Silver surfers ... nah, that's old hat. Retire a gold surfer with Cosmic Ordering.

Or as Gabe had done, to rescue your betrothed from some evil force. That appealed to him. But he'd yet to find a damsel in distress, oppressed by evil and in need of rescue.

When rich, being poor seems *adventurous.*

...hanging out does not make one an artist. A secondhand wardrobe does not make one an artist. Neither do a hair-trigger temper, melancholic nature, propensity for tears, hating your parents, nor even HIV - I hate to say it - none of these make one an artist. They can help, but just as being gay does not make one witty (you can suck a mile of cock, as my friend Sarah Thyre puts it, it still won't make you Oscar Wilde, believe me), the only thing that makes one an artist is making art. And that requires the precise opposite of hanging out; a deeply lonely and unglamorous task of tolerating oneself long enough to push something out.

A writer__ primary goal is to make sense. The bookstore__ is to make cents.

A writer is merely a reader that had the guts to be read, and, heard.