My bedroom is like an amusement park -- a place where people might compete in exciting games of chance and skill. It's kind of a freak show, actually. Sometimes I bring women there to see the incredible shrinking man. After they've seen it, they want to charge me. You know... For admission. But if you're short enough, you get in free. (Of course, this prohibits you from some of the more thrilling rides. Not quite up to the Tunnel of Love, I understand.) One woman I brought to my park didn't want to go on any rides, and I didn't have enough money for the house of horrors. Finally, she agreed to a short ride on the Space Needle. Halfway through, she wanted to get off. "It's almost over," I assured her. "No, really..." she insisted, "I think I'm going to throw up." I wish she had thought of that before I strapped her in. "I hope this doesn't get stuck." Everywhere I look, raunchy women in pink spandex try to entice me with valuable prizes. "It's easy," they assure me. "Three balls for a dollar." I've given them money before, but didn't win anything. I think there's a trick involved. The neighbors sometimes complain about the perpetual carnival-like music (organ grinders -- haunting, yet whimsical) and the seedy characters my bedroom attracts. Yes, indeed... It's kind of a freak show, actually.