|
KIDS, when you're attractive and charming like I am, interviews are inevitable. While most of you probably assume I am sending out postcards daily with the words PLEASE INTERVIEW ME printed on them, this is not true: the idea of being interviewed makes me feel a little strange. It's certainly a good dollop of who in hell wants to hear what I think, but there're other unpleasant feelings stirred up by interview requests, most notably the feral fear of making an ass of myself. I can barely manage to avoid doing that under normal circumstances, much less when inquisitive people are throwing questions at me like "Hey - are you drunk right now?" or "Did you just call me Mommy?" The first time I was ever interviewed was about a year ago, just after my novel Lifers was published, and one of the local Hoboken papers called requesting an interview. I was freaked out, but didn't really have any reason to act all Hollywood and turn down free publicity. I met the reporter at a diner in New York City for lunch and spent an hour watching her write notes on about six hundred loose sheets of paper as I rambled on and tried to remnd myself that no one really cared what I said. I was nervous the whole time, but it was over before I knew it, and then the reporter pulled out a camera. "What," I licked my lips nervously, "what's that for?" "To take your picture. To run with the story. Maybe even the cover." Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that the sky darkened and thunder rumbled as she said this, and I think her face became dark and twisted with Evil, too. I acted quickly, grabbing a pale, fleshy young man off the street and offering him fifty bucks to pose for a few pictures. After stopping him from removing his trousers ("Well, jeez, what kind of pictures then?" he demanded in perplexity), he happily posed for a few shots, an exceptionally dorky man in ill-fitting clothes and that's who you will find on the cover of the May 2001 issue of Hoboken Current. Not me. That's not me. I am much more attractive. Once that interview was over with, nothing else happened on that front for a very long time, as the world sighed in collective boredom at the mention of my name. I've always known I was a boring bastard, and this just confirmed it. Of course, in my head I imagine that my interviews are amazing transcripts that will change other people's lives: INTERVIEWER: How did you get into writing, anyway? ME: Let me explain to you Life, the Universe, and Everything (TIME PASSES) INTERVIEWER: Wow. Here, take my wallet. ME: No, I couldn't possibly. INTERVIEWER: I insist. You've changed my life. ME: Okay. This year I am suddenly flush with interview requests. First, Frank over at The Whirligig asked me to do one of his recorded interviews, and then a week later Gene Gregoritis of Sex and Guts emailed and asked if I'd be interviewed. Why? I have no idea. I guess it has to do with all the nosie I've been making about The Freaks are Winning, going about doing readings and the like. I suppose since I've been sending out press releases and stuff, practically begging people for attention, I shouldn't be surprised that a few people decide to give me some. Still, it freaks me out. Despite my regular insistence to the contrary, I'm really not a very interesting person, spending most of my time watching reruns of The Simpsons and drinking booze. If there are any aspects of my personality which qualify as interesting, they are more than likely aspects best expressed in written form. On paper, I come off as much more daring and edgy than I do in person. I guess that's true of anyone. If you've ever gotten into a real nasty flame war on the Internet with someone you later met in person, you probably know how it is: in semi-anonymous written communication they were insulting, mean-spirited, and coarse. Then you meet them in person and they're polite and mild-mannered. Common or not, I get the feeling that some people read my zine and think I'm a wild, crazy sort of person. They either believe everything in there about my dangerous binge drinking or they just assume I'm a strange, violent person. When they actually speak to me, of course, I'm pleasant, polite, and boring as all hell. That's always my secret - or not so secret - fear: that I'm actually boring and the only reason I come across otherwise on the written page (if I do) is because I am constantly just making shit up. I guess I could do that in interviews, just start talking about my days running guns into Cuba or the year I made my living as an itinerant bareknuckle boxer, getting almost all my nutrition from corn moonshine. But there's a subtle difference between making shit up to put in my zine and making shit up when speaking with someone and answering direct questions. One is being creative and okay because I make it pretty clear that The Inner Swine is 90% bullshit and 10% imagination. The other is, well, lying. Maybe that makes me a simpleminded waif - hell, I'd like to just make shit up and be entertaining all the time - but that's me. All this probably comes from the fact that I personally can't comprehend why anyone would want to know anything about me, which in turn stems from my complete disinterest in other people. Don't get me wrong, I think most of the people I meet are very interesting, I just can't imagine wanting to read or listen to an interview with them, and so can't imagine why anyone would find me so irresistible. It's not like I'm a deep thinker with lots to say about anything in particular; if I had some revolutionary thoughts on life or zining or what have you, I guess I could understand. Lord knows that ain't the case though. Oh well, enough whining. If you've been dying to know what I think about things, look for my interviews, and prepare to be bored to tears. If you've never wondered what I think, well, carry on! Until next time, you know where to find me. Jeff |
May 29, 2002