Foreign press

A book reviewer from a small newspaper somewhere in England called me early yesterday morning to ask about the book I have written about my experience covering the republican candidates running for president, Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots is selling well in England and my marketing maven has been hounding the press people in Europe with promises of obscene quotes about the British royals and frosted cakes if they would just do an interview, so yesterday morning, a Sunday in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, I got a call on Skype from a nice woman in the town of, I believe it was Brumpington on the Louie.

A tiny little bit of personal history. I have no real short term memory to speak of. That is, sadly, true. I had a bicycle accident a few years ago that damaged a tiny bit of my incredibly tiny brain, just a little bit, maybe a cell, but enough to cause me to not remember that last sentence. See how that works?

So, sometimes it works for me. If I dated you in the last 7 years and you have terrible memories of that date, fear not, I do not share those memories. That dangerous car drive we went on together? I don’t recall it. The movie staring that actress? Never saw it. My daughters soccer game? Could not tell you who won. The fight I got into at Macy’s with the large Native American man who claimed that shirt was his? I’d need to see video. That is how my memory works. Sometimes things stick, mostly, they do not.

When it comes to writing, once I finish, I will not recall any of these words, which makes editing a little bit more entertaining, because I come at these things objectively as if I am reading these for the very first time, every time. That said, when a reviewer calls you early on a Sunday morning with what sounds like a fake James Bond accent and starts asking you questions, not only about your book (no clue about anything in the book) but also about two recent blog posts (again, not a clue what she was talking about) it was almost comedic.

She asked me if I really had a dog and I told her there is a collection of stories coming out this week regarding my dog, her law degree from Harvard and the terrible deaths she suffered over the past year.

“Is your dog really named Beth?”

“Yes”

“How did that come about?”

“The naming of the dog?”

“Yes, who names their pet Beth?”

“What is your name again?”

“My name? I am Mortia. I told you that when I emailed.”

“Right. Who named you Mortia?”

“My parents of course.”

“Right. See my point?”

“No.”

“No one chooses their own name, or their parents.”

“I read your book, Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots. How much time did you actually spend in Iowa?”

“Maybe a week.”

“We, some friends and I, question when you take off on fantasy and when you are based in reality. You did not drink a concoction of cough syrup, Viagra and Methamphetamine with Congressman Ron Paul, did you?”

“Well, when you put it like that, in those terms, I would have to speak with my lawyer.”

“Really?”

“I would, but she is sleeping.”

“Your lawyer, Beth?”

“Yeah, she sleeps in on Sundays, I usually do too.”

“So you are not going to answer?”

“I am going to stall until we move on to another question.”

“There is a concern here that the people you profile in your book, the Republican candidates for president of the United States all come across as hypocrites, drug addicts and Satanists.”

“Yes.”

“Is this accurate?”

“That they come across like that?”

“Do you feel like you accurately portray the republican candidates honestly.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Mortia.”

“Right. I would imagine that there may have been a couple of inaccuracies in the book.”

“Can you give me any example?”

“Yes. When I was picked up by an obviously intoxicated Ron Paul at the airport in Des Moines, he was all high on Viagra and Meth, I think I reported there were three illegal, ugly and ungodly Canadian prostitutes in the backseat of his car.”

“Yes, I meant to ask you about that.”

“Yes, well, there may have been 7, but because 7 would have been hard to believe crammed into the back seat of a small sports car, I cut it back to 3.”

“Is that all?”

“It is quite possible Rick Santorum did not kill a single goat in a Satanist ceremony.”

“You are saying Mr. Santorum is not a Satanist?”

“Not at all, I am suggesting that he killed a barn filled with chickens, angry and vicious chickens.”

“I see. Any other inaccuracies in your book?”

“Twice my own name was spelled wrong.”

“I see.”

“Just keeping it real.”

“Yes.”

With that I clicked the little icon on the Skype screen and the woman from England just disappeared. In the modern world, these sorts of press interviews were going to be easy, sitting in my bed, drinking coffee and talking about things I have no memory of.