2005-06-27 - 12:01 p.m.
Rasos
On Saturday I discovered on my front porch an invitation artfully laid out in a Greek �Lithos�-looking font and illustrated with internet-obtained photos of a wolf howling at the moon, a ferny field, and an illustration of a draped woman amongst a colonnade of statues:
�An impromptu evening ...
When the wolf howls
When the ferns flower
When the vestal Virgins tend the sacred flame
Then it�s time for Rasos,
the Traditional Lithuanian Mid-summer Midnight Vigil.
Please join me for a most spontaneous evening to celebrate the summer solstice (and try out my new deck).
Saturday to Sunday (i.e. This evening ... I said it was spontaneous, didn�t I?)
June 25-26, 2005
10 PM to 2 AM
Refreshments will be served (including Lithuanian beer)
Please R.S.V.P (so I know how much wild boar to roast)�
Our next door neighbors, my hub and I headed over to the festivities closer to eleven, walking along the park and cutting through an alley to our host�s back yard. My next door neighbor, who is practically family by now, was of course dolled-up, as she is a supreme Southern Belle (though she will deny it heartily when accused). I, however, was solely concerned with wearing stable shoes and clothing I would be least likely to humiliate myself in, as I have been to this guy�s parties before and know better. My hub was the only individual who truly thought through the fashion and wore a shirt that glows in the dark.
The house is about the same age as ours, and I believe our host has told us in the past that it is in the Greek Revival style. He is also in the process of renovating, but in a much different manner than we are, and has been living in the house with no heat over the winter. Part of the house is pulling away, leaving an opening to the outside blocked temporarily with plywood. There are even parts of the second storey that have no floors from which one has an unobstructed view down to the first floor, but he has decorated. Mildew stained wallpaper peels from crumbling plaster walls on which there are reproduction mannerist-style paintings hung in ornate, gilded frames. Baroque cabinets display antique figurines. Velvet covered furniture nestles amongst the cobwebs. The house gives me an eerie impression of �Great Expectations�. Only perverted. All of the art is of nude women, their hairless naked forms juxtaposed against the age and decay. Our host has been working with his architect to turn the house from what it is now into a �Haunted Bordello�. It�s well on its way.
This party, however, is taking place outside in the yard, and it is a beautiful night. Since he prides himself on being �born and raised in Hollywood, California,� our host always works to make everything a big production. Theatrics are his thing. His yard is filled with candles and torches, and he runs around periodically spraying the ground with bug spray, which I fear is going to catch fire at any moment from the flames lighting the paths. So much for the glow-in-the-dark shirt. It�s pretty light out here.
There is no roasted wild boar, but there is a smoked eel served at midnight. The party�s host smoked it himself in the back yard and served it sliced in thick, oily wedges. What one does to partake in this traditional Lithuanian delicacy is to first help oneself to an eel chunk, peel off the thick, rubbery skin to reveal the flesh jiggling with its glistening, oily residue, remove the backbone and eat the meat on a buttered slice of very dark rye bread followed by a shot of imported vodka that makes you feel like you can breathe fire.
The guests polished off the eel. (Eel is evidently $19/pound and can be purchased from a Russian market in Richmond if you are so inclined and are in the area.) The party-goers also consumed all the vodka and various other libations so generously provided by the party�s host, who always impresses me by how freely he becomes intoxicated at his own gatherings.
After all that vodka being thrown back, you can imagine how quickly the pagan festival descended into frivolity. Some highlights of the evening were all too pagan, not enough vestal virgin. I don�t know where one finds a virgin in Petersburg. The party�s host waxed on about a neighbor�s breasts. The host waxed on about my breasts (this is now pretty much a tradition at his house). My neighbor talked about her breasts and my breasts. Breasts were a hot topic.
The host announced that he and I are starting the "Republicans for Sex for Pleasure" party in Petersburg, which by the way, I did not agree to.
Some lady asked me about ten times where I lived and I told her in detail her each time with her following up with, "So, where do you live?"
Excessive conversation on the arts in Petersburg.
Someone peed in the host�s bathroom sink.
The host called me an Adams Street hussy, to which my neighbor responded that "No! We live on Sycamore Street". (That girl always has my back.)
My neighbor referred to herself and me as the Sycamore Street Hussies for the rest of the evening.
My husband, however, defended my honor by some weird sort of intimidation thing where he and the host rammed their bellies into one another like they were gorillas.
My poor hub, being the responsible guy he is, ended up cleaning up because the party�s host passed out. At least that's what we assume happened, as the last time we saw our host was when he decided to weave his way inside his house to hurl and never came out again.
