The Ghosts Who Walk Among Us...

Lewis Straw woke up that morning to the smell of onions frying. His roommate, Von, was cooking breakfast; and the sly brown scent of the pearly vegetable transitioning from sharp to sweet hung like a mist in the morning air. Lewis found himself vaguely irritated. He didn't like having a roommate, and that first breath of wakefulness alone in his bedroom was one of the few moments of solitude he got in the course of the day.

January 1, 2007. A New Year. Of sorts. Lewis realized it was a relatively provincial way of looking at things- this was the first day of the next year for probably less than half the population of the planet; but it was here and so was he, and thus the resolutions began. There was a time when Lewis didn't make resolutions- in his youth he was arrogant enough to know that if he wanted to start/stop/accomplish something, he could simply Do It without needing to make a vow to himself on any culturally symbolic date. As he'd matured (or at least grown older) it had become clearer that his resolve wasn't so easily kept, and if he was to carry through to whatever conclusions he sought, he must have concrete challenges to overcome.

Lewis lay in bed with the ghost of breakfast present for companionship, and considered his short term options. He could masturbate, even though he'd made a resolution to quit. He'd made the same resolution the year before, and managed to hang with it for six weeks before breaking down at the end of a particularly frustrating Wednesday in February. The idea of starting a brand New Year with an unsatisfactory 15 minutes of resolutional failure was more than he could bear. Heartened by his show of moral fiber, he rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom.

His apartment had two bedrooms and two baths. The master bedroom had an attached bathroom, the secondary bedroom did not. Lewis occupied the latter, so each morning was a fresh gamble- did he walk to his bathroom naked (which is how he slept), or did he fumble around for a pair of sweatpants or shorts? The odds of his roommate actually being in the hall when he made the two step trip to his bath were relatively low, but he generally tried to be considerate- Lewis certainly didn't ever want to see Von's hairy ass parading through the apartment, and he assumed he felt the same.

Throwing caution to the wind, Lewis opened his bedroom door, peeked around, saw no other living creature, and skipped to the bathroom. He'd left the window open overnight, and there was a slight chill in the small yellow room. When his building was constructed in the late '40's, the secondary bathroom was given a tub, no shower, and no ventilation fan in the ceiling. At some point in the past someone had installed a shower head to the tub faucet, but neglected the fan. This resulted in a seriously humid post-shower bathroom, and although he kept the window open constantly, the walls were slowly disintegrating. Tiny chunks of plaster floated into the tub, swirling down the drain to find the ocean. For several years now he'd been dreading the day the entire wall peeled off while he showered, depositing him, naked and lathered, into the alley below. Alas, that day was not today.

Following his shower, Lewis shaved and brushed his teeth. Back in his bedroom, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with great purpose. The first of the month was payday, which meant it was also grocery shopping day. He'd been scraping by the past week on Ramen noodles and hors devours at holiday parties, and was looking forward to actually having food in the pantry. Not that this task would be accomplished easily. Logging on to the internet, he first looked to see that his check had arrived at the bank. Yes. Not much, and slightly less than the bills he had to pay, but he was used to that. Next he went to the Metro Transit website. Were the buses running on New Years Day? Yes. Not very often, but beggars can't be choosers.

The final stop of the morning on the information superhighway was the website for the 99 Cent store. Their hours weren't listed, but there was a phone number to call. The Latina who answered on the first ring informed Lewis that they are open on New Year's day, from 9-9. He would eat this day. Gathering his grocery list and wallet, he ventured in to the living room, where Reilly was parked on the couch, shoveling eggs into his mouth and watching college football. Silently Lewis tied his shoes and slipped out the door. The January sun shone warmly in southern California, and he basked in its glow as he trotted down the sidewalk.

The bus stop was two blocks away on Melrose, and by the grace of god a bus rolled up only five minutes after the scheduled arrival. Lewis let the emo chick waitress get on before him, and they joined the few other souls riding the big orange beast eastbound into the sun. The driver was a fat bald white guy who seemed to be talking to himself the entire trip. While it was not at all unusual to observe people talking to themselves on the bus, rarely was it the driver experiencing communication breakdown. Tuning him out, Lewis rested his eyes on the sharp grey corners of The City slowly sliding by. The emo chick waitress got off at Western. His stop was Hobart, where he walked another block east to his destination.

Lewis couldn't afford to shop at a real grocery store, so he took the bus into the fringes of the hood, where he rubbed elbows with Latins, Asians and Blacks at the 99 Cent Store. They used to eye him somewhat suspiciously when he wheeled his cart through the aisles, as though he were some sort of spy sent by The Man to keep tabs on their shopping habits. No longer, though. Now there were just as many whites folks looking for bargains, and he could blend right in. The economy was suckerpunching everybody. 20 minutes later, at the checkout line, Lewis sweated through the scanning process, taking a relieved breath only when the total was announced- 39 dollars. He'd allotted himself $40, and because he couldn't find a calendar with hot girls on it, only some with puppies and ducks, he'd squeaked by.

Back out on the street, he offered a small prayer of thanks when a bus met him at the corner. Lewis had spent an hour waiting there before, and so learned not to take the appearance of the bright orange beast lightly. At the back of the bus he found two adjacent seats, so he could sit and rest his bags at the same time. Near him were four teenaged girls, all chattering away about the night before. One of them got wasted drunk, and wasn't sure if she hooked up with a guy or not. Lewis idly thought about which of them he would hook up with. The Latina on the end first, then the white chick beside her, the Latina beside her, and finally the white chick on the other end. Right down the row, in descending order.

Perhaps he should've felt somehow dirty about imagining sex with girls young enough to be his daughters, but Lewis didn't. He'd come to realize that he was still 18 inside his head, and he strongly suspected he always would be. If he was 18 on the outside, he might talk to them and see which one was insecure enough to respond to his advances. Since his face was pushing 32, he merely observed. The first white girl (#2 on his mental list of fantasy encounters) caught him looking at her, and brazenly looked back. Lewis couldn't imagine that she found an old guy with his 99 Cent bags on the bus particularly attractive, but stranger things had happened. Or so he could temporarily convince himself. When he disembarked at La Cienega, he looked back to see her watching him through the window, her blue eyes gaining depth and mystery as she receded slowly into her future.

My day on the Instinct Magazine chain gang...

This is an article I wrote in 2001 for the "Let the Breeder Speak" column in Instinct Magazine...

“Why don’t you help him off with his pants? Yeah, and make sure the blindfold is tight. Oh, that’s so hot. Get the lint off his nipple! Good, good. Now stand back a couple of feet and make sure he doesn’t get hit by traffic.”

Sigh. Just another day on the Instinct photo shoot chain gang. We’re in the crosswalk at Crescent Heights and Santa Monica Boulevard, and Dave Bailey, the photographer, is prancing around on the corner snapping shot after shot. Matt, the brave and handsome model du jour, is standing in the middle of the intersection wearing grey CK bikini briefs, a red blindfold and a smile. A wavering smile. Me? I’m standing two feet to the left, willing the traffic light to remain red and idly wondering what actually counts as indecent exposure in West Hollywood. Mostly, though, I’m thinking that life takes some awfully unexpected turns.

Howdy. My name Patrick, and I’m straight. Hell, I’m not just straight, I’m a redneck from the swamps of Michigan. I own Nascar themed clothing. Cowboy boots. A Pabst Blue Ribbon belt buckle, for God’s sake. I enjoy the music of Ted Nugent for the aesthetic pleasure it provides me. And, at least for one afternoon, I’m the art director on a photo shoot for the world’s greatest gay magazine.

What’s going on? Why am I here? I blame it all on Dave. He’s a good friend of mine, and as our lives get busier, we see less and less of one another. So, when on a Friday morning he called and asked if I wanted to hang out with him on a photo shoot, I readily agreed. Dave’s shoots are always adventures. He’s a great photographer, but more than that, he has the ability to talk models into anything. Anything. I look forward to those days. Visions of busty, morality-impaired lingerie models frolicked in my head. However, when he arrived to pick me up this day, he waited until I was in the car and we were heading down the street before speaking. “Oh, by the way, I’m shooting for Instinct today, and you’re my art director.”

Oh.

So much for the busty lingerie models, and we’re going too fast for me to leap out of the car. Damn. Instinct? Gay boys in their underwear? Do I really want to do this?



Alright, I suppose here’s where I should have my Archie Bunker moment. I do like gays. Some of my best friends are of the pansy persuasion. No, really! I live near West Hollywood. My roommate is gay. There is a pink triangle magnet on my refrigerator. I could pick Ryan Idol out of a lineup (although, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather have a drink with Ron Jeremy). I’ve been a stage actor and director for 17 years, and one doesn’t get far in that world without rubbing elbows with a homosexual or twelve. I’ve met screaming queens, leather daddies, pre-ops and log cabin republicans. I once knew two men who found one another through a personal ad in American Bear. They had the ad enlarged and framed in their bedroom, right next to the Tom of Finland print. I’ve stood drunk in the toilet stall at 2:00am and heard that seductive phrase, “Just close your eyes, you’ll never know the difference.” Er, um…

Have I made my point that I’m not a homophobe? I’m just a slightly hungover redneck who isn’t altogether sure that I want to spend my afternoon observing a man more beautiful than some of my ex-girlfriends as he lounges around the pool in a thong. But, I gave my word to Dave, the sun is coming out after a few days of rain, and we’re almost to the model’s place. The pressure is increased when he offers me an autographed Ben Rogers 8x10 and a fistful of glow-in-the-dark Instinct condoms. I cave. I guess that I’m an art director.

Matt turns out to be a very nice guy, and he offers us refreshments and introduces us to his Siamese. N’Sync croons on the stereo. As Dave sets up his equipment, Matt and I discover all that we have in common. We like doughnuts and porn. We appreciate the efforts of Erin Brokovich in her fight against the Man. We’re both from the Midwest (he’s from Wisconsin), and we discuss the joys of road-side cheese stands and brewery tours with free samples. There is a bond building between two men. Before either of us can blurt out those words that will forever damn us and ratchet the patented Instinct photo shoot chain gang sexual tension even higher, the photographer is ready. Time to go to work!

The theme of the article is “blind dates,” and in Instinct’s typically understated fashion, it involves a hot boy walking around in his underwear wearing a blindfold. Being artistic director, I find myself helping Matt out of his clothes and tying a silk scarf over his eyes. As we share our tender moment, Dave looks at us and utters the magic words. “What if we did this out in the middle of the street?”

The model laughs. Of course the wacky photographer is joking. No one in his right mind would drag a helpless underwear model blindfolded into the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard just to feed the ravenous maw of some sleazy magazine! Matt turns to me, the fear creeping into his eyes. He is just joking, isn’t he?

Sigh. Art director. Model fluffer. Crossing guard. Well, I can’t say that life in the Instinct family is boring…

The Ballad of Johnny Ghost

Johnny Ghost is on his way back home. The Dark Lady of the Sun brought him belly to belly with forever, and once is enough for any country boy with more than a skosh of brains in his fuzzy head…

It mostly started at 1:30 on a Thursday afternoon, and if that was a mite too early to be pouring George Dickel into his gullet and George Jones into his ears, well, hell, it was five o’clock somewhere, right? Even better, it was 11:11 somewhere else, and Johnny Ghost had survived enough second hand collisions to know that linear time wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, particularly when it was 104 degrees in Tarzana and even the Better Angels had skipped town for a long weekend. Setting the empty glass upside down on the bar in front of him, he stifled the urge to howl like a banshee and instead focused his wayward gaze on the Dark Lady behind the bar.

She was everything a man could want in a woman- a mysterious, cat-like face straight off the quarter panel of Tut's sarcophagus; thick warm black hair that smelled like the tailpipe of a turbo charged Jasmine 420 in a late spring rain; margarita glass titties that danced like a mountain girl after that second shot of sweet corn liquor; a back as long straight and smooth as the drag strip in heaven; strong firm inviting thighs that would wrap around a man like he was the last Harley out of hell; and tiny twitching tempting toes painted like a full bag of Skittles brand peyote©.

“Hey, good lookin, whatcha got cookin?” Originality wasn’t necessarily Johnny Ghost’s conversational strong suit, but he’d found that in a pinch, any country music lyric could be made situationally appropriate. The Dark Lady, busy skewering olives with toothpicks like voodoo heads of boyfriends past and future, looked him up, down and sideways, judging Johnny Ghost at somewhere near the molecular level. One elegant eyebrow slid slightly higher, one side of her lazy smile quirked a nudge north.

“I have a human heart on the hibachi in the back. Would that interest you?” Her russet eyes sparkled with something east of anticipation. Bar traffic was slow in these, the last days, and the Dark Lady wasn’t opposed to an existential roll in the hay with the occasional lazy eyed cowboy. Johnny Ghost sniffed the air, panhandling for that whiff of roasting sweetbreads to confirm her creative culinary choice.

“That would depend wholly on who the previous owner of said heart was.” Johnny Ghost grinned; his crooked teeth picket fencing charm like there was no tomorrow. “And how the poor, stupid bastard died.”

The Dark Lady of the Sun casually flipped his glass to the upright and locked position and drooled another dollop of Dickel down the side. “Who said you were dead Cowpoke? You look in the pink to me.”



Johnny Ghost guffawed, realizing the joke was on him. He tossed back the bourbon and placed his hand on his chest. “I pledge allegiance…” His voice trailed off as the realization sunk in- there was no beat beneath his bruised breast. On the verge of some seriously well deserved panic, Johnny Ghost focused back in on the Dark Lady’s suddenly challenging stare.

“You pledge allegiance to what? The list is awfully short lately.”

Johnny Ghost stood, the knuckles of his toes white in his boots, the hair on the back of his neck reaching for the sky. “Where is my heart? My achey-breaky heart?!”

The Dark Lady dimpled, did a pirouette and crooked a facile finger at Johnny Ghost’s getting paler by the second visage. “Right back here, Johnny Ghost. Join me and see what all the fuss is about.”

When the Dark Lady summoned him behind her bar, Johnny Ghost was wary of that voice slipping conspiratorially from those pearly pink lips. Earth girls don't speak like a snort of rock candy Tabasco straight from Bristol UK, and they sure as shootin' don't promise hayseeds with empty pockets a round-trip ticket to the Sun. Nevertheless, fueled by equal parts lust, fear and Dickel, Johnny leapt before he looked, and there waiting for him was the open trap door and no Dark Lady to be seen.

Note to Johnny Ghost – when slip sliding head first through a kink in space-time like Pete Rose on a four-day Meth bender, observe all posted caution signs, particularly those that advise the use of a helmet. He winced as detritus of the Big Bang lodged in his skull at warp six, displacing half his medulla oblongata and the recipe for Mama’s Christmas Chex mix. That was gonna leave a mark. Ahead, posed like Ishtar on the half-shell, the Dark Lady beckoned him, her charms playing peek-a-boo with his senses, her need broadcasting boldly on bandwidth Johnny Ghost didn’t know he was equipped to receive.

Settling his Luccheses on whatever passes for the floor of the infinite, Johnny Ghost found his bearings and prepared for the quick draw. Cuter than a day-old hound pup the Dark Lady may be, but nobody takes a California Cowboy’s heart for BBQ without express written consent, and this hombre hadn’t signed a piece since divorce number four hit the charts. “I didn’t buy no one way ticket on your tornado, Bonita. Draw your brakes or takes your chances!”

The threat only made Johnny Ghost’s stratospheric sylph wiggle, giggle and jiggle, a sight that led inevitably to a pistol more equipped for rootin and tooting than shootin. With a blink of her third eye, the Dark Lady was in the cowboy’s arms, her sweet pheromone cloud sending spiderweb cracks through what was left of an already creaky cranium. “You still don’t remember me, Johnny Ghost? Your first kiss. Kindergarten, out by the tetherball pole.”

Well slap him upside the head and call him Suzie. Johnny Ghost wandered widdershins into the picture in picture flashback of a sky-blue Fresno afternoon. There, clear as Crisco in the frying pan, a pint-sized Pardner planted one on the longing lips of a bucktoothed girl wearing Strawberry Shortcake sneakers. The Dark Lady was “Mindy Lou Looper?”

“You took my innocence, Johnny Ghost, and rode off into the sunset. Now I want it back.” Mindy Lou’s eyes flashed like a paparazzi tidal wave and her tongue snaked out to sand the first layer of skin right off his lower lip. “Your ventricle for my virtue. Sounds like an even swap to me, don’t it Cowboy?”