Cupcakes in the Sandbox.

Let me tell you a story, about some friends of mine who live here in L.A. They are a great couple, with one little girl, almost age 6…..

To the Ocean

She was on Olympic Blvd., a crowded road, driving fast, through the blinding light, headed to the ocean, the waterfront location where the yoga class was due to start at 6pm.

She controlled the dark green S.U.V., so fast, so well equipped, with its satellite directional system, filtered air, Bluetooth phone, DVD player, tinted windows, and heated seats. Air bags surrounded the driver, ready to inflate in 1/1000 of a second, a life-protecting pillow. A song by Sonic Girl Nation, her favorite artist, was playing. The lyrics spoke to her:

Now you know, you have it all
The love, the freedom, the life
When you lose it all, you won’t know
But you will lose it girl, yes you will.

At Lincoln and Pico, she ran through a red light, but of course, nobody collided with her. She had ran through many lights, the same way she ran through so many stories. They were made up quickly, improvised, without much thought, and just passed out to whomever was listening.

“We can’t make it tonight. I have food poisoning.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We are going to another birthday.”
“Josh bought tickets on that night. Sorry about missing your wedding.”

Cipriana LaMonica was a lucky lady. She was from an island, not far from Italy, and her poor family had come to America and settled in Boston, opening a grocery store and ice cream parlor that soon became a destination for both tourists and locals. Her parents moved to Concord, into a large house on two acres. She went on to Harvard, the first in her family to attend college, and she got into the best one.

Cipriana pulled her S.U.V. into a handicapped parking space. She hung a blue “wheelchair” card onto the rear-view mirror, grabbed her yoga mat, and ran into Venice Green Girl Yoga. She made her class, just in the nick of time.
A new hour of physical and spiritual enlightenment.

Josh at Home

Josh Rubenstein.
Everyone loves Josh Rubenstein.

How could you not?

Josh is married to Cipriana, and they have one 5-year-old girl, Linda Vista Rubenstein.

At 6pm, just as his wife was starting her yoga class, he was at home, slicing onions and garlic and frying them in the pan with extra virgin olive oil. He was in a hurry to make a tomato sauce, and get Linda fed.

Josh is someone you may have seen before, if you’ve lived in Los Angeles, west of the 405. He is dark haired, which he keeps closely cropped. He doesn’t shave, but if he did, he might shave every three weeks. He drives a Prius, and wears baggy, slouchy jeans. He spends most of his day looking at his Blackberry or his MacBook Pro. He does something really successfully, which involves the web, TV, online games and offline finance.

He has a closet full of graphic print, cotton t-shirts and many pairs of cool, colorful sneakers. He wears tiny glasses that cost $450. He has three pairs of them.

Josh grew up in Scarsdale, NY and went to school at Harvard. He majored in English, with a minor in computer science. He met his wife in college, moved into an apartment in Cambridge with her and then after five years, they married and settled out in Santa Monica, CA.

How could you not relate to this story? It’s universal. And so easily understandable and wonderful.

The Connections

I knew Josh and Cipriana because Mark knew Josh and Cipriana. Mark Ripofsky was my boss at Gee-TV when I was working on the show “Whorse Race” for Fox.

Do you know “Whorse Race”? That enormously popular, highly rated, phenomenally successful reality show was created by Mark Ripofsky and the premise is this:

Six young dudes and six young ladies.

The dudes place bets on young ladies, who are taken out to a race track, and must run races. The winning girl and the winning bettor win a million bucks. The girls must run around the track, like race horses, and undergo a humiliating obstacle course of mud, animal feces, climbing walls, and weigh-ins. They are treated like animals and only the strongest survive.

Josh Rubenstein was brought on in mid-season to EP (that is Executive Producer, for all you non-Hollywood peeps).

The show was exhausting, because of what Josh called, “all the bullshit.” Josh was so straight on in his personality. He just tells it like it is. Very rare in Hollywood, where most everyone is not full of so much integrity and good-will the way Josh is. He almost makes you feel like the job you do is the best anyone could ever do. He will build you up to be great, especially when he is your boss. Which is so cool.

Freckles McFarley

Freckles is a 35-year old woman, with freckles, of course.

She has red hair, pale skin, a hoarse voice, and really muscular legs. She played soccer in high school and college. She lives in Manhattan Beach and swims, runs, plays volleyball and does almost everything athletic that a person can do. She is also one of the most aggressive and annoying friends of Josh, but I should keep my mouth shut, because she is quite powerful.

Her first offense, in my book, is that she came into “Whorse Race” and was made into a co-Executive Producer. Secondly, she socializes with Josh and Cipriana and says that “Linda is the child I would want if I had any child in the world.” She has also said that Cipriana is the most gorgeous woman in Santa Monica and that Josh, “is probably the sharpest mind in reality television today.” She is a brown nose, but she does it so cheerfully and so eagerly, that the object of her compliment will never feel patronized.

Freckles is not always in top form though. At a large party, which Josh threw for Cipriana last year, Freckles ate too much curry chicken and ended up barfing on Josh’s laptop.

Freckles was humiliated, but Cipriana insisted that she sleep over. In the morning, Josh said he would simply go out and buy another $2500 Mac Book Pro and he forgave her.
The Birthday Party

I was in my little cubicle inside my little office on Little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills, just wrapping up my shoot schedule for the day, when Josh and Mark Ripofsky walked over.

“Dude,” Josh said, “You know about Evite and sending out invitations right?”

“Sure,” I answered.

Mark put his hands in his pockets, uneasily. “We got a little problem. Maybe you can help,” he said.

“My little girl, Linda,” Josh said, “She is turning six next week and we want to have a little party for her in a park in Santa Monica. Just something casual; like cupcakes, hanging out at the sandbox. Nothing big. Very low key.”

“Cool,” I said. “How can I help?”

“We don’t want everyone to know about the party. My wife is very busy. She doesn’t want to stress herself. So we need you to send an email to some people who won’t tell other people about the party. It has to be very hush, hush,” Josh said.

“Here is the catch: We need you to craft, or make-up a fake name and identity and then send out the invitations so nobody will know who you are,” Josh said.

“Anybody who is rejected will email you,” Josh continued,”if they find out, cool, but since you don’t exist, we won’t have to deal with the hurt feelings. Isn’t that cool?”

“You guys need me to lie then?” I asked.

“Basically, yes!” Josh said with a wide mouthed toothy grin.

They promised to email me the location, time and guest list. It was billed as “Cupcakes in the Sandbox” or a little girl’s Hollywood birthday party with a guest list winnowed down and edited like a bad b-movie. Characters and non-speaking parts would be eliminated so the executive producer could have total control.

Wanting to keep my job, I got to work immediately.
Just Checking In. Touching Base.

The guest list for the little six-year-old girl’s birthday party included 30 adults and no children. Attendees were asked to bring wine or beer and they would meet at Abraham Lincoln Park on Calle Perros de Mentira in Santa Monica Canyon at 3pm Sunday.

An email arrived with a plunk. Cipriana wrote:

Thank you so much for your help! I’m just checking in and touching base. Josh said you are doing a wonderful job. We appreciate it so much! Since we are so BUSY… Can you run by Pink Lady Cupcakes in Santa Monica, and pick-up our dessert? Also, please do not tell Freckles that you are coming to the party.

Thanks again!
Cipriana

I closed the email and checked the time. It was 4 o’clock on Friday, and I was looking forward to my time-off. I got up from my chair and walked over to the bathroom and bumped into Freckles… coming out of the men’s room.

“They are cleaning the ladies’ room,” she said.

She wiped her hands with a paper towel and then reached to shake my hand. What could I do but maintain my sanitary demeanor?

“Do you know where Josh and Mark went?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Oh. I was supposed to screen the rough cut with them at 4 and now I can’t find them,” she said.

“No. I absolutely don’t know anything about Mark or Josh’s whereabouts. They tell me nothing. Nada,” I said.

She pulled at her blue and red nylon hockey jersey and adjusted her barrette to reveal a reddish, horizontally lined forehead that had spent much time in the Southern California sunlight.

“I think something is going on,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know. Stuff. Hidden agendas,” she said.

“You probably know more than me Frecks. You are the co-EP. I’m a nothing AP,” I said.

“Josh and Mark are very secretive. Which is cool, because people need to be discreet. But if they think they are going to add a seventh girl and seventh guy to the show without consulting me, then I am going to be very angry!”

She walked away.

Something utterly important to her, had been revealed to me, and it had absolutely no interest or value.

I wonder if she realized that the real deception played on her was actually coming from me? I do believe that female intuition is not a myth.

The pussy knows what; the brain has yet to acknowledge.

Linda, Little Linda

I don’t know if I will have children yet. I’m only 28-years-old and the prospect of having to provide for mouths other than myself is not too enticing.

But I have to echo that banal and cliché ridden mouth of Freckles, who spoke so truthfully about the wonder of little Linda, the violet eyed beautiful daughter of Josh and Cipriana. Linda would be the ideal child if one could clone their boss and wives’ DNA.

Cipriana had instructed me to pick up the cupcakes and then swing by her home. She had also asked Zyrtecah, the elderly Armenian nanny, to accompany them to the park to assist with placing the cupcakes and blanket near the sandbox in preparation for the adult arrivals.

After fetching the desserts, I drove up Montana Avenue and turned right on 20th, the affluent and eternally spring-like section of the rich people’s Santa Monica.

The Rubenstein/LaMonica home was a white stucco French maison, with a mansard roof, casement windows and black shutters. It had an opaque glass door, anchored by two clay vases full of white geraniums. The lawn was immaculate and even the dirt had been recently combed with steel rakes. Not a leaf or branch dared cross the line separating sod from shrub. I rang the bell and Zyrtecah opened the door with little Linda holding her hand.

They had dressed Linda in some kind of marvelous, expensively casual, muddy green and rosy pink cotton dress, the kind of garment that is pre-wrinkled and pre-washed, and seemingly dipped into herbs and fresh violets, for when it was worn by the six-year old girl, both the dress and the child seemed in happy holistic harmony.

“Hello birthday girl!” I emitted in my best faker enthusiasm. Fucking little girl’s party interrupting my Sunday football couch time.

Well, who was I to hate little Linda for hitting the genetic and financial jackpot?

“You come vit us?” Zyrtecah asked.

“Yes. I have the cupcakes. So you just tell me where the sandbox is and we can get the party going!” I said. If there was any time to be sarcastic, this seemed to be it. With the Armenian nanny and the child, that is.

Cipriana appeared in the doorway, her black hair, miraculously oiled down with something that smelled like bergamot and lime.

“Hello there! Oh, you brought the cupcakes! Fantastic! Thank you!” she said.

She turned to Zyrtecah. “Let’s get Linda into her car seat. Josh is at work and he is meeting us at the park.”

“What time are the guests leaving?” She asked.

“Leaving?” I asked.

“Yes. I know they arrive around 3pm but I have a massage appointment at 5pm so I want to get everyone out of the park so I can get going. We can sing Happy Birthday, pour the wine, and then socialize. I think, basically, that sounds like a plan. Let’s just get it over with!” she said.

She dialed her mobile phone. “Hi, Josh, it’s me. Just touching base. Please try and start clearing out the party around 4:30, so I can leave. This is confidential, of course. Thanks.”

The Party

We drove up to a park with two large playing fields, and a shaded area with two sandboxes, comfort stations, playground equipment and benches. I had been drinking bottles of iced tea all morning, so I was eager to eliminate, quickly.

I dropped off the women, Cipriana, Zyrtecah and Linda, and the cupcakes, of course, and ran over to the bathroom facilities.

Just as I neared the men’s room entrance, Freckles McFarley ran up to the water fountain. She was carrying a soccer ball, and dressed in a sweaty, torn t-shirt and blue cotton shorts. “Dude! What the hell are you doing here?” she yelled.

“Oh, my gosh! Hello, Freckles! I have to take a pee so please excuse me,” I said.

I ran into the bathroom, and peed what seemed like the longest pee on record. I had hoped that she would not be outside when I emerged from the urine scented, mosquito filled park’s department toilet chamber.

She was sitting on the concrete, right in front of the door. “Well”, I said.

“That was such an exhausting game. We beat the shit out of the skins. I’m going to go home and collapse,” she said.

“I guess I will see you on Monday,” I said.

“You just came to the park to use the bathroom?” she asked.

“No. Actually, I am here with some friends,” I said.

We stood there, looking at each other, awkward and silent. The way her eyes probed mine told me that perhaps she perceived something.

“You are so cool,” she said, “I don’t know anything about you. So long honey.”

She walked over to an old, upright, basket-bedecked bicycle. It was locked to a steel post. She unlocked and mounted the bike, and turned it onto a path that took her further, not closer to, the dangerously conflicting drama of the child’s birthday party. Her biking figure grew smaller in the vanishing path of the parkway. She was unaware of how close she had come to being hurt and humiliated.

And what if Freckles had followed me to the sandbox party? Would I have a job and friends waiting for me at “Whorse Race” the next morning?

I washed my now sweating face in the drinking fountain and let the warm air dry my skin as I briskly strolled back to the sandbox.
Ode to the Birthday Cake

Once, when I was young, so many cupcakes ago, children had birthday cakes. They were baked, boxed, bedecked with candles. The cake candles were lit and blown out and removed. The circular pastry was divided into pie shaped pieces placed on paper plates and passed to each hungry person.

But I was living in modern times, here in Southern California, and the sweetened cupcake with frosting, individually pre-cut and wrapped in paper, requires no ceremony, no clean up. Just eat it and it is gone. Somehow it seems like a cheat, a cheap shortcut, a celebratory scam. The cupcake is feminine and frosty, but oh so crafty in its artfully tiny caloric form. Consume its emptiness and the joy dissipates quickly.

That is what I think about the cake and the cupcake.

Twin Sandboxes

The two-dozen or more adults had arrived at the party. They stood and sat around one of two twin sandboxes where a blanket had been laid out with chilled wines, plastic cups and boxes of colored green, yellow, pink, purple and red cupcakes.

The mixed crowd of mid 30’s men and women were dressed in casual play clothes, infantile sneakers, low cut denim that showed butt cracks, and visibly patterned underwear on the men. The sartorial show was vintage Angeleno: torn, ironic, silly, ersatz cool.

And there was a second sandbox, one that nobody played in, where little Linda sat alone, with a plastic shovel and pail, digging in the dirt. This was her party, or a party in her honor, yet the guests ignored her, as they networked and bullshitted about reality TV, yoga and the bad economy. I walked over to one athletic Latino man and his Asian girlfriend who were speaking to Cipriana.

“Oh, we really dig Silver Lake Cip! It’s very cool. Our whole block is friendly,” he said.

“I know Silver Lake, sort of,” Cipriana said. “Do you live near Silver Lake Cheese and Wine?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Obama Drive bisects Rowena just east of Hyperion!”

“Obama?” she asked.

“Yeah. We love him so much that our whole street got together and renamed it for the Barack Obama!”

“Oh, that is so cool!” Cipriana said.

The time moved swiftly. Cipriana motioned to Josh to light a single cupcake which was then brought over to the lone digger Linda in her sandbox.

All the adults moved, in a ritualistic way, behind the lit cupcake, and towards the child. It seemed vaguely satanic, but was full of laughter and the flip-flip-flop of the feet hitting the sand.

Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday, dear Linda!
Happy Birthday to you!

The sweet little girl blew out her cupcake as the nanny unpeeled the paper around it and fed the morsel into the child’s mouth.

Cipriana was already picking up the dirty paper plates and I ran up with a garbage bag to start cleaning up.

Josh stood on top of a picnic table like a street preacher. “Hi, everyone. We are so happy you came to our daughter Linda’s party. We love all of you. Unfortunately, my wife Cip has got a horrible stomach-ache that she has had since last night. So she has to go home and get rest. All of you are welcome to stay and enjoy the party!”

The crowd let out a visible moan of empathy for Cipriana’s affliction.

Josh walked over to me and put his arm on my shoulder.

“Dude, thank you so much for your help. We really appreciate it. See you tomorrow,” he said.

Cipriana waved good-bye to everyone as she visibly put her right hand on her stomach to sign in pain.

“I hope she feels better. Such a shame to leave her daughter’s birthday party early,” the Asian girl said to me.

The End