I’ve got an item to put on the agenda for discussion, but in order to do so I have to reveal something embarrassing. OK, here goes:

I read a column by Ellen Goodman yesterday.

That’s not hugely humiliating, of course. It’s roughly equivalent to admitting that I watch The View occasionally, or that I have a subscription to O, the magazine that celebrates all things Oprah. (Let me be clear here: Those are hypothetical “admissions.”) Confessing to having read an Ellen Goodman column won’t make people recoil in horror, but it’s inconsistent with my beliefs and principles – among which is the notion that life is too short to spend time reading columnists who are relentless in their predictability and unwavering ideology.

That’s the same reason why I rarely watch Sean Hannity, listen to Rush Limbaugh, or see Michael Moore movies. How many times do you need to hear the same shtick?

But I dipped into Ellen Goodman yesterday, and was rewarded with a treat. Her column was about the surprising (to some people) findings of a study on who talks more – men or women? Within that essay, which you can read here, Goodman wrote: “If the subject was impersonal or problem-solving, men took up more of the airwaves. If it was personal, women did.”

Boy, talk about the hot stab of familiarity. Just the day before, I’d run into a former neighbor at the hardware store. He’s a guy who’s had some recent unhappiness in his life, and I’ve had a full measure of it myself in the past few years. So, naturally, we talked a lot about fishing. Even if those personal matters had come up, the conversation would have been something like this:

Me: “Sorry about that thing.”

Him: “Yeah, it was tough.”

Me: “Did you catch the Braves game last night?”

Funny thing is, I can write about personal stuff. I just can’t seem to talk about it with any grace or comfort. It makes me feel awkward – sort of like the way Andruw Jones looks at the plate these days. If he doesn’t start hitting, the Braves can forget it this year.

Along with just about everybody else in the world, I like a good list. This one, from Foreign Policy magazine, is a doozy: The stupidest fatwas ever issued by Muslim clerics. My favorite involves the religious edict from 2006 declaring that a marriage is annulled if a husband and wife have sex while completely naked. A subsequent refinement of that decision suggested maybe the couple should just not look at each other’s genitals. It makes for interesting conversation when you’re feeling amorous: “Say, Fatima, perhaps we can not gaze at each other’s privates tonight?”

A final verdict on the quality of journalism during the Duke lacrosse case can be found here. It’s a thorough examination of how the event was covered, for better or worse — mostly worse, as you might imagine. It wasn’t the news industry’s finest hour, but I’m happy to report that my longtime professional home, the News & Observer of Raleigh, came out of this critique better than almost every other news organization. And the New York Times? It managed to do just about everything wrong.

I missed the Youtube-inspired Democratic debate the other night, mostly because I’m still in a low-tolerance mode for all things political. But I’ve still got a healthy appetite for shameless displays of cleavage and thigh, so this could snap me out of my malaise. First there was Obama Girl, whose musical tribute to the candidate has been a hot commodity on Youtube. Then came Guiliani Girl in support of her candidate. The two of them meet in this video for a dancedown on the city streets. As you watch it, ask yourself this question: Who’s gonna dance for Hillary? Anybody? Anybody?

I’ll do what I can to prop up the housing industry, but don’t expect too much from me. I’m determined to spend less, not more.

I’m not just planning to downsize. I’m planning to radically downsize. I currently live alone in a 2,600 square-foot home, which is a ludicrously large space for one person. I had two separate flights of company last week, and it was nice to be able to simply turn over the whole upstairs to them. But that’s space I rarely use, but have to heat, maintain and pay for anyway. (Notice I didn’t mention the cooling of that space. I turned on the AC for the visitors, but otherwise my friends Mr. Window and Ms. Breeze are in charge of ventilation.)

Two days ago, I looked at a small home which has been put on the market. (That’s your cue: “How small was it?”) It was so small that if Anna Nicole Smith had ever stepped through the front door, her bosom would have already been leaving through the back. It was so small that Tammy Faye’s makeup case was bigger.

OK, enough with the dead celebrity references. The home was 723 square feet. I know people with porches bigger than that, but it seemed like the perfect size.

You see, I recently had a small-caliber epiphany when I realized that you never own a house as much as it owns you. It owns your time, your attention and your money. It’s needy and self-centered. It takes and takes and takes, and meanwhile you’re supposed to be rapturous with gratitude If the roof doesn’t leak during a light rain.

I’m on a long-term mission to free myself from the bondage and slavery of ownership. Furthermore, I’m not just talking about homes. There are three motor vehicles parked at my house — a car, a truck and a motorcycle. Two of them are going. The lawnmower’s going. At least half my clothes are going. Furniture will be sold. If my children are hanging around and happen to be motionless long enough, I can’t guarantee that they won’t accidentally be sold to the highest bidder.

My operating theory is that the smaller my home, and the fewer things within it, the more my life is returned to me. I’m going to outsource shelter. If I feel the need for more room, I’ll acquire it at the beach on a short-term basis.

Hey, we all end up in a small, tight space anyway. I’m just getting a head start.