by | | Guyster, Guyster
by | | Guyster, Guyster
I took off the ring that Billy and I wore since he proposed to me in our hotel room in Montreal when we went to the Black and Blue Party in 1997. They were a simple pair of unpolished silver bands. I’d been wearing Billy’s, plus another one he also wore that he found...
by | | Guyster, Guyster
The office of our friend Jimmey was in a writer’s bungalow in the back of the Fox lot, tucked away beyond the prop and set barns, far past the lot’s famed New York street. Pee Wee was the previous occupant during his Playhouse years. He left behind a long sofa, each...
by | | Guyster, Guyster
Thirty years ago today, I met Bill Ledbetter at a “party,” one where we connected inside my first five minutes of being there. After I left, I couldn’t quite shake how much I enjoyed meeting him, unusual for someone whose motto was always “in bed by midnight, home by...
by | | Guyster, Guyster
They’ve called Ludlow a ghost town ever since Interstate-40 came along and destroyed its once-needed Route 66 businesses. Sitting in the middle of the Mojave desert, sped past by most except those riding on the fumes of an empty tank, the only thing in Ludlow besides...
by | | Guyster, Guyster
I went to my first estate sale on Saturday, and I discovered they’re sad; someone’s life with dangling white price tags. In this modest Glendale house lived an elderly woman, a fire-and-brimstone Baptist from what I saw on her bookshelf, who’d been moved recently to...
