When the treacherous and unpredictable seas of art and commerce enervate even the most dauntless of our kind, itinerant scribes oft times find themselves in want of a home. A sufficiently peaceful harbor in which to moor their buffeted and battered vessels. ‘Tis then we weary wordsmiths seek out a major studio in hopes of procuring an overall deal.
When The Tonight Show was cantering through its year-long goodbye victory lap, Andrew Nicholls and I were far from coasting to the finish line, sipping jumbo daiquiris and hoovering astonishing powders out of topless starlets’ Miu Miu pumps. While Johnny was retiring to enjoy his riches, Malibu estate, yacht and the loving arms and legs of his young 4th wife, Andrew and I had accumulated families that required regular feedings.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 