Dear Button,

A couple of Fridays ago, I danced myself into a froth at St. Mark’s, in Venice, where our friend Keef deejays sometimes. But I am getting old, so I had to cut out and head home at a little past 4.

I roll up to the house, and there across the street is Dian’s old, rusty, clunky Monte Carlo … just begging to be smooshed by a compactor and stacked away for eternity. Well, Dian had been waxing proud about a contingent of beautiful Swedish strippers he was going to bring over in that very car. But Trey and I didn’t bite. Because it’s Dian.

Now, Dian’s really not the Little Bitch they made him out to be in “Baseketball” — in fact he’s very sweet and rather gentle at times — but when it comes to girls, he tends to exaggerate. What he wishes were the truth and the actual truth are like distant cousins who are not even speaking to each other.

So Dian talking about five hot Swedish strippers sounded to us like it would translate into one semi-pretty girl with kinda-blond hair and her four lame friends.

Needless to say, my climb up the stairs to the kitchen was not undertaken without trepidation.

Well, I walked into a big party — and Dian was not exaggerating. The girls were beautiful and friendly and had just gotten off work and wanted to rage with the creator of “South Park.” I’m his best friend and live in his house, so fuck you, I’m coming to the party, too.

When I woke the next afternoon, there was a note on the counter that read: “Dear Trey and David, Thank you for your hospitality. You’ll see us tonight.”

Trey and I were throwing a party that night to watch the Lewis/Holyfield rematch. Which was good, because the girls were coming back, but bad because we were operating on little sleep. Plus, throw into the mix the two Russian strippers Trey had met two nights before in Vegas who were also coming.

So I rallied myself on three or four Red Bulls (have you tried these things?) and pulled a Martha Stewart in the kitchen, whipping up several trays of finger food from scratch and ordering a battery of alcohol for delivery.

Then we just tried not to think about what might be coming our way.

Which turned out to be not much, although all parties did appear.

Anyway, fast forward four days to the evening before Thanksgiving. Trey and Jun (our guest from Japan) are at the office. I am home prepping the next day’s dinner celebration. We have Christmas lights strung out front, a real tree in the living room, a scattering of poinsettias and a functional choo-choo train.

Dusk is nuzzling its way into the house, making the lights brighten. Outside, the air is crisp. I am listening to the King’s College Choir sing my favorite Christmas carol, “Once in Royal David’s City.”

Then, in the midst of this holiday idyll, there is a diminutive knock at my wreathed door. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but five tired, frazzled, haggard, broke, suddenly out-of-work, beautiful young Swedish strippers unloading themselves from a cab and looking for sanctuary in Bel Air. I, of course, granted it.

I mean, come on, it’s Christmas.

So that was Wednesday. They didn’t leave until Sunday. What happened in between is a whole other letter unto itself.

And now let’s move to the world of hockey.

The ever-reliable Frank got the “in” with some of the Detroit Red Wings last season (he’s very charming and has gotten the “in” all over town), which led to a friendship with the Los Angeles Kings, which led to them sending sticks and jerseys, which led to “South Park” sending back various autographed paraphernalia, which led to the Kings asking “South Park” to do some interstitial spots for the Jumbotron.

In return they gave us a block of season tickets located inside the blue line, just far enough off the ice to catch errant pucks. Perfect seats.

But for our first game of the season the Kings also gave us a skybox. There are 24 cushy, unobstructed-view seats in a two-tier, stadium-style arrangement. And there is a great deal of beer and chicken wings.

So, what did Trey see as I turned to him in the front row of the skybox, my face generously coated with a swirl of wing sauce and Ranch dressing? Joy. Sheer joy. A moment of being, as Virginia Woolf intended the phrase.

The new Staples Center was quite impressive. And the acoustics were excellent, which made the game intimate, despite our being far above the ice. You could hear the players grunting and specific fan comments.

It reminded me of the time I saw an exhibition match between Jimmy Connors and some other guy in the Boston Garden. Connors made a nice save, and a fan shouted, “Nice job, Jimmy!” Connors, in mid-run to his next return, casually shot back, “Thank you.” Everyone laughed, partly because of Jimmy’s timing and ease, but also, I think, because of a sudden feeling of uneasiness that the membrane between the famous world and the fan world had been pierced.

It’s hard to describe — Jimmy was just a guy, suddenly — but it’s something I’ve always remembered.

There is a very good Hemingway short story set in the Second World War in which he describes the intimate feeling of shooting men on bicycles. It’s an ambush squad picking off retreating Germans. But that precious space between them and the enemy is wiped away by the bicycles.

It’s not football on television. You know?

The point is, everything is always better live and close up. After watching every game of the Broncos’ 1997 season, I stood in the parking lot of the stadium in San Diego under the fireworks that marked their Super Bowl victory and cried like a baby.

And I hate babies.

Love,

David

P.S. I lied about the finger food.

Dear Button,

Before regaling you with promised Halloween bash dish, I must first tell you who I met last night. That’s right, John from “CHiPs”! There I was, minding my own business during a little celebratory soirie at Taverna Tony in Malibu, when who should appear but Larry Wilcox himself?

He was bedecked in an expensive-looking Italian number and running around singing the praises of his latest acquisition: a keypad/pager/e-mail/Internet device the size of a credit card. I asked to see it as he was introduced around — it was small and lightweight and impressively futuristic. Larry joked that he was planning to go sit out the party and play with his new toy. Everyone laughed cordially as he scampered off. I didn’t think he was kidding.

So, you wanna hear about Halloween?

I arrived early to beat the rush and help tie up any loose ends. I was promptly informed there were no loose ends, so I stood outside and early greeted some other pre-punctual friends. My car was parked by the entrance in anticipation of the valets, but my buddy Jason and his posse (including, it turns out, the hot, pierced, tattooed girl) told me there was parking close by. So I uncharacteristically decided to park myself. (This story is actually going someplace.) I asked my buddy Ward to take the half-block ride with me. We slid into my car and were about to slide out when a paramedic truck cut us off. Now, because I live in L.A., my immediate mental response was, “Thanks for cutting me off, asshole!” Then it sunk in that paramedics help injured people, pick up the dead, etc.

It turns out that our fearless co-leader Amy Cohen (party patron, namesake and originator, off whom we suckle party energy like babies and around whom we revolve like spokes in the great party wheel), had fallen victim to gravity. Half an hour before the shindig began, she took a spill from high atop her roller skates and broke her ankle in three places.

With Amy in the hospital, the lovely Jennifer was running the show on her own. Now, I have personally witnessed Jennifer simultaneously reshuffle Matt and Trey’s schedules, deal with press, arrange interviews, make appointments, order beefy lunches and make reservations for a huge dinner all while Matt yelled, “I hate you!” at her and Trey put things from her purse in his ass. This woman can handle pressure. But the Halloween party did present some unique problems.

Put yourself in her place, if you will. It’s 9 p.m. on Saturday night and a thousand people are driving to your party. Your partner has just been whisked away screaming to the hospital and the valets have not arrived. You don’t have the valet company’s name or number because that was one of your partner’s jobs. What do you do? If you are anyone else, you lock yourself in the bathroom and cry. If you are Jennifer, you kick your way into the storeroom, rifle around for the number and get on the horn.

Then you find out the valets are scheduled for the next night. One thousand friggin’ people driving straight at you right now, and not one valet in the city is even thinking he should be anywhere near your party. What do you do? OK, nowyou go to the bathroom and start bawling like a child. That’s what I would do.

Jennifer, however, is a different entity. She gets on the phone and gives the valets hell and tells them to get people down there right away or else. And they do. And no one even knows who fucked up in the first place. Problem solved.

Then Neve Campbell shows up without a costume. It was a costume-mandatory affair, and Neve comes as a rule-breaker. (Hey, Neve, get over yourself. I don’t care that you came with John Cusack, that’s the whole point of the night. John, at least, came as a werewolf.) I also saw James Woods early on, but I think he was leaving. No matter, because Neil Peart was there, dressed as Mandy. Big black motorcycle leathers, enormous blond wig and makeup. The greatest living rock drummer now a hulking transvestite. The guys from Rush are fans of the show (as we are of them). They sang “O Canada” for the “South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut” soundtrack.

So, things are finally silky smooth again and I’m making out with lots of different people and our friend Keef is spinning really well and everyone is in the same space mentally and the groove is hitting — when suddenly the fire marshal shows up and says we’ve got too many people.

Too many people means that everyone who went out for air or to smoke or to use the outside bar or the outside bathroom or just to look for a friend is stuck outside. And they’re lucky, because outside the outside party area is a line of people down the block who haven’t even gotten into the outside party area. Well, this just won’t do. But what does one do in the face of Mr. Marshal? (I, of course, would still be in the bathroom crying.) Jennifer, however, takes him aside and within a few minutes everyone is freely moving in and out, and the line down the block is gone. The woman is grace under pressure personified.

Perry Farrell was also in attendance, and strangely, he looked a little dressed down for Halloween. Last I saw him — backstage at the KROQ Acoustic Christmas Concert — he had Christmas lights strung through his hair. So I guess he’ll always seem dressed down to me from now on.

Which reminds me, after that Christmas concert, Trey mentioned overhearing Perry doing press (we hadn’t met him at this point) and said he was spouting all this bizarre, whacked-out-sounding stuff. I had seen plenty of wine bottles rolling around, and had also caught some of (guitarist) Dave Navarro’s antics. There was a palpable tension backstage and lots of whispering as we all tried to gauge whether or not Jane’s Addiction would even be able to go on stage.

Now fast forward to “Chef Aid: The South Park Album.” Frank and Perry have become better friends and Perry agrees to do a song for the record. Trey’s driving over and can’t help wondering what the hell is going to happen. He’s the boss, and Perry is definitely an X factor. Sure, Perry’s spent gobs of time in the studio, but what if he’s all prima donna? What if he goes nuts? What if he doesn’t show? What if … what if … what if? Perry is a rock and roller.

So Trey gets there and starts singing vocals so that Perry can hear how the song goes. He does this two, maybe three, times. Perry doesn’t even seem to be paying close attention. But then Perry gets in the booth and begins dancing and singing and swirling about until everyone is infected with his energy and the whole studio comes alive, and he nails the vocals on the first take. He was prepared, professional and inspiring. Just blew everybody away.

And speaking of albums, South Park is putting out “The Mr. Hankey Christmas Album” sometime around Thanksgiving, and there is one song I think you’ll particularly enjoy. It’s called “The Most Offensive Story Ever Told.” I’ll send you up a copy.

And now back to Halloween. Well, no one else so exciting was there. My friend Celeste was in town, and she’s quite exciting, but she’s never strung Christmas lights through her hair. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. All in all, it was a good, safe, loving time. Every cloud has its orange and black lining, as it were. The indomitable Amy even wound up holding court in the Moroccan room by about 1 a.m., fresh from the emergency room with a soft cast and a surgery appointment.

I think everyone will be back next year.

Love,

David

P.S. I’ve got some sad news from the world of “South Park.” Mary Kay Bergman, who did all the female voices in the show and the movie, passed away last Friday. She will be sorely missed.

Dear Button,

If I challenged you to a contest to pick the most disparate
group of seven people to sit around a table at a Jerry’s
Famous Deli, do you think you could beat me? Go ahead,
think …

OK, now here’s my list: ubiquitous porn star Ron Jeremy; Joey Buttafuoco; some unnamed white supremacist guy whose favorite line for the evening is “niggers is property”; his two polite, Southern belle daughters; Trey Parker and his Japanese friend Jun.

Dear Button,

Things down in the “South Park” offices have been hectic. But we have had time for a couple small excursions. Trey wanted to see Cirque du Soleil. Have you ever seen it? Here’s how it works: The lovely and talented Jennifer calls William Morris. William Morris calls Cirque VIP, and then blah blah Hollywood handshake blah, next thing you know four of us are sitting fifth row in the big yellow-and-blue tent on the pier in Santa Monica. And of course it’s all fantastic, the tumblers all hit their marks and the juggler doesn’t drop his balls (he went up to seven). But what really sent it over the top was the music being played live. Total blowout — especially the male singer, whose falsetto fooled us into thinking he was a she. Then, after a couple of numbers he dropped out of the higher registers and into his wheelhouse (as they say in baseball) and we all nearly burst into flames. As Trey said after: “It’s good to have something kick your ass once in a while.”

Dear Button,

Did you watch “The Price Is Right” when you stayed home sick from school? Even if you pushed the little lederhosened mountaineer off the cliff, there was still a chance for you at the wheel. A second chance for you to be a winner. The American Dream, Hollywood-style. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to stay home everyday. Same with “The Tonight Show.” There was no backstage. It was all Hollywood magic. Everyone just sort of appeared. Jetted in, jetted out. Lying on my parents’ bed laughing at Johnny’s monologue I was overcome with the promise of the entertainment industry.