At First, Writing For The New Yorker

You Know, When You Need Drugs And You Don't Have A Lot Of Money, What You'll Do Is You'll Hang Out With People Who Will Give You Drugs. Right?

I Don't Like Travelling If I Know I Have To Write About It.

My Hands Tend To Be Full Enough Dealing With People Who Hate Me For Who I Am. Concentrate Too Hard On The Millions Of People Who Hate You For What You Are And You're Likely To Turn Into One Of Those Unkempt, Sloppy Dressers Who Sag Beneath The Weight Of The Two Hundred Political Buttons They Wear Pinned To Their Coats And Knapsacks.

The Only Bright Spot In The Entire Evening Was The Presence Of Kevin "tubby" Matchwell, The Eleven-year-old Porker Who Tackled The Role Of Santa With A Beguiling Authenticity. The False Beard Tended To Muffle His Speech, But They Could Hear His Chafing Thighs All The Way To The North Pole.

Write Relentlessly, Until You Find Your Voice. Then, Use It.