I've Been Keeping Diaries For 27 Years.

Someone Told Me Something Recently About Sarah Palin, Someone I Trusted In The Book Business. They Said, "i Worked With Palin. She Did An Event At My Bookstore, And She Was Really, Really Nice, And Even More Beautiful In Person." I Didn't Want To Hear That. I Wanted To Hear That She Was Awful And Hideous-looking. But I Thought, I Have To Listen To That. I Have To Hear That. I Don't Want To Be The One Who Is Going To Deny Anything Complimentary Said About Somebody Just Because I Disagree With That Person.

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.

Perhaps The Little Negro Girl Was Holding A Concealed Razor Blade. Maybe She Was One Of The Troublemakers Out For A Fresh White Scalp.

A History Of Listening To Top 40 Radio Had Left Me With A Ridiculous And Clichéd Notion Of Love. I Had Never Entertained The Feeling Myself But Knew That It Meant Never Having To Say You're Sorry. It Was A Many-splendored Thing. Love Was A Rose And A Hammer. Both Blind And All-seeing, It Made The World Go Round.

There Seemed To Be Some Correlation Between Devotion To God And A Misguided Zeal For Marshmallows.