I don't own a cell phone. I never have. Talking on a phone is one of my least favorite things to do. And it's not often I find myself in an emergency where I need a phone. I have no need or want of a cell phone. Plus I'm slightly nauseated by the obsession with them. They're everywhere. The world is drunk on cell phones. What the fuck are you people all talking about? There is absolutely nothing I have to say to anyone that can't wait a couple hours ‘til I get home and can make a call on my “land line.” And besides my house catching on fire, or something of equally disastrous proportions, there is nothing anyone can say to me that is so important that it can't be left as a message on my answering machine. I will listen to the message and “I will get back to you as soon as I can,” as most people say on their outgoing message. Although, I do not say that on my outgoing message.

But as I stood in the sunny cul de sac outside of Morrissey two-million-dollar house off of Sunset Blvd. waiting for his realtor to arrive to show us the house, I suddenly realized it was one of those rare instances I needed a cell phone. As a prop. I figured I might look better if I were on a cell phone. It would be more authentic. You know, like I was a hot shot Hollywood millionaire wheeling and dealing or whatever it is they do on their cell phones. “Hold on, lemme call you back. I have to look at this fucking mansion or something, God .” Because that's what I was supposed to be: a hot shot Hollywood millionaire interested in buying Morrissey's house.

“Tania,” I said to my girlfriend who had donned a pair of $100 shoes for the occasion, “let me use your cell phone.”

•

Tania has this peculiar ability to be way ahead of the times. She gets most of it from the internet. She's very quiet and unassuming, she doesn't brag about it or anything, but somehow she's seen every Quicktime movie, every funny jpeg, and knows about every movie and band that's coming out before anyone else does. “Hey did you see this?” I'll ask.

“Saw that last week,” she'll say. Oh.

So, I wasn't surprised when Tania learned about Morrissey's house being for sale before anyone else in the world and sent us all an email.

The subject of the email was, “Stephen!” The “Stephen!” was directed not only at Morrissey, but at Steve Randolph, our former intern turned realtor. When he first took the realtor job, he realized he had access to this crazy database in which he could find out where anyone lives. One of the first things he did was look up Morrissey's address. That was over a year ago, though, and the excitement of knowing Morrissey's address had long vanished.

“Dammit Steve,” Tania wrote, “why aren't you telling us about these things? Dave's gonna be a big, hot shot MTV guy now and our house is entirely too small for the Gatsby-sized galas we will surely be throwing. Plus, it's inconvenient to get to hip bars frequented by handsome young Latinos. We need a place like this!”

(The “Gatsby-sized galas” reference would prove to be an interesting coincidence.)

Attached was a link to a web site that was titled “Buy Moz’s LA House for Two Million!” There was a photo of the front of the house and the property description:

“Extraordinary 1931 Mediterranean in celebrity cul de sac above Sunset with dramatic city view. Entry to huge living room with beam ceilings, hardwood floors and massive fireplace. Upstairs master has spectacular, city view plus walk in closet and huge limestone bath. Separate guest suite plus convertible media/den and separate maid's with bath. Full Mediterranean charm. Kitchen and baths recently remodeled with great style. Media & projection equipment included as-is. $1,995,000. 4 Bed, 3 Bath . Estimated payment: $9,098 Per Month*.”

What the hell? Morrissey's house is for sale!

“Oh shit, did I just find out what Dave is getting me for my birthday?” she wrote at the end of the email. (Her birthday is coming up.) “I hope all of the James Dean photos are included in the asking price.”

Steven, the realtor, saw the opportunity immediately.

“Let's set up a property tour of Stephen M's house,” he wrote back. “I'm sure they screen pretty heavily so you and Tania will be my clients and I will set the whole thing up. We can take pictures because that is what most buyers do when touring these days. You and Tania just be successful, rich, Morrissey fans who would pay the high price because of sentimental reasons. All you have to do is act like my clients and never break character. Give me a time and date and I'll set it up ASAP. I think it'd be pretty funny and cool.”

Indeed. A tour of Morrissey's house? That kind of thing doesn't come along every day.

So Steve contacted Morrissey's realtor to set up a showing and had a very interesting conversation with the man. We'll call Morrissey's realtor Dick because, while he was really cool to us about the whole thing, he seems like the type of guy that could turn into a dick in a second. Dick is basically a high-end realtor to the stars who doesn't give a fuck about anything. I quite liked him. Steve was especially impressed with his liberal use of the word “cunt.”

Dick told Steve that the only reason everyone knows that MORRISSEY'S HOUSE IS FOR SALE is because “the stupid cunt” who was his former realtor listed it under his real name, “Stephen Morrissey.” A big no-no apparently in the showbiz realty world.

“That's why you were able to find the listing,” Dick told Steve.

Dick apparently saw the stupid cunt's mistake and got a hold of Morrissey a couple years ago and explained that the stupid cunt was a stupid cunt and that he could make everything right. So Morrissey ditched the stupid cunt and hired Dick as his personal realtor. It's probably the closest Morrissey has gotten to either a cunt or a dick.

Dick described Morrissey as “a nice guy.” Although “he's an artist” and “he's really unsure of himself.” I guess he's gathered this from the half dozen or so phone calls he has with Morrissey each year. Morrissey, apparently, likes to know what's going on in the market. According to Dick, however, Morrissey doesn't really know what's going on so Dick pretty much tells Morrissey what to do in terms of real estate. Which is in direct contrast to one of his other clients, Mick Jagger, who's “a real asshole” and has really good business sense. Mick tells Dick what to do.

Steve talked to Dick for about half an hour. And while Steve never broke character, in the end, Dick was pretty sure he “knew what was going on here.” Steve told him that his client, me, was a big Hollywood writer and helped create, among other things, the TV show Jackass. (Which is only a slight stretching of the truth.)

“Must be a pretty funny guy, Steve,” Dick said.

“Oh, let me tell you,” Steve said.

Basically Dick just wanted to make sure we weren't a bunch of “freaky stalkers.” Apparently there had been quite a few since the house went on the market. Steve assured him we weren't and that we were genuinely interested in the property. Which wasn't even for sale anymore. It was already in escrow. After only being on the market for five days, the house had already commanded a full price offer of $1.95 million.

“You know, I like you Steve,” Dick said. “I'll let you and your clients come take a look at the property. Why don't you show up at the house at two o'clock on Wednesday. That's when the house is being inspected and I have to be there anyway.”

Before the end of the conversation, though, Steve was sternly warned that there was to be no funny business. And under no circumstances were we to use “the M-word.” Steve assured him there would be no problems and we would never say the M-word.

“Don't fuck me, Steve,” was the last thing Dick said before he hung up.

•

The day of the scheduled meeting, we drove into Hollywood a little early and stopped at the Cat and Fiddle to have a couple of pints. It's one of Morrissey's favorite LA hangouts and the spot where I once posed with him for a photo. I hugged him.

“What should we do?” I asked at the bar. I didn't want to get anyone fired or fuck anyone over, but I couldn't just stroll around Morrissey's house without doing something. “I want to rub my dick all over everything.”

“Gross.”

“No, no, I'm gonna shit in his toilet. Maybe I should hide a dook? Oh wait, there's no furniture. Ah! I'll dry dock the fudge barge!”

“Huh?” Steve asked laughing.

“Shit in the tank,” I said. “Tania? We should fuck in there!” That's almost better than the mile high club. Lots of people have fucked on airplanes, including us, but who the hell has had sex in Morrissey's house?

I knew I was going to do none of those things as we stood in the cul de sac in the shadow of Morrissey's house and the inspectors began to arrive. There was one for mold, one for termites, one for foundation, I'm not sure what they all were inspecting, but there were a bunch of them. And if any of them knew they were about to inspect Morrissey's house, they sure as hell didn't care. They were all very serious. The mold guy was very friendly, though. He really enjoyed his job. So while Steve struck up a casual business conversation on the subject of mold, I looked at Tania's cell phone and tried to figure out who to call. I decided on Nieratko.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“ I'm standing in front of Morrissey's house ,” I whispered.

“Oh no way,” he said. “Right now?”

“Yes,” I said. Then, raising my voice again, “So did you talk to Gensler about THE BUSINESS PLAN for THE PROJECT?”

“No, not yet,” he said flatly. Silence.

“Uh, so, okay. Great. THAT SOUNDS GREAT,” I said.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I turned my back on the mold conversation and whisper yelled, “ I'm trying to pretend like I'm talking on a cell phone .”

“What?”

“ I'm acting! ” I whispered.

“I can't hear you.”

“WELL, OKAY CHRIS, THAT SOUNDS TERRIFIC. I'LL TALK TO YOU LATER. CIAO.”

I hung up. Goddammit. I kept looking at the phone as if it held more business for me to attend to.

Suddenly, a Range Rover came tearing around the corner into the cul de sac. While we, and then the inspectors, had all pulled timidly into the cul de sac and gingerly parked our crappy cars along “the rich people's street” (Johnny Depp lives next door!) this guy zoomed right past all of our cars and parked in the driveway as if he owned the place. “Look at that confidence,” Steve gasped.

It was Dick.

As soon as the car came to a stop, the engine was off and he was out the door. “Gimme five minutes, Steve,” he said, barely glancing over his shoulder at us, as he marched to the entry where the inspectors had gathered. He greeted them, opened the iron gate and ushered them up the brick steps to the front door.

We were about to enter Morrissey's house.

•

The house itself sits high above the street and looks very grand and majestic from the outside. As the listing said, it has a very Mediterranean air to it. There are blue wooden balconies jutting out from almost every arced window and the sun dances across the creamy plaster walls. The house has red tile roofs and iron railings, and it's separated from the street by a hillside of beautiful tropical jungle. Giant, lush palms of every variety spring forth from the floor and, alongside grand eucalyptus trees, reach high into the sky where their canopies provide shade for not only the vibrant green ferns and crawling ivy below, but for nearly all of the house and even the street. Morrissey's tastes have always been impeccable, and his home is no exception.

As promised, Dick emerged at the bottom of the stairs a few moments later and waved us over. He was wearing a sharp, white dress shirt and tan slacks. He was probably near 50 years old, but he had aged well. Some of his success was no doubt due to his good looks and likeability. Steve had told us over and over again how nervous he was of this meeting. Dick was a seasoned veteran and obviously one of the best in the business, while Steve was a rookie realtor, his license not even a year old.

The brick staircase wound up to an arched door within a round castle turret of sorts. Steven tried to make casual conversation with Dick on the way up while Tania and I followed behind. As we entered the foyer, we met Dick for the first time. I said hello, shook his hand and tried to appear as disaffected as possible. For a second I thought he was going to go, “Hey! Now wait a minute! You guys are M-word fans! OUT! OUT! OUT!” But he didn't and he cordially led us into the living room with the large fireplace where at least a couple portraits of Morrissey had been shot.

“This crest,” Dick said pointing to some faded paint smudges high up on the fireplace, “is Clark Gable's family crest. I don't have any way to prove that, but that's what I've been told.”

I have no reason to doubt him since the house was originally designed by Clark Gable for Carole Lombard. It was next owned by F. Scott Fitzgerald for a short time. (When Tania wrote that email, she didn't know that “Gatsby-size galas” had, literally, taken place there. One such gala, interestingly enough, was when the house hosted the after party for the opening preview of Saturday Night Fever . That's, like, so weird.) A couple of decades later it was the part-time home to film director John Schlesinger. And before the “present owner” (as Dick preferred to call the M-word) inhabited it, the house belonged to Hollywood producer and writer, Darren Starr. Who, having written and/or produced Sex in the City , Melrose Place and 90210 , unlike me really was a hot shot Hollywood writer.

Besides the Gable crest, the living room, and the house, was empty. And since this tour was about as important to him as a rehearsal after a play, Dick hurried us along to the next room. “But, but, but,” I stammered to myself, “can't we just bask in the aura that M-word left behind?” (Even in thought I was careful not to say it.) “What songs must he have written in this very room?” But I had to stay in character, so I followed Dick up into the entertainment room.

“When the guy outfitted this room for the present owner,” Dick said, “he got him a state of the art entertainment system.” He pointed to a clunky, three-lens, space shuttle looking projection thing hanging from the ceiling. “It was state of the art,” he continued, “nine years ago.”

He smiled halfheartedly. It was obvious he was tired of telling that joke.

Moving along!

Throughout the tour, Steve had been doing his darnedest to keep up appearances by asking technical realtor questions. Dick had been politely entertaining the softballs that were lobbed at him until we walked across the hall into the master bedroom where he was just over it. “Excuse me,” he said as he slipped out a back door to go talk to one of the inspectors.

Finally! We were free! We got out our cameras and started snapping pictures. We hadn't wanted to seem too eager at first. But now that Dick was gone we started taking pictures of everything. Everything except the bedroom. It was a completely ordinary empty room with nothing in it. And given M-word's professional celibacy, that's probably how he described it as well: nothing ever happened in there. Which makes it all the more remarkable to be standing in it: we may have been the first humans to have seen M-word's bedroom! Yet we didn't take a picture. So stupid.

Instead, I raced into the master bathroom to take pictures of where M-word made poo poo. “Haha, that's where poop came out of his butthole,” I said taking a picture of his throne.

“Vegetarian shit stinks, too,” Tania said.

“Tania, take a picture of me sitting on his throne!”

After we got done giggling, we looked around and, holy shit, what a motherfuckin' bathroom. It was enormous. And the whole thing was tiled in limestone. In the middle was a giant tub with jets all around it. In the corner was a really big dual shower. The walls beneath each showerhead were solid glass with views to the outside. For a dude that's celibate he sure isn't very modest. “I'd like to drop my trousers to the world!” Tania was very excited to stand in a room where M-word had once stood naked.

Dick returned and we snapped back into character. “Oh is that the backyard?” we asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can go out this way.” He led us out onto the sunny back patio and just kept walking as another inspector was requesting his audience. The “tour” was now over as Dick seemed satisfied that we weren't going to “fuck him” and he could direct his attention to important matters. We were free to roam the grounds as we pleased, but we didn't dare try any funny business as the layout of the house allowed Dick to pop up just about anywhere and check in on us. Which he did occasionally.

Despite the grand façade, we discovered it really wasn't a very big house. After we saw the bedrooms, we walked back through the living room to look at the other side of the house where we found a modest kitchen with dark blue tiles.

“Tania,” I whispered, “take a picture of my hand on the faucet.”

I figured, surely M-word had used the faucet? So he had to have touched the handles. And now I was touching the handles. Some sort of weird transubstantiation had to be going on, right? All I know is that from reading M-word message boards that M-word fans get pretty freaky and any one of them would gladly claim that they too had touched the same faucet as their hero had. I once met a fan—well, he was a stalker, really, I mean he admitted himself that he was a stalker—who would hang out in front of M-word's house to just to talk to his gardener. To him, talking to M-word's gardener was almost like talking to the man himself. Can you imagine how he, and the other freaky stalkers, will react to me, someone who actually touched M-word's faucet? They will surely want to shake my hand because my hand has touched something that his hand had touched. Like this chick, “Tibby,” on the M-word message board www.morrissey-solo.com, was just stoked to be living in the same state as the M-word. “My friend just emailed this news to me,” she wrote about the sale of the house, “it's so depressing. It's funny with Morrissey living in the same state I'm in I just thought that I might meet him someday. Looks like I've lost my chance. I'm really depressed now.”

And this plea from “tenderliz,” “DEAR: HERO, I'll Probably never see you Again, I'll Probably never see you Again, I'll Probably never se you Againnnnn. Morrissey Dont leave LA, please please please. this is the closest we've been to you. I know It bothers you when people come by to your home but, its because you mean alot to US, I and many people wanted to LET YOU KNOW THAT WE EXIST!”

There are dozens more like it. I feel slightly guilty being one of the few who were able to see the house, and touch the faucets, as my infatuation with the man isn't nearly as fervent as it is in the hearts of his true fans who certainly deserved the privilege more so than I. But what am I going to do, say no? Fuck that.

While the rumors of where he's moving to range from a beach house in Malibu , to his new found love of Mexico , no one really knows where he's going. The most likely destination suggested seems that he's moving back to England . His fans there are, naturally, celebrating the sale of the house.

“He's coming home!!” one writes, “do you here [sic] that northern folk, OUR HERO IS COMING HOME. God I love him !!, come on to Manchester, I will be there you little treasure, please God say that he is coming to England you know you belong here, remeber England does owe you a living.”

So, yeah, anyway, not only did I live in the same city as the dude, I touched his faucet. And I fuckin' hugged him. I win at M-word. If I were playing.

•

After we toured the kitchen, we walked out onto the back patio. Very nice. There's a small fountain and a lot of potted plants. On the wall hung the only thing that probably belonged to M-word that was left behind: a wire, iron sculpture of a cat. I thought of stealing it, but Dick and the inspectors were everywhere. Plus, we weren't “freaky stalkers.” We were rich, Hollywood people who didn't give a shit about rusty old, cat-shaped trinkets.

Since we had seen the whole house, but weren't ready to leave, Steve created a stalling tactic and asked to see “the separate guest suite.” Dick was really over us at that point, but he wearily got out the key and opened the guest suite door for us and showed us in.

“Why do you come here, when you know it makes things hard for me?”

Inside was a small room with a closet and a bathroom attached.

“The current owner used it as an office,” he said.

“Long day?” Steve asked, noting the sour tone in Dick's voice.

“Not even close to over,” Dick replied.

“That's what coffee is for,” Steve laughed nervously.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dick said.

Knowing our time had come, we walked back into the living room and hurriedly took some pictures of the Gable crest. I had been wanting to steal away into one of the bathrooms and lock myself in so that I could do some serious snooping, but I didn't think that sort of thing was allowed.

“Okay, well thanks,” Steve said wandering into the room, “we're going to get going, but I'm going to use the bathroom first.”

Ah, you can use the bathroom!

Steve went in and closed the door behind him. And I was going to get to use it next. But fuck I didn't have to take a shit. I wanted to shit in M-word's toilet so bad.

When Steve emerged, he had a little smirk on his face like he had done something bad. I went in after him and closed the door behind me.

I was alone in M-word's bathroom. I rifled through the drawers, but found nothing. Ah, but there was a scrap of toilet paper left on the roll. I later found out that Steve had taken a bunch of it when he was in the bathroom. He reasoned that when M-word, or anyone, moves out, they don't pack up their toilet paper. And realtors aren't in the habit of restocking a bathroom's toilet paper supply. Therefore, any toilet paper in the house had to have been M-word's toilet paper. I plucked the remaining scrap and stuffed it into my pocket. “I wonder how much this could fetch on eBay?” I thought.

Then I turned my attention to the toilet. That's where M-word pooped. His butt touched that toilet seat. So I rubbed my hand across the toilet seat. “Mmmm,” I thought, “M-butt.” He'd also surely stood over this toilet with his wiener in his hand and peed in it. Maybe M-word pees sitting down? While I was in Ireland I developed the rather strange habit of documenting every pub we visited by shooting a picture of my penis peeing in the pub's toilet. It seemed at the time be a truer portrait of the pub's character, and my visit to it, than any photo of the interior or exterior. It illustrated my partaking of the waters of the Liffey and then my returning of said waters. I had to pee and I had to document it.

So I'm in M-word's bathroom and I got my cock in one hand and my camera in the other and I thought I was aiming both of them at the toilet, but apparently one of them wasn't pointing at what it should have been. While I was in Ireland I had gotten really good at shooting and peeing at the same time, but I was obviously out of practice because while I was shooting the photo, I was peeing all over the seat and the back of the toilet.

“Whoa,” I said when I saw the mess I had made. “Oops.”

I looked around for something to wipe it up with, but there was nothing. I did have the little scrap of toilet paper in my pocket?…Nah. No way. If I couldn't sell it on eBay, I reasoned, I could go TP Johnny Marr's house with it.

“Fuck it,” I thought. “I just peed all over M-word's toilet. And I'm leaving it.”

•

We took a few more photos on our way out and even plucked a couple of flowers from the potted plants on the stairs. Dick was chatting with an inspector on the street at the bottom on the last step.

“By the way,” he said as we descended, “if you took any pictures, please don't post them on the internet. We've been getting a lot of internet traffic on this property.”

We all promised we wouldn't post any pictures. As if? Chuh.

We thanked Dick and meekly said we were interested in purchasing the property. If anything should fall through in escrow, please give us a call.

“Half the deals I make,” Steve said all cocky, “are after a failed escrow.”

Yeah, right. But it sounded good. And with that we said goodbye, got in the car and drove down the hill to Sunset Blvd..

It had been a lovely afternoon. We were excited. Steve put in his Smiths disc. We had just been to this guy's house! The guy that was singing to us right now. We had walked where he had walked, stood in his shower, peed in his toilet, peed on his toilet, seen where he slept and where he ate. And it was a really cool house. If I had two million dollars I most certainly would have made a bid on it. I'd be ecstatic to make it my home. If it were mine, I would have turned it into a righteous party palace. With a cool doorbell.

But, alas, it's not my home.

It's his home.

And I'm fairly certain I'm welcome no more.