Reading Room.

I read that one edition of the Wall Street Journal has more information than one of the Pilgrims would've ingested in a lifetime. I'm not sure who figured that out, but I do know that my brother spent 30 minutes in the bathroom, after Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing at my mom's, reading the Stevens Point Journal. He doesn't live in Stevens Point.

Much of my reading is done on the toilet these days. Out with the old, in with the new. Like some bulimic librarian: Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. The constant rolling flow of this microfiche brain.

If I were ever to be alone with myself in my head, I'd probably pick up a magazine and pretend to read.

11/29/99