There was an austerely dignified award ceremony. By that I mean we had to buy our own drinks - in clear violation of the international journalists'code of truth, fairness and an open bar.

Bachelors know all about parties. In fact, a good bachelor is a living, breathing party all by himself. At least that is what my girlfriend said when she found the gin bottles under the couch. I believe her exact words were, "You're a disgusting, drunken mess." And that's a good description of a party, if it's done right.

Mike Kelly [from The Atlantic] called me up and said he could pay me less money.

I couldn't have gotten into Harvard with a crowbar.

One of the reporters must have flunked journalism school because he asked a question that went straight to the point.

The sky was so clear that the starlight cast shadows, and so many sparkles and glitters and glints appeared above us that it looked like something really expensive had been dropped and shattered in heaven - God's Steuben ashtray, maybe.

I'm 61 years old. I'm not that fearful of the future, period. I'm not going to see that much of it.