The Party; or, how cupcake fell off her surfboard and survived to tell the tale

In high school, Cupcake’s friend Bryan invented a game called, “The Party.”

It was a game you could play alone in your head, or outloud with friends.

The game is to imagine that your whole life is to be constructed as an event. Where is it held? What food is served? Who’s on the guest list, and what costumes do those people come in?

At the party, what do the guests do? Who sequesters herself in the corner flipping through books? Who stands becomes the unofficial bartender? Who organizes the volley-ball game? (Assuming that volleyball would fit into your party.)

This weekend---oh, friends. If I could tell you about this weekend. It was a bizarre shining weekend full of magic and trouble. I can’t tell you about it.

But I can tell you this.

One of the guests at Cupcake's party will be a tall man wearing a Hefner-esque satin smoking jacket. He will flirt and dazzle, glancing sidelong over his shoulder to make sure I see the line of women hanging on his every word. And then at some point during the party, he will sidle over to Cupcake and whisper, “You know it’s you that I want, don’t you? It’s always you. When I am with the others, I am always thinking of you.” His breath will be hot against Cupcake's cheek and he will graze her thigh with a brush of his hand as he moves back to his place before his admirers.

He will leave her flushed and breathing heavily, confused by desire. Hope and despair mingling in a toxic combination.

Another guest will be a hired entertainer, who will do stand-up comedy off in a side room. But he will catch Cupcake's eye in the crowd and when he looks at her, she'll know he SEES her, that he doesn’t miss a thing. But he will always be onstage. Even when he takes a quick break, his conversation hides behind jokes. And he will quickly climb the stairs to the stage and start performing again.

This comedian guest is my friend Sherrod. Part of the weekend was Sherrod coming to see my new house. He looked at one of my old standup videos and told me that I had showed promise, that I should have stayed with it. But that I needed to tell fewer funny stories and show more of my own agony.

It’s not good comedy if it doesn’t expose the darkest parts of your soul, he said. Or words to that effect.

Sherrod’s a great comic. You could google him, but he doesn't have his own website. He’s on TV a lot though. Maybe you’ve seen him.

Anyway.

The darkest parts of my soul just don’t seem funny at the moment.

Maybe that’s due to the lunar eclipse tomorrow, which according to astrologyzone.com will be one of the most upsetting days of the year. This is a week for ending things, it says. In two weeks, things will start again. We can move forward. But here are two weeks left hanging, weeks suitable for staring into space and planning The Party.

I have loved someone, apparently pointlessly, but to the best of my ability. I feel like a surfer whose feet clamped the board and whose body rode the waves as long and hard as possible. Until the sea tossed me and I woke up bruised on a beach, like Greg Brady in the trip to Hawaii episode.

I can’t do it any more. I suppose in two weeks I’ll be sitting up and knowing where to go.

Right now I’m just lying there realize that the sand and rocks have scraped my elbows and legs, and that my muscles feel torn. And that I can’t swim back out there again because I see shark fins in the water.

There’s going to be great comedy in this, someday.

Someday.

And for the record—you’ll all invited to the Party. What will you wear? What will you do there?