by Pam From Hell

Created on: April 16, 2011

“The trip from hell is paved with good intentions.” Maybe not the actual quote, but in this case, close enough. The first indication should have alerted me, when the guy I was going to visit in Los Angeles jokingly said that his publicity photo (or head-shot) made him look like a young Charles Manson. I looked at it, and wow, he was right. Since he was a professional comedian, who had kept me in stitches long distance for about six months, the little voice in my head still assured me things would be fine. It was just a harmless little side trip on the way to see my relatives who only lived an hour from Charlie – oops - I mean Jack. 

Landing at LAX is always a treat, the excitement of cruising above, and then descending below, the clouds of dense smog that blanket the city is breathtaking … really … literally.

I didn’t assume Jack would live in a palatial hillside estate, because after all, he wasn’t exactly Robin Williams. His home was tiny, quaint, modest, and sparsely furnished. Not a big deal to me, since I’m not a snob, and my relatives also live modestly. But the really HUGE difference that really DID bother me was that his house was alarmingly filthy. It screamed of,” I-don’t-mind-living-in-squalor-bachelor-pad-I’m-never-home” kind of filth. His Doberman was cleaner than his home, and the dog was constantly running around outside in the dirt, since the yard had no grass. The bathroom was so disgusting that I knew I would have to clean it before I could use it. I wondered how long I could hold out.

The phone rang. Jack answered it, and his tone quickly turned hushed and urgent. His eyes darted toward me and I instantly knew this was not a good call. He said, “Okay, be here in thirty minutes, and remember, I have company.” The voice inside my head was starting to whisper, “Might be a good idea to have plan B ready,” so I was on high alert.

The dude arrived promptly and came in looking tired and disheveled. He matched the furniture and the atmosphere. Before going into the kitchen, Jack said they would only be a few minutes and did I mind waiting in the living room. Of course not, because by now, the Doberman had become fond of me (possibly because my lap provided a clean pillow for his dirty little head), so we sat there quietly waiting together. I kept parting his hair, checking for fleas. I didn’t see little things moving, and nothing leaped off,

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