I did much writing tonight - I'm trying for some of the more gonzo gay markets and I think I'm on to something in one of my stories, but the one that I want to work isn't working.

Yes, it's Saturday night and I stayed home to write - I keep looking at my work and it never feels like it belongs anywhere.

But is this better than lustful gazing through a martini glass? Gazing at women in black.

Could you put up with me?

Oh, I finished "On the Road" and I started "Interzone" which is a sort of collection of William S. Burroughs' odds and ends from his career. The book is only 200 pages so I'll finish it shortly. Maybe then to Michael Moorcock's "Cornelius Chronicles" and more writing.

I was window shopping at a Kenneth Cole store Saturday. I found myself wanting designer clothing VERY badly, which is not really like me. I was calculating budget options for spending $600 USD on clothes and another $120 USD on a kick-ass pair of shoes.

Could you see me at the next con with Kenneth Cole?

But is this me? Now that I have money in the bank, I want to buy expensive clothes. Well, if I'm going to a club wearing over $300 worth of clothes, I'd bloody well bettet get laid. I know it doesn't work that way, but it's nice to dream of something surefire - like a surefire method of writing to get published. A surefire method of doing anything to get anything.

Now I'm tired and I'm turning on SNL. I'm going to drink wine-in-a-box called:

CHILLABLE RED

(that's what I want my new nickname to be - Chillable Rick) (Oh, goddess I kill me sometimes)