jackassworld

It’s come to my attention that there are some Morrissey fans in our community? I, too, am a Morrissey fan, but unlike other Morrissey fans, I win at the game of Morrissey: whoever gets closest to Morrissey wins. I’ve hugged him (click on the Whalecock ad, above, that appeared in Big Brother) and I’ve even been to his house. Which is what this rather long story (which originally appeared in the Future Magazine (you’ll see it when you get there)), is about. And since no one likes staring at a computer screen and reading long stories, we’ll roll it out here in four parts (with lots of cool pictures of the interior). This is part one of my trip to Morrissey’s house.

The Present Owner: M-Word. (My Trip to Morrissey’s House)
By Dave Carnie

•

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’s 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.