The people I work with are like family. I don't mean this in a nice way.

The search for truth can be compared to a cat chasing her tail: frantic in her pursuit, her quarry nevetheless eludes her; despite the fact that all the world can see it's right there, it remains just beyond her reach. It cannot be possessed because, paradoxically, it is already part of her.

Anger is the quintessential individual-signature emotion: I am what makes me mad.

Truth is like nuclear waste: it needs to be dealt with carefully. Sometimes it needs to be buried way, way out of town. And sometimes it should never be uncovered at all.

I am constantly surprised that the simple word 'feminism' raises more eyebrows and initiates more sad-faced head-shaking than any elaborate stream of invective I have ever leveled at either the I.R.S. or the D.M.V.

If anger were mileage, I'd be a very frequent flyer, right up there in First Class.

Birthdays are a reward for having shown up 365 days in a row. It's like getting a badge for attendance.