SILVERLAKE: So we all lay down on the table — between the fried chicken and the potato salad and the chocolate cake — to get served by Sandra, who’d biked in from Van Nuys.
She had that ancient Oriental massage thing totally down.
No matter how much Sandra worked on Mickey, however, nothing happened.
Finally she got mad and yelled, "F—! I got Harvey — and he’s 85."
"I’m sorry, Sandra," Mickey said quietly. "I’m thinking of Cathy."
Science and health care reporter Bradley Fikes sat in the living room wearing Cathy’s clothes and an enormous yet innocent excitement.
"This is my festering swamp," he explained, a sweet smile playing across his face as he live-blogged the memorial party.
He looked just like Lewis Fein only 20 years older.
Throughout the afternoon, Lewis and Bradley whipped out their phones and cameras and compared hardware.
"Mine’s bigger," said Bradley.
"Mine’s got more memory," said Lewis. "I’ve got eight megs in my package."
My friend Jew (not his real name) put on a fake moustache so he could go back for seconds.
No such luck.
"I’m sorry, Jew," Sandra said, "but this is just gratuitous for you. I have to devote myself to Luke Y. Thompson. He’s never known the love of a good woman."
Then she inserted the thermometers for 10 seconds into Jew and told him, "A temperature of 103. It’s official. You have Asian fever. I better put you in a cold bath."
"Call Christie Love!"
Here’s the back story. My friend Jew liked to IM with my former friend Flower (not her real name).
Flower was hysterical that somebody had broken into her apartment.
Jew: "My friend Christy Love is a detective in the Ramparts division of the LAPD. She’s on the line. She wants to talk to you. She wants to help you."
Flower: "I can’t do it now. I have to take a nap before my blog radio show."
Jew: "Well, when you wake up, call Ramparts and ask for Christie Love."
She does. "There’s nobody by the name of Christie Love at Ramparts," she reports back.
"Maybe she goes by her full professional name Christine Love."
Flower calls back. "There’s nobody there by the name of Christine Love."
Upon finding out that Christie Love was a 1974 detective on a black exploitation TV show, Flower ended her friendship with Jew.
Back to the barbecue. The only thing that looked 100% kosher was a plate of potatos. I heaped my plate with them and sat down.
"So who do you think gets less action?" asked Jew. "Luke Y. Thompson or Mickey Kaus."
"Oh, totally Luke," I said. "I’ve seen Mickey with a lot of hot blondes."
"Yeah," said Jew, "but he’s harmless. That’s why they like him. Do you think any of them ever say to him, ‘Mickey, come on. I want to see your Kaus Files.’"
Mickey wore special dancing shoes and before he left he put on a tap dance show for us (that’s how he got his first date with Ann Coulter 20 years ago).
"I live what I blog and I blog what I live," he chanted.
In a ritual out of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Sandra sacrificed Linda (Cathy’s dear dog) and put her on the barbecue. Then she added some seasonings that were just incredible.
As the barbie began to die, Sandra climbed on top of Harvey’s house and got him free DirectTV. Then she fluffed his sheets and jumped on the helicopter like it was Saigon ’75.
She had to get home to practice infanticide and execute some Tibetan political prisoners before the Olympics. Her parents have rented a mud hut in Beijing for the festivities. Just $1500 for a month.
I felt like it was totally gratuitous when Sandra’s daughter ran naked down the road screaming about napalm.
That war ended years ago.
Let the healing begin.
Sandra was one of the original boat people. She’s tremendous in The Killing Fields. She did that groundbreaking one-woman show about it — Genocide in my Bush.
Luke Thompson wore electric bugaloo parachute pants with 12 pockets. He stole Ricky Schroeder’s wardrobe from Silver Spoons.
"Did Flower even give you eye contact?" Jew asked on the drive home.
"No," I said. "It makes me sad because she looked good."
Cathy’s sister didn’t show up to the party and neither did Eliot Stein. I was pretty shocked by the latter’s absence.