By John Chandler

I counted them up just the other day (I was really bored). By my calculations, I've cohabitated with 32 different people in the last 20 years or so.

Some of these roommates were actually (more or less) normal, so let's dispense with them forthwith. Among the rest, there were degenerates, dealers, grifters, psychos, assorted bums, hippies and all manner of slob.

Joe, for example was a world-class, Oscar Madison-level pig. His room wasn't just cluttered; it wasn't just messy; it was a shrine to everything that is appallingly gross under heaven. There were plates with fossilized meals nestled next to his pillow! Soiled knickers peaked out from every nook and cranny. Pornography - also soiled - was strewn hither and yon with nearly artistic abandon. Cat turds were strategically placed like Easter eggs in the backyard.

We used to refer to the funk that emanated from his chamber as "toxic socks syndrome."

When Joe wasn't around, I conducted tours of his room with friends that dropped by. Hell, I could have charged admission.

For the sake of delicate sensibilities I won't discuss the bathroom. H.P. Lovecraft couldn't have done justice to the nameless horrors that lurked within.

I've lived with three different people named Dave, but Dave the Tramp was the worst. He was clearly an advocate of the old saying, "money is the root of all evil," because he was one of the brokest sons of bitches ever to step out of the swamp.

He never paid a speck of rent and further endeared himself to the household by shoveling anything remotely edible into his pie-hole as fast as he could. When we finally padlocked the cupboards, he was reduced to eating from a jar of peanut butter with his fingers. Finally we just locked him out of the house. No problem, he simply slept in his car out front. So we had it towed. I don't recall if he was in it at the time.

But I suppose if I had to choose my absolute weirdest living situation, it would have to be the Witch House. I lived with two "witches" for about three months. Not only were they witches, but they were battling each other for supremacy of their coven. The witches were named Audrey and Mary Jane.

Mary Jane was a pansexual nympho, 6 feet tall and pipe-cleaner skinny. And man, could she talk a stream of nonstop metaphysical babble! Other than that, she was pretty nice. She fixed me soup when I had a cold. She even considerately placed a few enchanted herbs in it to speed my recovery. Sure enough, within a week, I was my old self.

Living with Audrey (she looked a little like Audrey Hepburn) was like sharing a house with Harpo Marx - she never said a word. In all fairness, she didn't play the harp or honk a horn in response to questions. But she was a big one for notes. They were everywhere! On the toilet ("Jiggle the handle!" -A.); in the oven ("Don't use the oven!" -A.); on the birdcage ("Feed Casper and Gwendolyn!" -A.); on her door ("Please knock before entering!" -A.). She had a boyfriend named Wolf who always wanted to play Dungeons & Dragons.

I kept to my room (which I shared with a family of mice I named after the Flintstones) as much as possible. The witches argued all the time. Or to be more precise, Mary Jane yelled and Audrey sulked.

I knew my days at the house were numbered when I found the gals locked in a "psychic battle" one night. They were sitting across from each other in the living room, eyes firmly locked. Nobody spoke, gestured or even blinked. It was like a staring contest between two demented cats. It was deathly silent, but there must have been some kind of hoodoo in the air, because Casper and Gwendolyn (they were finches) were freaking out.

I bailed soon after, but the odd thing was Audrey disappeared. I just assumed she burst into flames. Or perhaps Mary Jane hacked her up in the bathtub. I wasn't sticking around to find out.