Well, here is where the real party is! Wasn't too hard to find, eh?
The house band, The Maddog Horns, are rockin' the place, and it's packed down here. Yeah, no one is gonna notice us. We can crash with impunity. (as long as we don't trip over any of the old sports equipment and amps he's left all over the place down here)
Get down and do the 'Gator, then let's belly up to the bar and see if one of those guys in the bunny ears will buy us a pink champagne on ice.
wait. I see Beelze-Bubba Himself there with his snifter of Chivas Regal. He's got a Bad Boy of Tennis right alongside him. Not to mention the various and assorted songwriters, music industry executives and other Avocado Mafia types, a potent combination lurid and lucrative enough to make ya tremble in yer high heeled sneakers. (Forget even trying to keep that wig hat on your head.) Such diabolical decadence and impudent imprudence can only mean . . . those guys are The Monstertones. I've heard about them. They are, um, friendly. Perhaps too friendly. So maybe we should go check out the rest of the place...