Straight Man in West Hollywood  The whole thing happened so
fast, fueled as it was by the kind of mania that comes with
being near the end of some kind of run that could only end in
disaster, or a song.  Before I knew what it was I was doing, I
had everything I owned  the odds and sods of a guy who had
lived in 16 different places in 32 years  packed into the back
of my baby-blue Ford F-150 pickup truck. I was headed to Los
Angeles, dead set, again, for reinvention or ruin. In my
rearview were several years of the sort of heavy lifting that
had left broken bones, scarred psyches, public passing-outs and
arrests in their wake... not to mention a tumultuous romance
hanging in the balance. To complicate matters, I decided it
would be a good idea to pick up a .357 Magnum and a couple boxes
of ammo on the way. I pointed the loaded gun at every road sign
from Colorado to Los Angeles. So it was I arrived, a straight
man in West Hollywood. Completely off my rocker.  The apartment
was the kind you get when you dont