I play poker with a group of guys, and one always deals a game called Diablo. I never thought I'd hear the word outside the poker party. But when Marcy called to invite me to her friend Ashley's birthday party in Clairemont, she told me that if the Diablos showed up, things could get wild. Now, sometimes "wild" isn't a bad thing. If it's "girls going wild" -- fine. If it's somebody with an Uzi -- not fine. I asked what a Diablo was. I was told it was a motorcycle gang that Ashley's father is in.I looked for my old Harley-Davidson T-shirt to wear, but couldn't find it. Oh, well. It wasn't until I was on my way that I realized wearing a UCLA sweatshirt was probably the most opposite thing in my wardrobe.

When I got to this place off of Genesee, there was nowhere to park. With at least a hundred people at the party, cars were everywhere. The curbs were all rounded and the driveways were narrow. It was hard to see if I was parking in front of a driveway or not. So I drove about a mile down the street until I found a spot I could be sure of.

I walked in and found Marcy. Her name is pronounced "Marcy," but I have no idea how it's spelled. It never occurred to me that spelling would be something I needed to worry about. But when I wrote about a party for a girl named Karen, she called to tell me afterward that she was pissed. I had spelled her name wrong -- it's Caryn. A guy named Shaun called once to tell me his name was spelled S-h-a-u-n and not S-e-a-n. And I ended up not even mentioning that guy. In the future, though, if I misspell a name, don't get mad at me. Get mad at your mom for naming you Sanndee!

Marcy introduced me to a few people and showed me the most popular thing at the party -- the ice luge. I had seen one at a military party that looked like a long slide. This one was shaped like a big square block of ice with different zigzags that the alcohol went around. Carved into it was "Ashley, 23." (That's one name I've spelled correctly.) Someone would stand on a chair and pour alcohol down it, while someone else was bent over with their mouth at the end. They weren't using shot glasses though, so they ended up just pouring the alcohol (Jägermeister was used most) straight from the bottle. And it was a lot of booze they'd pour, not just a small shot.

There was something that looked like a trough all around it where the extra alcohol ran into. One guy looked at me and said, "That's a waste, man. If we run out of beer, I'm going to get a straw and drink that." I replied, "Good idea. It's a shame to waste alcohol. There are starving kids in China who don't have alcohol."

Ashley's friend had made this ice luge, and I asked her how long it would last. It was 9:00 p.m. when I asked her (and she was already a bit toasted). She told me, "They said it would last 72 hours. It's sitting on a big block of ice, too. That keeps it cold." A girl who overheard this said, "There's no way that will last 72 hours. Once the sun hits it in the morning, it'll turn into a birdbath."

There was a DJ named Greg. Marcy said he was a friend and she had given him $50 to play this party. He was mostly spinning reggae tunes, but there was some hip-hop mixed in. At one point, I was sitting near his speakers and the vibrations made me think my cell phone was ringing. My eardrums were ringing the next day.

Occasionally, people would dance in front of the DJ. One time I heard somebody hit the concrete. I looked over and it was Ashley. Someone said, "She's drunk." It was the understatement of the night.

The crowd was all in their early 20s and all different races. Of the 100 people, each one was holding either a beer, a cell phone, or a cigarette. Some had all three. The back yard was large enough for everyone, but with that many people, it was getting loud. A neighbor flashed her lights on and off quickly. Someone said, "I think they want us to be quiet. Either that or she's trying to send a fucking S.O.S. to someone."

There was a point when the party did get quiet. Someone was yelling and everyone stopped to listen. He said, "Who has a black Cadillac? It's blocking someone's driveway." The woman I was talking to asked, "Is that your Cadillac?" I replied, "I didn't drive the Caddy tonight. I brought the Benz."

As the crowd got drunker, a few fights almost started. I saw one guy push another and then say, "You should get a damn personality!" I have no idea what that meant, but the guy who he pushed walked away.

A muscular guy was walking around with his fists clenched. I was told he always looks for fights when he's been drinking. I wondered why big guys want to fight when they drink. Are there ever guys who look like Woody Allen who drink too much and then want to mix it up with somebody?

One guy was urinating by two cars parked in the back yard. I guess it would've been too long a walk from the back yard inside to the bathroom. Although one girl at the party had the perfect setup. Her bedroom window faced the back yard, so she'd just pop the screen off and throw her pack of cigarettes into her room. Other times, she'd pop the screen and grab something she needed from her room.

I was talking to one of the other roommates. I thought she was the same age as the rest, but was surprised to find she was older. I asked, "How do you know Ashley?" She said, "Oh, I used to change her diapers when she was a baby. I was her babysitter for years. Then I got pregnant with her father." I was shocked to hear this. She continued, "My son is over there." She pointed to a kid who looked to be about 15. She told me she had recently moved back in. Then she introduced me to the boy's father, who was also the Diablo. He was a tall, good-looking biker. (Note to self: find out if there's a reason that all bikers have mustaches.)

One drunk guy who I thought would be trouble turned out to be really nice. Although, half the time, I didn't know what he was talking about. He was a muscular Italian who wanted to talk about the Chargers. But when I said something about how well Drew Brees was playing, or the previous week's win, he started rambling without making sense. I asked him for matches for my cigar, and he gave me some that had a bail-bond place listed on them. I jokingly asked if he had ever done time and he said, "No. My brother is in the joint, though."

I asked him if he played football, since he certainly had the size. He said, "My knee is messed up. But I still play with friends. There's a group of us that play on turkey day. We play at Kearny Mesa High. Some NFL players show up, like J.J. Stokes. You should come."

I told him I used to play basketball with some Chargers at Alliant University in Scripps Ranch. But the thought of being tackled by NFL players isn't the least bit tempting.

Whenever I walked away from this guy, he'd always end up finding me. I wouldn't have minded talking to him if he wasn't so drunk. The last conversation we had, he rolled up his pant leg and showed me a scar from where he was shot once.

A few people talked about doing a "beer bong." I remember when I went to State, people talked about that. I never knew what it was. I asked for an explanation and was told, "There are four tubes, and each person has a tube in their mouth. Someone stands above them and pours the beer into the top. It's distributed into the four tubes, and you have to down it." It seemed similar to the ice luge. I wondered what the fascination is with the variety of ways to have alcohol poured into your mouth. Just drinking it yourself isn't enough. You need somebody to pour it. I'm sure the day will come when I'll go to a party and people will be sitting in their cars with a crazy straw that's 50 feet long, going directly into a keg in the living room. It will be like drive-in movies.

I never did see them do the beer bong. But as more people showed up, they crowded around the ice luge and watched the beer going down, like dominoes falling. It was the hit of the party. One guy said to me, "Some of these drunk guys that want to fight, we should bet them they can't punch through the ice block. You know they'll try it, and break their hand. It'll be funny." Someone else said, "Nah, they'll just knock it over. Or they'll want to punch you instead."

There was a group of six people I had a blast talking with. The guy looked like a shorter Magic Johnson. (By the way, for Lea, who called my voice mail to complain about my description of African-Americans...I try to describe things at the party; maybe that's the beer, the food, or what the people look like. I don't see how that's offensive.)The guy's name was Andy. He was surprised that, after he'd paid $5 to get a cup for the keg, the line was so long. He said, "Can't I go to the front of the line?" Surprisingly, everyone let him. He then said, "All these people like me." The rest of the night, his friends made fun of him for saying that. An angry drunk guy would walk by and they'd say, "See if that guy likes you."

Andy told me his girlfriend worked at a hotel, and that made him nervous. His explanation made little sense. Something about her being attractive, and guys hitting on her, and the hotel having rooms available.

One of the women in this group had some funny things to say about the election. I laughed when she said, "If it wasn't for Jon Stewart and The Daily Show, I wouldn't have even voted."

She ended up leaving at around 11:30, saying she had to prepare a baby shower in the morning, which included her going to Target to buy baby supplies for a game in which the women would have to guess the prices.

There was a cute couple who had been dating for seven years. They seemed to have so much in common. Both loved the Lakers and they liked the same music and movies. She wanted to write screenplays, so she and I talked a little about that. She knows one of the directors of The Simpsons. I told her I had written an episode that was a takeoff on A Christmas Carol, where the boss, Mr. Burns, was Scrooge. She said, "They have 22 writers and they don't take scripts." She talked about an episode she had written. It sounded funny, but the problem was that the main character was the one that Phil Hartman voiced. When Hartman was murdered by his wife, the show retired that character.

At around midnight there was a mass exodus. I wondered if people were afraid of turning into pumpkins. But a more logical explanation came from Marcy. She said, "We ran out of beer. There were three kegs. I think Ashley went for some more beer earlier, but that's gone too."

Andy and I got into a long discussion about the FCC. I found it surprising that he was a fan of Howard Stern, who routinely makes fun of African-Americans. He said, "Man, I'm half Mexican, half black. In school, everyone would always say stuff about me. I never cared. It was all funny."

They told me they were going to Peter D's bar on Clairemont Mesa Boulevard. I told them I might stop by after this party. Then I talked to Marcy for a little bit and found out she hosts karaoke over at Peter D's.

I took a few pictures and then headed out. As I started walking down the dark street, a mile from my car, I saw a guy carrying a six-pack of beer. I said, "That will be gone within one minute of you walking in there." He dropped the six-pack and then dropped his backpack. I thought he wanted to fight me, but couldn't figure out why. He looked at me for a second. I looked at him. He quickly started to open his backpack. I wondered if he was going to get a weapon. I also wondered why I was just standing there watching him. I said, "What are you doing?" He said, "You told me my beer would disappear. So I'm going to hide it in my backpack." He stuffed it in the backpack and headed toward the party.

Crash your party? Call 619-235-3000 x421 and leave an invitation for Josh Board.