I opened the door to an anemic-looking specimen who looked like he couldn’t lift a buttered scone without a derrick.

“Sir,” he said, “you don’t know me. My name is George Allen. I’m from Interpol.” He flashed an ID. “We’ve been tracking the movements of a known international terrorist. Here’s a photo.” 

It was the woman in my basement alright. 

“Her name is Hannah Leipzig, alias Sabine Toussaint, alias Jennifer Wilson, alias—”

I held up my hand. “I get it. She’s got a lot of library cards. Go on.”

“We fear she may be hiding in your house at this very moment.”

“Do come in,” I said. “Would you like a buttered scone?”

“No, thank you. Sir, I don’t think you understand. This woman is very dangerous. It’s not safe for you here.”

I pulled out a deck of cards and fanned them. “Go ahead, pick one.”

His lip trembled a bit. 

“Go on. I’m not leaving until you pick one.”

He did what he was told. (Morrison Man has the power to persuade anyone. Except DMV employees, for some reason. I don’t know why that is. Anyway, I digress.)

“Okay,” I said, turning my head. “Don’t show it to me. Got it memorized?” 

He nodded.

“Good. Now, put it back into the deck. Okay. You ready? Watch this.”

I squared up the deck, did a series of cuts, gave a one-handed riffle shuffle, then punched him square in the nose with my left.

“That’s called sleight of hand,” I said. “Now, tell me why you’re really here.”

(Note: I didn’t hit him hard. I number my punches on a scale according to strength. I hit him with a #5, otherwise known as my “hipster be cool” punch.) 

“You’re crazy!” he screamed. “I’m telling you the truth!”

“He’s lying,” said a voice from behind me. 

I’d told her to wait in the basement. I’m glad she didn’t. Morrison Man likes a strong-willed woman. She came up behind me, using my body as a shield. 

I must say here that my enchantment with her was only exceeded by my anger at having my day interrupted in this manner. I’d planned to attend my annual meeting of the Morrison Man Chess Club. Morrison Man chess is like regular chess, only instead of chess pieces, we use live scorpions. Again I digress.

I stared fish-face dead in the eye. “I happen to know you’re not with Interpol. All agents are required to know my identity, as my hands are lethal and my wit is registered as a WMD. When I answered the door, you lacked the look of awe and admiration that I know so well from the eyes of Interpol agents around the world. Now that that’s out of the way, you leave me no other choice but to bubble wrap you and mail you back to your mama’s house with a note saying ‘returned for structural defects’.”

 “No such luck,” he said, suddenly brandishing a Ruger 9mm.

“Cute,” I said. “Tea party favor?”

Tune in next time to find out what happened next.

(Hint: He didn’t find me amusing.)


I was relaxing at home one day, feeding my piranha. That is, feeding him to the grizzly I keep in my garage. (I have a license to keep dangerous pets; I rehabilitate them and send them off as certified social workers). That’s when I heard a strange noise coming from my basement.

Now, the Morrison Man doesn’t like surprises. My parents tried to surprise me with a birthday party when I was eight. I walked in to my house, the lights went on, people shouted, and I roundhoused the entire group before anyone could get out the last syllable. (My uncle had to get a party horn surgically removed from his throat.) I reiterate: surprising me is like surprising a spitting cobra who’s had too much coffee while watching his stocks take a dive. 

Anyway, I went down to investigate. 

Someone was sneaking in through my basement window. 

I clicked on the light and got a good look at my intruder. Blonde, about five-foot-six, with a figure that made me want to race slot cars again (think about it). 

“If you’re looking for trouble,” I said, “he lives with his mom next door and drives a Hyundai to his job at Costco. Is there something I can do for you?”

She explained that she had been hanging out at a restaurant with her girlfriends discussing loop quantum gravity (I told you that so this post can pass the Bechdel test – you’re welcome), when her ex-boyfriend showed up and made a scene.

If there’s one thing a Morrison Man hates, it’s an ex who can’t move on. 

I helped her down and told her to relax. I taught her some of the meditative breathing techniques I learned back in my days at the ashram, where I was personally trained by a sexy female yogi as a reward for helping her when she locked her qi in her karma, if you know what I mean. (I hope you do, because I don’t. Sometimes the Morrison Man is an enigma even to himself).

“So,” I said, “tell me about this raging weevil you used to date.”

She looked at me with terror in her eyes. “Just hope he hasn’t followed me here. You could be in great danger.”

I hadn’t laughed so hard since I saw Leo DiCaprio freeze to death in Titanic.

Once I recovered, I calmly explained to her that she had nothing to worry about. Then I moved in closer to allow her to get a whiff of my natural musk (which has been described as a cross between jet fuel and tiger fur) and she slunk into my embrace. 

I was just about to give her a course in reciprocal CPR when I heard a noise coming from upstairs: An urgent pounding on my door, and an angry male voice accompanying it. 

You know I hate surprises. 

But not as much as I hate interruptions. 

It’s just another day, I thought, as I went upstairs to answer it, stopping once to fix my appearance in the glass of the empty piranha tank. I made a mental note to get another fish, made sure I had nothing else on my agenda for the next twenty-three minutes, and then I opened my door.

Tune in next time, friends, to see how I handled it.

(Hint: Some may have opted to use transactional analysis in this situation… I didn’t.) 


When I was thirteen, I built my first treehouse with my own hands. You might think I was a little old to live in a treehouse, and you’d be right. I didn’t live in it. I leased it out to another kid on my block. With the rent money, plus backing I received from a few neighborhood investors who knew a good thing when they saw it, I was able to build a block of treehouses, and transformed the venture into a highly successful investment opportunity. The whole neighborhood got behind me. Morrison Lad Properties was underway.

Then things went haywire. 

I was bought out by a multinational private equity firm, a bunch of tire-sniffing cash jackals who had nothing better to do than exercise corporate greed on an unsuspecting teenager. They evicted every one of my tenants and turned my treehouses into strip clubs.

Now normally, Morrison Lad would have had quite an interest in these new tenants, but I was too blinded with rage to pay them any mind. 

“A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.” – Francis Bacon.

Francis Bacon, you may have talked like a dweeb, but you had a fine outlook and a righteous last name.

So I continued to live well, I studied the manly art of rustic sophistication, and by age seventeen, I was well on my transformation from Morrison Lad to Morrison Man.

That’s when, by pure chance, I ran into the CEO from that investment firm that bought me out. 

I was at the Javits Center in New York City, giving one of my first lectures on how to digest broken glass, when during the intermission, I was approached by this posey-smelling platypus in wingtips. He shook my hand and congratulated me on my ability to speak like an old soul. 

I asked him if he remembered me.

Of course he didn’t. I was merely one of many minnows in the rabid shark pool that is the world of treehouse building and development. 

“You bought out my business.”

He said I had to be more specific.

“The treehouses,” I said.

He said I still needed to be more specific.

“Never mind,” I said. “By the way, you got something on your face.” 

And I clocked him.

Not my proudest moment, I’ll admit. But I learned a valuable lesson.

Kids, take note: I don’t recommend you go around punching out investors who buy out your treehouse business. I want you to learn from my experience.

The lesson is this: When you give a lecture series, eat beforehand. I was hungry when I was confronted with my old nemesis. And when I get hungry, I get surly. And when I get surly, two things happen: Women flock to my side, and Rolex-wearing rodents get punched. I learned later on that the former is a natural consequence of being honest and true to your philosophy. The latter messes up your knuckle hair.

I helped the guy up, told him we were square, and then wound up taking him out for lunch. 

Over the meal, he confessed he was already going to ask me to lunch on the basis of my inspirational talk, even before I dealt him that fist pie in the face. 

When the check came, he insisted on paying for it after all. 

Since then, I’ve converted him to an all-natural lifestyle. Today he’s one of my best customers. 

Win-win.


So you’ll recall the way I nearly charmed the pants off the lady friend of this paste face at the Princeton Charter Club. Let me just say here that I never really had anything against this weasel, save for the fact that he looked like the kind of guy that would pay someone to tell you he never did a day’s work in his life. And the fact that he was glaring at me, thinking I was after his woman. The Morrison Man is not a predator. He is a highly evolved form of man, a cross between Homo sapiens and a diesel-powered chainsaw. And he can’t help it if women fall into his orbit. But I digress.

We’d just finished dessert and I was wowing the guests with impossi-gami. That’s where I fold sheets of paper into perfect, solid spheres. I learned it in the mystic Orient from the sister of a Buddhist monk. She showed me all four stages of Enlightenment, if you know what I mean.

The weasel was intent on giving me the heave-ho. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

I looked at his woman. “The Morrison Man doesn’t catch planes. He hails them.” Then I winked. I saw her hand go to her back. I shook my head. Now was not the time. She stopped.

“It’s my private jet,” I said. Not taking my eyes off her. “And it’s a two-seater.” I punctuated the sentence by sticking a cannoli between my lips, lighting it, and taking a long, seductive drag.

“I’ve never been on a private jet before,” she said. 

You know how the rest goes. This and that. Blah blah please stay blah blah our lives are better now because of you blah blah. I politely declined. Then I held out my arm.

“The jet’s all warmed up.” (Morrison Man uses double entendre like nunchuks.) “Let’s go.”

She rushed to my side and told the weasel she’d be back. I shrugged and said, “C’est la guerre,” which is French for “you may not want to wait up”.

So we took off and somewhere over the Alps the jet started having engine trouble. Remember, this was the Morrison Man’s jet. It wouldn’t go down without permission. I wasn’t worried. In times of danger, I do three things: 

1) Assess the situation 

2) Laugh

3) Act

I caught a downward draft and banked the beast into it. She let out a resistant growl and then relented, floating on down like the graceful bird she was. The plane did pretty well too.

She settled onto the southeast ridge of a mountain, about 4,000 feet up. I recognized it as the Weisshorn, from when I used to host cocktail parties up here. (Think I’m kidding? What if I told you I found a tiny drink umbrella in the snow?)

“What do we do now,” she said.

“First thing,” I said, “is we figure out how to keep warm.”

Her eyes lit up. “Perhaps we should set the plane on fire.”

“Perhaps,” I said, reaching under my seat and bringing out two wine glasses and a 1992 Petrus. 

To be continued.


The sun’s coming up here on the Weisshorn. It’s quite beautiful, but this isn’t where I originally planned to wind up. My plane was sabotaged.

I have a list of suspects, but numero uno is this pinch-faced little weasel back at the Princeton Charter Club. I don’t belong to the Princeton Charter Club. I was awarded an honorary doctorate in Non-autonomic Hyperkinesiology – the study of making grown men flinch – and I flew to the university to make a speech recounting the time I wrestled an Indian boar for a Japanese game show (my topic was “Diversity”). As I walked off the dais, dodging panties the whole way, I was approached by this twerp who looked like a Brooks Brothers mannequin, right down to the Ken doll gender specificity. He shook my hand – for a second there I thought he’d slipped me a sandwich baggie full of meringue – and told me that the Charter Club was meeting later that evening and I would be most welcome blah blah considered for membership blah blah the best of us is lower than a dog blah blah blah the whole nine. I politely refused.

That is, until I got a look at his girl.

She was the kind of woman that would make you re-think evolution. No random mutation plus non-random natural selection honed slowly over a millions of years could be responsible for that figure.

She walked right past the ferret, lifted a woman’s undergarment off my shoulder, and said, “Interesting fashion choice.”

“It’s called ‘postmodern panty chic’, you’ll read about it in GQ exactly three months from today.”

“So you’re quite the clothes horse,” she said.

“A thoroughbred,” I said. I was about to put the finishing touch on her with a line about studs and oats and feedbags – trust me, it would have been devastating – when the twerp cleared his throat.

“Your boyfriend is gargling at you,” I said.

She licked her teeth and said she’ll see me later on.

I said she sure would.

I was due in Zurich the next day for a Swiss television interview, but I told myself the Swiss would have to wait. There was a matter of utmost urgency requiring my attention at the Princeton Charter Club. As I watched it sashay away from me, I noticed the polecat was glaring at me.

I shrugged. He turned.

It was going to be an interesting evening.

Little did I know I’d board my private jet the next morning only to have it crash land in the Alps, leaving me stranded on the Weisshorn watching the sun come up.

How it all went down will have to wait for next time. There’s a mountain lion creeping up about three feet away from me as I write this. He’ll go great with a ’73 Chateau Margaux.