Mead Medici

It was simple.

“We want to pay you gobs of money,” he said.

This was a curve ball.

Dreams of earning money had died upon declaring myself an English major in college. Upon signing up for Graduate school, I’d resigned myself to living a debt-ridden, monk-like existence.

To supplement my nonexistent income, I’d taken up writing for fishing and hunting magazines.

Wading through the crisp Colorado mountain stream, I pursue the mighty trout with only a rod and my wits.

Crouched behind a duck blind in the dead of winter, I huddle next to my trusty lab, Duncan, scanning the horizon for the next swarm of mallards.

“Hemingwayesque,” he called it.

I’m not an outdoorsman. I’m an indoorsman. Animals tend to bite me.

“Go on.” I said.
Simply put, they were going to pay me gobs of money to write. Hunting, fishing, boxing, bull fighting, whatever. As long as it involved sweat, death, and manliness, I could pick the topic. I’d be set up in a nice place of my choice with a lavish expense account, a personal cook—no distractions to keep me from writing. The down side? I’d have to shift my dust jacket image—no more rock concert t’s and Elvis Costello glasses. I’d have to grow a beard, wear more flannel, maybe take up pipe smoking and actually get a dog (Whether I named it Duncan or not was up to me, but I was told that Bitsy and Tinkerbell were out.) That, and I had to start punctuating the end of my paragraphs with “Crisp Mountain Beer” instead of periods.

It didn’t always have to be Crisp Mountain Beer, specifically. He represented a specialty publishing house, Stout Stories, which represented a number of horizontally and vertically integrated conglomerates—I could choose from any number of brands and products, mostly booze and other vice products. After a long day on the water, alone in my dinghy, I could stare across the motionless lake, warming my cockles with glass of Oakhouse whisky, aged 18 years. I could also exhale thick plumes of smoke after lighting up a Buchanan Gold cigar—it was up to me.

They were, as he put it, the future of advertising. “With Tivo, Netflix and the internet, product placement is the last bastion of advertising,” he told me.

I was confused—from what I’d understood, I’d chosen an anachronistic medium still available, save for stone tablets. —

“Yes,” he said, “Print is on the way out. However, the few people who still manage to pick up a book are what we in the advertising community like to call ‘Alpha Consumers.’ Higher education, interest in luxury goods, more money to burn.”

“So if regular consumers are canned sardines, getting an Alpha is like landing a Dorado?”

He beamed at my fishing metaphor.

“Exactly. I knew you were right for this.”

I envisioned the future me on the back of a hardcover—patchy beard, red face, overheated from the flannel, eyes watery due to pipe smoke and Duncan’s dander.

“I’m worried about this impacting my standing as a writer.”

“You’re worried that people will actually read your work?”

“No…”

“Because they will. Every author we’ve ever backed has made the best seller list.”

“Really?”

“Really. This isn’t bloated Orson Welles selling jug wine. This is classy. This is subtle. We see your talent. We want to encourage it, fertilize it, let it grow. We just want to grow with you. You get to give the world your message—so do we. It’s a win-win.”

We both knew what I was really worried about—being seen as a sell out. He assured me that all my checks would be from Stout Publishing, and that no one would ever know about our arrangement—it wouldn’t appear to be advertising, just preferences, color, flavor.

The beard came in better than I’d expected, and I really only had to wear the flannel for photo shoots. Though I’m not a fan of the cigars, I’ve found I’m a huge fan of Finnigan Scotch, and a few of Winemar Vineyard’s cabernets.

Though I have to keep him in the backyard of my Spanish style villa due to allergies, I did buy a dog.

He’s with me on the back of my first book, the New York Times best seller “The Mountain and the Sun,” about a man low on water, losing himself in the heat and the hunt. He’s low on water, but he packed plenty of cigars and scotch.

The dog in the photo is a black lab.

I named him Orson.

Devil's Haircut

For those that have called my attention to the lack of content as of late, I apologize. (Chernobilsky, this is for you)

I've been working this piece through in my mind for a while--it isn't a final draft, but I hope you enjoy it.

Devil’s Haircut

When they show God in the movies, it’s always a curveball. He’s a woman. He’s black. When you meet the devil, you’re not surprised. He’s pretty much exactly what you’d expected. I mean, he doesn’t have horns, or a tail, or a goatee or any of that crap. He just kind of exudes his devil-tude. I’m not really supposed to go into any of the details—I signed some sort of a non-disclosure waiver-thingy, but he introduced himself as Damon, “you know, like Matt,” kind of giving me that finger pointy thing with a wink. It was kinda cool, because you knew that he knew that finger point thing was something that only jerks do, but because he knew, it somehow became cool again. He made a lot of little “you’re cool because you’re in on the joke” jokes…but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The devil, Damon, dresses like a stockbroker on his day off. Designer jeans and a button down dress shirt with uneven bands of color running lengthwise. That, and a wrist watch with more dials and indicators than the dashboard of your car. He let me in on a little secret—he was always letting you in on secrets—the watch was a calculated move. It hung from his wrist like a necklace. He never bothered to get it fitted. He wanted it to look like he didn’t really care/didn’t have the time, while actually, he liked the fact that the more links it had, the more metallic clicking it produced when he spoke—he always spoke with his hands—calling attention to the expensive watch. That was basically his look—calculated casual. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of the fact that he was cooler than you—just so long as you knew.

He met me at a Starbucks on Sunday—apparently, that’s when Damon does most of his business. When we got inside, he gave a signal to the barista for two of something—the barista went to work immediately—apparently, the Devil was a regular. He then pulled up to a table, lounging in one chair, draping his arm across another. He pulled up his black, wire-rim aviators, then plopped what looked like a giant screenplay in front of me. It wasn’t a screenplay, but somehow, you know the devil has one. “This is it,” he told me. He started moving his hands in parallel, as if taking measurements of the air. “I like you,”—he always tells you how much he likes you—“so I’m giving you something a little different from the standard contract.” You get three days, satisfaction guaranteed, your soul back if you’re not 100% pleased with the results.”

I know, these things always turn out bad. I know that eternity is a really long time. But everyone else was happy, and I wasn’t. My life was either stuck in traffic, stuck in an office, or stuck in my apartment. Sometimes I wondered if I’d already sold my soul, and that this was the result. I wanted to get un-stuck.

The devil’s barista brought our drinks. He came to our table—he didn’t just scream our orders or our names—he brought the drinks himself. Damon reached in his pocket—not his back pocket, for his wallet, but his front pocket—he had a silver money clip, the same burnished silver as his watch—and he started peeling off some cash. He made the move—it was a gesture—I knew, he knew, what would happen next. “No, no!” said the barista “I couldn’t possibly.” The devil did the whole “I insist” thing, while at the same time putting his roll firmly back into his pocket. The barista gave the devil what almost looked like a little salute—a little one fingered point to his eyebrow, gave a little nod to me, and he was gone. The devil shrugged with mock embarrassment, then sipped his drink, pinkie extended.

It was like having coffee with the Godfather.

I stared into the bowl of murky black the barista had left in front of me. “Drink it,” Damon said, “you’ll like it.” I did, and immediately felt more awake that I had for years. I think I must have jumped a little in my seat, because Damon laughed. “It’s like espresso, only stronger, and more of it.” The devil looked at me with raised eyebrows and a smile, then glanced down to the contract. I was taking up too much of his time. I reached down to my pocket, in search of a pen. Of course, the Damon was six steps ahead—he handed me a heavy pen made of a metal so soft it almost melted into my hand.

I signed.

The devil took his pen back, and took a small notebook out of his pocket. He scribbled something down. “Show up at this address—you’ve got an appointment in 30 minutes. Ask for Frank.” He gulped down the rest of what was in his bowl—what had to be half a liter of scalding liquid—then flicked down his sunglasses. “If there’s a problem, you’ve got my cell.”

The loud purr of a foreign engine sent a tremor through Starbucks, and then he was gone.

I felt a little, I dunno, naked. I felt like the devil and I had something meaningful going, and that maybe we’d go and get breakfast and chat, but then he left abruptly, leaving me in bed without enough sheets to cover myself. I started thinking that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

I looked at the address on the paper. Uptown.

I caught a cab, and was there in a little over thirty minutes.

When the cab left, I looked at the building, and again at the address. The devil had sent me to—a salon? I looked at the address again, then went in.

Everything was white. White marble counters, a white porcelain chandelier. At the front desk, a thin man dressed in black spoke on the telephone, his back turned to me. He reminded me of the devil, if only because of his ironic European-mullet hairdo—again, he knew how uncool the mullet was on everyone else, but because he knew that you knew that he was doing it on purpose, making a statement, he was cool again. He turned to reveal three days of dark stubble on his pale face, gauged earlobes. “One sec.” He put the phone to his boney chest. He looked me up and down, starting at my tennis shoes, going up to my face, then detouring back for one last look at the shoes. “Can I help you?” His tone implied that he couldn’t.

I said I had an appointment. He gave me a smile—sure I did—and then casually perused the large white book in front of him. His needle like finger paused about half way down.

He hung up the phone.

I was talking to a different man. He asked to take my coat, then led me to the back of the salon, farther back than I thought it would go. As we walked through the salon, I was surprised—I didn’t see any other patrons. I didn’t see anyone cutting hair. I looked at the brilliant white tile floor—I didn’t even see any hair. We walked down a set of stairs, the man looking over his shoulder, shooting me a smile every few seconds. At the bottom of the stairs, the thin man pulled open a door and ushered me in.

The stairway had been dark, and I was expecting my eyes to adjust to another bright, white room. Instead, there was soft light. Wood paneling. Red leather chairs. The thin man asked me to take a seat—Frank would be right with me. Would I like a water? A soda? Some tea? I shook my head, and the thin man left. I slumped down in the red chair—it felt more appropriate for me to be shorter. It was as if I were 4 again, getting a haircut at the barber’s down the street. Spaced a few feet apart on the shelf below the mirrors, there were jars full of blue liquid with combs inside. Old magazines. There was even a mini-candy cane pole attached to the wall, plugged in to an outlet so that it turned, appearing to spiral ever upward.

A black sheet flapped in front of me. It descended onto my chest, and was tied in the back, only after a small slip of crepe paper was tied around my neck. The mirror revealed a short man, barely over five feet. He was clean shaven, a few whisps of finely manicured blond hair covered his scalp. His eyes were bright blue.

Frank didn’t ask me to point to one of the seven or eight “men’s cuts” displayed on the wall opposite. He spun my chair around, put his hands below my jaw, and turned my head from side to side. He pointed my head down and stood on his toes, taking in the full lay of the land.

Frank opened a drawer, taking out one pair of scissors. He unscrewed the cap the closest of the blue liquid jars filled with combs—with a pair of metal tongs, he removed one, giving it a gentle flick, sending a liquid line of blue spray into the sink.

Frank was thorough. On both sides of my head, he took my hair in his thumb and forefingers, measuring, calculating. He snipped in small, controlled movements, altering only a few hairs at a time. He took his time. After what felt like an hour or so, my mind began to wander. This place really was like where I used to get my hair cut, down to the large jar of colored lollipops, reserved for the good boys who sit still. The only difference was that Frank didn’t have many picures. There wasn’t one of him with his wife or girlfriend by the Grand Canyon. No graduations or baby pictures. No buddies with fishing rods, displaying the winning catch. The only shot stuck to Frank’s mirror was one of Frank, his bright blue eyes staring straight forward, smiling for his barber’s license.

The black sheet was whisked off of me. Frank took off the crepe paper around my neck, and slowly took an electric razor to my neck and my sideburns. He then dusted me off with a camel hair brush, then stepped aside so I could see his work.

It was as if I’d stepped out of Frank’s lair to the bright, white room upstairs. My eyes had to take a moment to adjust. Yes, it was still me. Same nose, eyes, lips, ears. Everything was just…framed differently. My ears didn’t look so uneven. My nose didn’t look so big.

Frank spun me around, holding up a mirror so I could look at the back. I was suddenly mesmerized by the back of my head. Something I’d never taken much time to look at before suddenly held me in rapt attention. I would have kept staring, but Frank eventually put the mirror down. He washed off the scissors and the brush, placing the brush back in the blue liquid. He gave me a little nod, and then was gone.

I stood up. I suddenly felt very tired. I went back up the stairs, back up to the salon, only to find it dark, utterly uninhabited. For a moment I thought the thin man had locked me in. But I tried the door, and was able to make it outside into the cold, night air. It was too late to call a cab, so I walked downtown. On the walk, I thought about my haircut—this was it? I mean, it was a great haircut—but c’mon now, my soul for a haircut? I felt like I’d given away the family cow and wound up with beans. I needed to call Damon in the morning.

The light outside my window woke me—I was late. I didn’t have time to shower or to shave—I just tossed on Sunday’s clothes and ran out the door, only to realize I’d left my keys by the bed—I sprinted back to my room, grabbed the keys, then paused and stared at my bed. Specifically, I stared at my white pillows, flattened from a night’s sleep. No bits of hair, no stray strands. I looked at my watch, but before I made my way to the door, I picked up my pillow, looking at both sides. Nothing.

I expected to be at least an hour late for work, but for once, my lateness worked out in my favor. The morning crush of traffic was already off the road—when I got into the office, I was only about fifteen minutes late. This was still enough to give Cheryl, my boss, license to make my life a living hell—no signature required.

When I got off the elevator, I could see Cheryl waiting for me through office’s glass double doors. She was perched on high black heels, one of which was tapping. Her eyes were firmly affixed to the office clock, but not so firmly that they didn’t snap back to me when I sheepishly pulled at the heavy glass door, then pushed—after 6 years, I still couldn’t get it right when under pressure.

Cheryl turned to the door, her face crinkled up as if her nose, rather than her ears, had alerted her to my presence. I cringed—the fight long being knocked out of me, flight not an option, I prepared for the blows. But none came. Cheryl looked as surprised as I felt. She smiled a little, rotated her tight string of pearls between her fingers, then turned on her heel.

I was off the hook? Our receptionist, Nancy, also braced for the coming flood of venom, gave me a confused look, followed by a smile. Cheryl barely crossed my desk all day—only once did she bother me, only to say that she was going to get some coffee, and would I like some? Without her constant hovering and browbeating, the bulk of my work was done before lunch. I spent my extra time getting ahead a little, and even struck up a bit of a conversation with Nancy. She told me about a pub quiz her and some of her friends were going to the next weekend—did I want to come? In six years I hadn’t been invited to a non work function that didn’t involve a Styrofoam cake from Ralph’s.

Up on my work, I was able to slip out early, again beating traffic. At home, the fridge was empty. I hadn’t shopped in weeks—I looked at my watch—not only did I have time to grab food, I had time to walk.

On the way to the grocery store, two people smiled at me, a small black boy on a tricycle outside his house, and a withered old woman with a small white dog, yellowed at the fringes. I bent down and pet the dog. He licked my fingers.

The grocery store was a madhouse. With a small basket, I maneuvered through the crowd. I figured I’d cook an omelet—I grabbed eggs, cheese, and a six pack of soda, then went down to the produce isle to find something green to throw in.

I’m not really sure what happened next. For me, interactions with women are car accidents. Things happen in the blink of an eye—I’m never sure how I got from point A to B. Something usually winds up broken. The other person always insists I’m at fault.

From what I can piece together, it went this way—Bette (I’m not sure when I learned her name), said something about my groceries—cheese, eggs and soda—then said something about that being unhealthy. Maybe she called it “bachelor food.” I immediately went on the defensive, insisting I was about to buy a green vegetable. She laughed. Soon thereafter, I got her number—I think that’s when I learned her name. She said she’d cook me dinner. When she smiled up at me, she looked at me as if she were talking to a tall man. It was only when I turned away that I realized—she was looking at my hair.

Still buzzed, I headed towards the checkout. It wasn’t that far from the produce isle—the long lines had extended out, meeting me half way. A man with a beard, suspenders, and a nametag that said “Sam,” walked by and gave me a nod, pushing a dolly loaded with canned tuna. He stopped, placed the dolly to the side of the isle, then made a U-Turn. He walked back towards the checkout and ducked under the spiral of wire separating the nearby closed out line, lifted the wire, and waved me over.

After checkout, he told me to have a nice night. I responded in kind.

It was the best omelet I’d ever had. I’m not sure why. Was it the eggs? Had I worked up an appetite with my walk? Or had the luck of the day simply seeped into everything else?

I smiled and ran my hands through my hair. I put the pans in the sink to soak, then walked to the bathroom. I turned on the light and stared into the mirror.

My hair looked perfect, untouched by the day, the night of sleep. Not one hair had moved—not in a creepy, plastic way—it just looked perfect. I took out my comb and ran it through my hair. Every strand fell back into place. Mussed it with my hands. The same. I filled the sink with water. I sunk my head into the sink. When I came up, my face was soaked. But my hair was dry. Not too dry—but just right.

The next day, I woke up early, refreshed. I made breakfast, still getting out early—I beat the traffic. Cheryl, get this, Cheryl actually smiled at me when she saw me at my desk. She told me something good about the work I’d done yesterday—I was too surprised to take it in—I think it was something about my punctuation on a memo—and again, the day went quickly.

When I got home, there was still some light—I decided to bring a book to the park. I had a lot of books, but rarely got to read them. At first, the walk was pleasant. The sun was going down, giving every object a yellow, cinematic glow. People in the park smiled, but it wasn’t like the day before. They smiled, but they didn’t smile at me. They didn’t even acknowledge me, meet my eyes. They smiled above me, at my hair. I was the old lady, my hair a cute yellowing dog perched on my skull.

It was unsettling. I sat down at a park bench, but the people kept looking. I left the park. I needed to talk to Damon. As soon as I got home, I rummaged through my dresser drawer, searching for the scrap of paper with Ralph’s address and Damon’s number. It wasn’t there. Of course. I tossed about my dirty laundry to find Sunday/Monday’s pants. There, in the left pocket, was the paper.

I dialed the number.

It rang a couple of times, but then clicked over to voice mail. I tried again, this time it went directly to voice mail.

The devil was screening my calls.

I looked at my watch. It was getting late. Crap. What was the deal? Three days? What exactly did that mean? Three twenty four hour periods? When did the first one start? When I signed the contract, or when the devil first appeared? Or did he mean three days—I looked out the window at the setting sun, and immediately knew—as soon as the light was gone, the deal was set.

I made one more call—straight to voicemail. This time, I left a message. “I want out.”

I frantically thought of some other way to void the contract. I paced around the house, trying to think of an answer—it was in the jar of pens on my desk, the pair of orange circles poking out of the top.

I grabbed the scissors and headed to the bathroom—as I raised the scissors to my head, there was a knock at the door.

I looked out my bathroom window. The sun had stopped setting, had stopped, inches away from the skyline, mid movement.

I knew who was at the door.

Not taking the strand of hair out from the scissors, I carefully made my way to the door.

The devil let himself in. This time, Damon looked a little more traditional. Not quite casual, he was in dinner attire—black suit, red shirt, no tie. The devil was drunk. More accurately, the devil seemed half drunk, half hung over. The devil is an angry drunk.

“Put the scissors down.”

I didn’t put the scissors down. The devil ran his hand through his hair, and each hair dropped perfectly back into place. Perfect, calculated causal.

The devil sighed. “It was a good haircut, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, ever so slightly, causing the scissors to run up against my hair. The devil cringed, as if his hangover had kicked in just that much more.

“C’mon now. It wasn’t just good. It was fantastic. Frank does a fantastic job.” The devil pointed to his own hair.

I told him his hair looked great, but that mine wasn’t working out.

The devil gestured with his hands, causing his watch to jingle. “Listen, I went out on a limb for you. Do you know how hard it is to get an appointment with Frank? That guy is booked for centuries! I had to pull some major strings. And now you want to renege on our contract, at the last minute?”

I told him I hadn’t known how hard it was to get in to Frank’s. But the hair wasn’t working out.

The Devil was pissed. “Are you trying to get something extra, here? What, you want a little more money in your pocket? Women? Power?”

I wavered for a moment. The devil is very good at picking up on wavering.

“Listen,” the Devil said, “all that comes with the hair. You’ve already seen some of the effects—I promise they’ll keep pouring in. By the end of the week, you’ll get a raise. By the end of the month, you’ll have a girlfriend. Wait a few years—I kid you not—you’ll be a Senator.”

I started to think. The devil always makes you think.

“It’s all in the hair.”

The devil nodded to my hair, breaking eye contact with me. Again, I remembered the people in the park. It gave me the willies.

I wanted out. The devil asked me if I was sure, one hundred percent sure.

I was.

The devil frowned, looked away, then returned with a smile, as if something had just occurred to him. Nothing is so disconcerting as when the devil smiles like this.

“There is a clause in the contract.”

There is always a clause in the Devil’s contracts.

That night, in my bathroom, the Devil gave me a haircut. It was brutal. I sat on the toilet while he worked, orange handled scissors in one hand, an oversized bowl in the other. Chunks of hair hit the floor as the devil destroyed Frank’s work.

Satisfied, the Devil let himself out.

I cleaned up the hair first. There was a lot of it, much of which had fallen back behind the toilet, in the hard to reach area where the pipes run through the wall. Finally, I worked up the nerve. I went to the mirror.

The Devil had not cut my hair haphazardly, like I’d thought. The Devil had used technique. My ears appeared to have moved horizontally in opposite directions. My nose hooked to the right. My eyes—when did my eyes begin to look in opposite directions? My lips were a perpetual frown. The Devil’s haircut was everything that Frank’s was, but opposite.

Soon thereafter, I lost my job. I eventually called Bette, and she came to my apartment to make dinner—it was short meal. Eventually, she asked me to take my baseball cap off, and for the rest of the evening, couldn’t stop staring at the battlefield that was my scalp.

Every morning from then on out, I woke to more hair on my pillow. The good news is that the Devil’s haircut turned out to be temporary. The bad news?

I was bald within a month.

The Tenderloin Trifecta

Today, in a ten minute period, I saw someone:

1) Buying crack
2) Smoking crack
3) Throwing up due to crack.

Okay, as to the third bit of evidence, I have no actual, hard and fast proof that it was crack that made him puke. There was no close visual inspection of said puke, nor did I send any samples back to the laboratory for analysis. But I’m not just working on pure intuition here—there was circumstantial evidence to back up my claim.

1) His demeanor
a. Though before today I would not have deemed myself an expert on crack/users of crack, I direct you back to numbers one and two in my Trifecta claim.
b. That being said, the guy looked like he was on crack.

2) His location
a. Though before today I would not have been able to tell you where a good place was to find crack/crack heads in the city, I again submit numbers one through two as evidence.
b. Now secure in my knowledge of places to purvey crack, I can attest that aforementioned gagging guy was in CLOSE PROXIMITY to crack smoking and dealing.

Thus, though I still cannot claim with 100% certainty that he had crack in his system, I believe I have proved, if not beyond a reasonable doubt, at least by a preponderance of the evidence, that sick boy was in fact sick due to crack.

That or booze. Come to think of it, there were a lot of drunk guys, too.

Still, I’m going with Trifecta.

(In case you’re curious, Law School is going great.)

Real Clowns Do Cry

My girlfriend was a Mexican wrestler
While I’m just a circus clown
She’d practice with her partner
Whenever I wasn’t around

They’d get each other in head locks
Practice breaking chairs
They rip off each other’s masks
Pull at each other’s hair

Whenever I’d come home
They’d act as if nothing had changed
I’d notice their new rug burns
The furniture, rearranged

I’d wash away my thick make up
But couldn’t wipe off my frown
I missed their reindeer games
They’d play without me around

Things were all fine
‘Till I came home one day
To find balloon animals
In much disarray

My monkey wasn’t in his tree
He was straddling a coconut
My puppy was on all fours
Like some common mutt

The room was thick with smoke
A hint of Mexican blend
Someone had messed with my porridge
But who and why, to what end?

I took off my fake nose
When I saw the note that said
“I’m sick of all your clowning
There’s a present under the bed”

The number one rule of clowns
Is to never cry out loud
We keep it all inside
To not upset the crowd

But this clown broke the rules
When I found her last good bye
The picture that she left
Brought a river to my eye

Ninja, You Are Put on Notice

Ninja Attack


My best friend was attacked by a ninja
It happened in the dead of night
It probably wouldn’t be that funny
Lucky my friend is alright

My pal was happy and smiling
When he stepped out of the bar
Unbeknownst, a ninja was stalking
When he motioned to hail a car

No one saw
The figure in black
That stealthy ninja
Who launched the attack

He felt the first blow
Then fell to the floor
But it wasn’t over
The ninja had more

He kicked my friend
Straight in the face
Faded back in the night
Without a trace

We’ll never know
What provoked the attack
What caused said ninja
To approach from the back

Did he hit on the bastard’s girlfriend?
Did he say a disparaging word?
Was he trashing Mutant Turtles?
Do you think the ninja heard?

Whatever the case
My friend is okay
He lives on to fight
On some other day

But if on some evening
When leaving a bar
I glimpse a katana
Or a throwing star

I’ll pretend not to notice
And then double back
I’ll sneak up behind
That figure in black

I’ll hit him with a rock
Then kick him in the face
When I’m done with El Ninja
He’ll get his own parking space

So listen close, you ninja
I’m after you, your Ma and your Pa
When I’m done, your whole family
Will eat sushi through a straw

Inspired by Merritt

Just posted an article on Flakmag.com about Stephin Merritt-- http://flakmag.com/music/lyricists/merritt.html

Here is my best attempt at a lyrical homage:

Bulb

Love is like a tungsten filament
Small and rare and intricately bent
It glows for years, it breaks
And then it’s spent.

Hmm... my next love simile--Love is like a marathon, or perhaps an 18 hour flight to Australia?

The Biscuit Will Miss His Cris...

Jay-Z has given up Cristal, and with good reason. As it happens, my current daily consumption of “Cris” is seven cases a day. Now, I know what you’re thinking—is this all the champagne C-Biscuit buys daily? Heck no, my delicate palate requires variety. Pack on seven cases of Dom and you’re on the money. Do I drink it all? Please. At least half of it goes into bathing. Another quarter has to be dolled out to my posse, leaving me with only about 4 cases for personal consumption. It’s not all imbibed while partying, or held opposite my mic wielding hand, while on stage, feeling my flow. Little known fact—Cris is delicious on cheerios.

This leads to a tricky question… if I support Jay-Z’s position, should I cut out Cris from both my consumption, and my lyrics?

Will I never again be able to go on stage and spit my rhyme:

Bling on my wrist and bitches on the flo’
Butler’s pourin’ Cris and I’m sayin mo’ mo’!

Or the timeless classic:

My Bentley Limo’s rollin and I’m feelin’ pretty nice
The ladies all love me ‘cause my mouth is full of ice
I’m drinkin’ so much, that every time I piss
It’s ten percent water and the rest is all Cris’

I couldn’t ever touch my lyrics—they don’t belong to me anymore, they belong to the people. So now it comes down to my Cris consumption. I’ve decided that I can’t immediately cut out Cristal cold turkey—this year’s tour cannot be held up while I and my posse are in Cris withdrawal. Therefore I have decided to slowly phase out Cris over a 10 month period—by mid two thousand seven, I will be a strictly Dom and Krug man.

Though my breakfast cereal will never be the same, I’m with Jay-Z, both in spirit, and in action.

Peace-out,

C-Biscuit