PARTY HOUSE – At the end of a long park that is so lonely in the winter, there is a large hall. There is a party tonight, celebrating a record of 75 storms hitting land in two months, also celebrating the anniversary of a ammunition ship exploding in the harbor. We must protect ourselves from these celebrations of stormy culture. So we climb through a freshly-cut hole in a chain-link fence and slide down a rickety slide into the main hall, where a gentle man in an amazing white suit catches us, slaps us around, and mixes us a martini.