a broke ass musician playing basement shows for gas and/or tuition money. Who am I kidding? I didn’t even come close to finishing college, but given this group’s clear refinement, they had almost certainly earned degrees valuable enough to afford their dreams, although it was impossible to guestimate the ages of any given member. Rock does wonders for one’s complexion.

The band and their songs were as solid as the food and residence, and as they screamed their passion, the party earned its 10 points out of 10.