In my five-pound bag:

Before I came to work at NCPR, my office was Radio Bob's workshop--stacked to the ceiling tiles with gutted equipment chassis, transmitter components, clapped out reel-to-reel recorders, a snake's nest of cables and plugs, all liberally salted with the dust of the ages. Old tech. And what a change after it became the home of online media services--slick new gear, cozy furniture and visible floor space. But places seem to have a certain momentum. The entire universe, some say, is winding down toward random distribution, heat death. So it is with my office--stacked once again to the ceiling tiles, but now with dead hard drives, superannuated printers, a cat's cradle of keyboards and mice, empty toner cartridges, unlabeled CDs and diskettes, unstable glaciers of unfiled papers creeping slowly over every visible surface. Under Bob's reign, I snarkily referred to the room as the "radio doll hospital," now David Sommerstein calls it the "web hovel." The high-tech future is here, and it's a freaking disaster.