Post-it Note Diaries, by Arthur Jones
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20 MARY ROACH He smiled. He seemed to find this question funny. He pointed to the bedroom. “I want you to sleep in here. This is where I want you to sleep.” I think it was the first time that evening that I had seen his teeth. Then he walked back to the front door. He was going to his house in the hills, the house he shared with Patricia Arquette and the smart octopus. The refrigerator was empty except for a bottle of Chalk Hill chardonnay, some Hershey’s syrup, and a spray can of Pam. On a shelf was a decorative frame that still contained the picture it came with, a woman in a large-brimmed hat, laughing about something. I got into Nicolas Cage’s bed and called a bunch of girlfriends and said, “Guess where I am!” It was clear Mr. Cage didn’t spend much time in the apartment. It hadn’t occurred to me that a person would have two places to live in one city. “Make yourself at home,” he said, and left.
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When Arthur Jones cocreated a reading series centered around ubiquitous Post-Its(r), the series struck a chord. It grew in popularity and was ultimately featured on a This American Life live simulcast broadcast across the nation. Inspired by the series and spanning a wide and weird range of topics from an A-list roster of contributors, Post-It(r) Note Diaries captures everyday occurrences from a job interview gone hilariously awry and a nude run-in with a neighbor to hair-raising events like an overnight encounter at Nicholas Cage's house (it's not what you think!), and nearly drowning while trying to paddle across the East River in a homemade canoe. Post-It(r) Note Diaries is perfect for NPR addicts and fans of unique graphic favorites like Postsecret and Blankets. Diarists include: John Hodgman, David Rakoff, Hanna Tinti, Arthur Bradford, Chuck Klosterman, Andrew Solomon, Starlee Kine, Kristen Schaal, Mary Roach and Andrew Bird.
Transcript of Post-it Note Diaries, by Arthur Jones
20 MARY ROACH
He smiled. He seemed to find this question funny.
He pointed to the bedroom. “I want you to sleep in here. This is where I want you to sleep.”
I think it was the first time that evening that I had seen his teeth.
Then he walked back to the front door. He was going to his house in the hills, the house he shared with Patricia Arquette and the smart octopus.
The refrigerator was empty except for a bottle of Chalk Hill chardonnay, some Hershey’s syrup, and a spray can of Pam.
On a shelf was a decorative frame that still contained the picture it came with, a woman in a large-brimmed hat, laughing about something.
I got into Nicolas Cage’s bed and called a bunch of girlfriends and said, “Guess where I am!”
It was clear Mr. Cage didn’t spend much time in the apartment.
It hadn’t occurred to me that a person would have two places to live in one city. “Make yourself at home,” he said, and left.
