Last Monday I gave two a.m. interviews and enjoyed both. One of these should be up-and-running on the internet soon, but like my wife, I always ask: "Does this Skype camera angle make me look fat?"
Answer: Yes. And the camera wasn't shooting me from behind!
I have yet another interview scheduled for this week, but thank God it is an e-mail interview. These are my favorite type of interview, as I get to sit in front of the TV while I type answers to previously posed questions such as: If the world were on the brink of nuclear annihilation and you only had one hour to live, how would you spend it?
I love these type of hypothetical questions, as they are so much more interesting than real-life questions such as: What did you eat for breakfast this morning? or Is it true what we hear about you . . . that you can watch TV, write 2000-word essays, and pretend to have a meaningful conversation with your wife . . . all at the same time? Gosh.
The e-mail interview affords me the time to consider my answers to life's deepest questions. If the interviewer wants to know about my personal life, for example, I can honestly tell her I don't have a personal life. Most of my life is rather impersonal, and consists of little more than a series of e-mail conversations and Facebook entries along with one or two hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. I don't have anything even resembling a life, and it's always good to get these realities out in the open so the interviewer can move on to more important questions about my hygiene. Most interviewers seem fixated on my deodorant selection, and some want to know if my home is fitted primarily with the new "green" light bulbs or if I'm going to hell because I use the old filament bulbs (60-watters). Regardless, I tell 'em what they want to hear and then I drive over to Walmart and buy the 100-watters.
My next interview will be about marriage. I'll be sharing my expert advice to young couples who are hoping to tie the knot without having to sell a kidney to pay for the ceremony. I have written a book about the debt-free wedding and given it to my daughter in the hope that she might read the book her daddy wrote. (She's probably chucked it in the Muncie landfill by now.) I'm hoping my own advice might save me from having to sell the Encyclopedia Britannica door-to-door in order to afford cake and ice-cream for two hundred ravenous souls who will ask afterwards: "You call this a wedding?"
I'm ready for these questions. I've got answers.
But I doubt anyone is listening.