"Also," I said, "since you're not paying me jack shit, I don't much care what I say. So this should be pretty relaxed."

Of course, it was no such thing. I proceeded to rave, froth and fulminate non-stop for over an hour. I told them I wasn't really Chris Locke -- they wouldn't know -- but that I'd just bumped into him downtown, and he'd promised me 20 bucks if I'd come here tonight and say whatever came into my head. I told them that the secret of my success was lying and making shit up -- and that there was a fine line between those two. Even I had no fucking idea what I was talking about. Not that that's anything new. I delivered strong opinions on matters I know nothing about, fabricated a revisionist history of the world economy since 1983, and laughed at all my own jokes. Sometimes the audience laughed along. I suspect to pretend they had the least clue why I was laughing. I sure as hell didn't.

We all learned something, I think. Me, that I can extemporaneously pontificate on any totally x-random bullshit and make people (or at least myself) believe I'm a bloody genius. They, that I should have been sedated and taken to a quiet place.

I found this email waiting when I returned to my cold, empty lair.

Dude,

You were fabulous, and I'm not blowing smoke up your Ying Yang either. That's was AWESOME! I hope we can get you again somewhere on down the line. I got so busy I didn't even get to buy a book from you, so I may be bugging you to buy one of your signed copies someday. Too bad you don't drink beers anymore, or I'd buy you a round or 20 and really pick your brain.

Ciao,
Sam Grothe
BWA Prez

I told him, no, I didn't drink, but that I do accept free dinners in 5-star restaurants.

By the time I got home, everyone I know was either asleep or under surveillance, so I couldn't indulge my growing phone jones. However, I did fill up several voicemail boxes from London to Lahore. As the Rolling Stones once noted, it's not easy living on your own, Jagger artfully underscoring the point: and it's a pretty hard thing....

However, I observe that this relatively minor complaint in fact represents a significant step forward in my glacial recovery. Having finally accepted that the fantasy world is my friend, I feel an orgasmic surge of unwarranted self esteem. Shit, a month ago I wanted to kill all sentient beings and stuff them for target practice. I wanted a bumper sticker that said "I Blew The Dalai Lama," contemplating with joy the fatal traffic accidents it would cause here in Boulder, Colorado. Which is btw where I live. For those of you who are new.

Apropos of nothing (see previous paragraphs), will somebody please send me some interesting fucking email before I go fucking batshit over here? Like I'm already not. But thanks in advance for understanding.