I'd Always Thought That I Understood This,

I Always Used To Reach For The Cigarette When The Phone Rang, And I Figured Nobody Would Ever Call Me In Tokyo. The Time Difference Is So Profound It's, Like, Already September In Tokyo, And I Figured Nobody Would Be Able To Work It Out.

He Looked As Though His Life Had Not Only Passed Him By But Paused Along The Way To Spit In His Face.

At First, Writing For The New Yorker Was Very Scary To Me. I Couldn't Imagine Anything That I Would Write In That Typeface.

She's Afraid To Tell Me Anything Important, Knowing I'll Only Turn Around And Write About It. In My Mind, I'm Like A Friendly Junkman, Building Things From The Little Pieces Of Scrap I Find Here And There, But My Family's Started To See Things Differently. Their Personal Lives Are The So-called Pieces Of Scrap I So Casually Pick Up, And They're Sick Of It. More And More Often Their Stories Begin With The Line "you Have To Swear You'll Never Repeat This." I Always Promise, But It's Generally Understood That My Word Means Nothing.

Right, I Breast Feed Baby Camels In My Backyard Just For The Freaking Fun Of It. Just Tell Me Where You Live, Pinocchio, And Save The Baloney For Lunch.