When I open the door to my house, a shirtless guy welcomes me. Some dude I don’t even know, who’s petting my dog. There are bottles of beer and vodka everywhere in the living room, on the coffee table, atop the television screen. I can smell Tostitos and salsa. The A.C. is on but the glass doors leading to the back porch are open, and three shirtless guys are having a heated conversation outside, their voices competing with the music, their torsos coated with thick sweat, their eyes red with alcohol. They have an audience of three or four people, giggling like Kindergarteners.