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He smiled. He seemed to find this question funny.

I think it was the first time that evening that I had seen his teeth.

He pointed to the bedroom. “I want you to sleep in here. This is where I want you to sleep.”

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.

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.

It was clear Mr. Cage didn’t spend much time in the apartment.

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!”

Post-it Note Diaries, by Arthur Jones  

When Arthur Jones cocreated a reading series centered around ubiquitous Post-Its(r), the series struck a chord. It grew in popularity and wa...