It is funny the things that run through your mind when you're sitting in your underpants in front of a pair of strangers.

Of course, the diary helps me as well. 'That wasn't your position on July 7, 1991,' I'll remind Hugh an hour after we've had a fight. I'd have loved to rebut him sooner, but it takes awhile to look these things up.

The landscape is best described as 'pedestrian hostile.' It's pointless to try to take a walk, so I generally just stay in the room and think about shooting myself in the head.

I've never made up events, but I've always been a big exaggerator. It's written on my humorist license that I'm allowed to do that.

My hands tend to be full enough dealing with people who hate me for who I am. Concentrate too hard on the millions of people who hate you for what you are and you're likely to turn into one of those unkempt, sloppy dressers who sag beneath the weight of the two hundred political buttons they wear pinned to their coats and knapsacks.

Actually I liked that 'Let the Right One In,' that Swedish vampire movie.

But I'm a humorist. I'm not a reporter, I never pretended to be a reporter.