The other day my twelve-year-old says to me, I don't feel like I'm with you right now. You're in the car with me, you're checking your e-mail, you're not listening to me, I don't feel like I'm with you. And I say, You know what? That was your mother's gripe, too. And she was right. And you're also correct. When you cop to something, you get to the next level. In this case, the next level is: I just learned something from my twelve-year-old.

I love watching people get hit in the crotch. But only if they get back up. If their teeth are bleeding, if they're really hurt, if an ambulance has to come, I'm not laughing.

The selfish and usually pointless approach is to try to get both done simultaneously - accomplish your work at hand while begging forgiveness of those close to you while you're basically working in front of them during what could've been specifically 'quality time.'

I am stressed because once I am flattened out so thin to be able to slide under a doorway, I may never be able to ever be unflattened so I could be regular sized again.

I'm psyched about what I can contribute that can be meaningful to myself and to others.

My humor was kind of from my dad and all the stuff that we went through, which was a lot of death. My humor was an escape.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't said something foolish. It is then that I realize the power of mime.