"Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge
I'm tryin' not to lose my head"
-- Grandmaster Flash and the Furious 5

My roommate has a real name, but we've taken to calling him "Bottomfeeder" after a song by a friend of mine named Steve Skinner in Aspen. And, for the record, Bottomfeeder isn't sure this new Internet venture of mine is such a good idea. Of course, he's never been much a fan of the written word ... mine or anyone else's.

"All of us learn to write in the second grade," he told me. "Most of us go on to greater things."

"Interesting point," I replied. "Who said that?"

"I did," he said. "Quote me."

Then he polished off another of my Molsons, lit up a Pall Mall he'd shoplifted from a convenience store on Melrose, and began frantically searching for the TV remote as though there was a cigarette fire in the couch cushions. It was 7:30 a.m. Good news. Nearly his bedtime.

Bottomfeeder is my landlord's nephew and he lives on my sofa. Not just sleeps there, LIVES there. Rent free. Like a homeless guy on a park bench, except with access to my fridge and beer and cable TV. Why? Well, due to a complex legal settlement -- struck shortly after a cooking experiment gone wrong resulted in a large, ridiculously destructive grease fire in my building -- well, I can't get into exactly why he lives on my sofa.

I CAN tell you that Bottomfeeder is unemployed, out of shape, quite possibly in need of some sort of intervention, AND spends nearly all of his non-supine time figuring out creative ways to grow facial hair. He's like the love spawn of Kramer and George Costanza from Seinfield.