I am a professional idiot. Roaming around equator. I am an abstract organism, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don’t perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured China with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat .400. I hope deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international engineer circles. Children trust me. I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in Surabaya, cliff-diving competitions in Java Island, and spelling bees at the Jakarta. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.