I am fighting hard-- and losing pathetically -- the urge to be rambling, annoying and psuedo-philosophical, like in the old days . It is freezing out, there is not an ounce of food in my apartment, and there is no one interesting on line.

I need to get out of here.

I received so many letters over the past week, that I cannot answer them here. I answered a lot of them personally. That took seven hours last night. It was odd.

How could more than a week have passed since I updated this page? I must really suck. I guess it is time for me to indulge myself by listing a few of my excuses.

Over the past few months, as a freelance writerÅ, my whole life generally could be divided into three segments: 10 percent hope, 30 percent disappointment, and 60 percent waiting.

In the past, I somehow deluded myself into believing that impatience was a character trait I was stuck with -- some sort of aries curse that I could not change. I was wrong. I am becoming more patient. And the more patient I become, the more things start looking like they might be happening.

I landed a few new cool gigs, (which, mind you, these links may or may not have anything to do with -- sheesh, how nosy can you get?), was interviewed by a cool gurl, did my hair just right this time, and shed a few of those extra pesky pounds. Last weekend, I donned my cocktail mini, and shook my groove thang.

And suck linked to me again. I would link you to the specific article, but now that they have (argh) frames, I cannot get you there. Well, the date was June 12, 1996, and they linked to my ice-t story. I swear to god that every person that followed the suck link to me dropped me a line to tell me about it. That was cool, since I love mail, but I do confess that it was slightly time consuming.

Even more strangely, over the past week, a few page-readers decided that they wanted to send me gifts, and I received both a generous check and a lovely bottle of wine. People will do the damndest things.

Finally, lest we not forget, I am getting laid occasionally these days.

(not enough, though).

(Non-sequitor: I think that if someone is going to crash in your apartment, they should be required to do your bidding.)

Most of the time, I have been sublimating my denial into continuing my obsessive pursuit of connectivity, as if finally getting myself a respectible line to the internet is somehow going to help me write the Great American Novel, or film the Movie That Breaks The Most New Ground.

And I am finally submitting some of my writing to real live publishers. Who may actually pay me.

We will see.

In the meanwhile, I am getting the fuck out of here, and driving down to Los Angeles this weekend, to watch a dear friend perform in a Cutting Edge Feminist Drama and, basically, to reboot.

So that is what is new with me: less waiting, more hope. Platinum hair. Good vibes. Fresh air.