Where was I? Ah yes, stuck up here on this mountain.

So I told you about that Princeton Charter Club dinner I was invited to. Let me say now that under normal circumstances, were my car to break down in front of the Princeton Charter Club, I’d push it for ten miles so as not to be seen anywhere near it. Of course, all my cars are fueled by testosterone and grizzly bear sweat, and they never break down without written permission. But I digress.

You’ll recall it was a woman who expressed her interest in having me there, and a Morrison Man heeds the call of the sex opposite no matter what form it takes. Too bad her spoiled prep school starch jockey boyfriend was watching over her, and me.

The food was passable at the Princeton Charter Club. I could tell just by looking at it that the risotto espoused questionable ethics. Not to mention I normally don’t eat steak unless I carve it off the yak myself. 

Starchy prep weasel’s woman sat across from me. “So, you seem like an interesting fella,” she said. “What’s your story?”

All eyes were on me. I found out later this was part of the interrogation session for entrance into the club. So I told her.

“I have two hobbies, and both are banned in Sweden. I don’t like anything phony. I once punched a taxi cab in the grill for overcharging me. That was back in my raw youth. I like my beer hoppy enough to burn holes in chrome. I like wine that’s refined and elegant but can also insult your granny with sailor talk. I can juggle six Indian clubs on fire – not the clubs, mind you, I mean I set myself on fire and I juggle. I once put a hipster in the trunk of my car and drove him to his mother’s house for an explanation. All my tuxedos are made from the spun silk of Indonesian Tree Spiders. I can tie three cherry stems into sheepshanks with my tongue all while whistling Sorabji’s Opus Clavicembalisticum – a tune which up until recently was deemed unwhistleable by the International Coalition on Pretentious Tripe. Other than that, I’m just a regular guy.”

Then I winked at her.

She made the beginnings of a sweep of her arm to clear off the table, but stopped when I held up my hand and mouthed the words, “Not now.”

Preppy starch weasel spoke up then. “Aren’t you due in Zurich or something?”

“Easy there, Kissinger,” I said. “I’d like to stick around and explore the seedy underbelly of the Princeton Charter Club for a while.”

Well, what happened next will have to wait, I’m afraid. The mountain lion I wrestled last week put up too good of a fight and I didn’t eat him out of respect. But he’s back now and he brought friends.

Till next time.


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.