It's 11:00 p.m. when I arrive, and gods and goddesses are gathered in the kitchen, singing "Happy Birthday" to a young woman who goes by "Chainsaw." On the table, a decorative cake features a phoenix—judging from her spiky red hair and fiery pasties, the birthday girl is dressed as some sort of a topless firebird. A bearded Dionysus, wreathed in grape leaves, divides up the cake while Hera explains that in Greek mythology, Dionysus is a major figure, while to the Romans he is known as Bacchus and is much less important. Hera gestures toward the cake-giver: "He's definitely a Bacchus."

Not everyone has interpreted the theme along strictly Greek or Roman lines, inviting some crossover questions of who holds true dominion; a sparkling Helios and an Amaterasu (in drag) argue over who has more authority as a sun god. Outside, a punk dressed as Pan mingles, dangling a fleshy dildo from his belt and inviting everyone to tug. Another partygoer claims to represent Tetanus—technically not a spiritual figure, but the silver headdress he wears is impressive nonetheless.

An emerald-colored Medusa dances and snakes across the living room to some music that sounds somewhere between Leftfield and Moby. The lights dim and a projector begins screening Debbie Does Dallas. Everybody's drinks remain properly upright, but the dance floor can only hold so many people and so much kinetic energy. I gather my notes and let the gods decide their own fate.

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