Mike Cohen

So Mike wrote for us for a long ass time. He was one of the first writers we picked up, and was a fucking goldmine. He is dependable, reliable, writes his ass off, a ride-or-die dude and one of the funniest people I have met. He bought in to the “we don’t have money to pay you, but this is going to be big and you can be down for the ride” speech. It was true, and we all went on a ride. We showed out appreciation at one point for his service by just throwing him an free and unexpected $1,000, and he did a bunch of our cover stories. I knew he was good people early on when he called me up to yell at me. We were hustling hard and had sold out at Fat Beats in NYC and Mike was upset that we hadn’t gotten around to restocking. It was kind of the fault of our NYC partner, but Cohen tore into me. Fair enough. And it showed he cared.

There have been numerous Cohen moments, from trying to sell “stuff” to the artists he was interviewing to getting silly drunk with Sheek Louch and becoming BFFs only to need to borrow money from my partner to get back to SI to realizing he had money all along and was too drunk to realize so he sent my partner a book, Mike’s a really good dude, with very high standards, for himself and others. Which isn’t too common these days.

So the other night the above mentioned partner asked if Cohen had sent me the letter that got him fired from his last job, delivering pizzas. I hadn’t, but upon request, Mike sent it over.

Pure Cohen.

Dear Madam of XX XXXXXX Rd.

It’s the god-awful [pizza company name] driver here. Before anything, I commend you on being a consistent decent tipper and even though your complaint was uncalled for I harbor no ill feelings.

Arriving back at the store and hearing about your complaint regarding my allegedly crude delivery tactics, threw me into a paranoid fury. I thought you were a Soviet spy attempting to sabotage my fine standing in this community.

I’ve reached the conclusion, however, that you are merely a myopic xenophobe with deep loathing for crooked hats and sagged pants. I assure you there is nothing to fear.

I seriously doubt that I didn’t say “thank you,” because I am a man of unimpeachable good manner as well as honor. These are alien concepts to you, I understand because anyone with a spine would respectfully confront the person that they felt disrespected by and not call their job to ensure a socioeconomic consequence is inflicted because your fragile self-esteem suffered a self inflicted blow. I say self inflicted because your suffering takes root in your own insecurity.

Perhaps I did absentmindedly forget to say “thank you,” though.  It’s only because my mind was on more important things than giving you a fake smile. Ya see, as a freelance journalist I deem it absolutely necessary to read the New York Times cover to cover, especially Sunday, today.  I might have been thinking about starving Haitian children who eat mud. Yes, mud.  Or Pakistan’s nukes always give me pause. Sometimes I worry about the 1% of American boys born with genital deformities because of the endocrine disrupters in our water and food supply – deformities such as the urethra exiting the penis at the base and not the tip.  Then there’s the little Cambodian girls kidnapped and sold to sex traffickers.  Cholera endemic in Zimbabwe, anybody.

My apologies for hurting your feelings before you poisonously inflate yourself with sausage and vodka sauce.   I understand your hardship. Like Justice Sotomayor, I empathize. I only hope that upon final judgment St. Peter will forgive for such a vile societal infraction.  But then again I’m Jewish so I imagine I’ll burn for that.

Most Cordially,

Michael A. Cohen