SM: If we gave you a sackful of money and a pointy hat made of newspaper, how would you spend the rest of the day?
CB: Well, I want to be all spunky and say that I’d rent a derrigible and drop water balloons on people at Disneyland, shouting, “I’m the king of Romania”. But in reality, I’d probably pay some bills, skiv off from work for the day, and spend it in cafes and walking about aimlessly on the pier.
SM: When was the last time you were frightened of something larger than yourself?
CB: Walking on train tracks well past my bedtime. A train approached, I’m not sure if I heard it or felt it first, and so I stood a little aside in the brush, watching this enormous weighty link of metal cars rush back, black as night. I imagined it falling off the tracks towards me, and despite me jumping down the ravine on the side, it would slide after me.
SM: Please describe your face when you are trying to be serious.
CB: My brow furrows and my eybrow(s) close in on on another. My chin gets tense. I believe my constipated face can also be desribed this same way.
SM: If we were to fashion a miniature porcelain bust of you for a quaint country store that sells knickknacks and curios, how would you prefer to be represented?
CB: A zen smile perhaps? A pen over my ear? A laurel wreath of “Barrel Of Monkeys” around my head, connected arm in arm. A penny on my tongue.
SM: In the middle of the interview, an anecdote is requested.
CB: Recently the 12 bus was pulling up to where I was standing at the bus stop, and just as it did, it was rear-ended, crushing the front third of the driver’s car. She was fine, the only two people on the bus were fine, I looked up from the Baumeister I was reading as I stood there, and I was fine.
I got home an hour late, which contributed to the staying up until 1:00 on Monday (three hours past my usual bedtime) caused by indecision on a Little Dee storyline, which I eventually resolved with surprisingly little pomp.
What was interesting, aside from the shake-up in schedule, was the tiredness. I forget that sometimes, especially with writers block, I just need a good night of lack-of-sleep to mix things up a bit. The next day my brain goes a mile-a-minute, things get resolved (if I use the time wisely) and then 2:00 in the afternoon rolls around, and the rest of the day is useless, and the next night I’d better get some sleep.
SM: If we were sending a treasure chest to the bottom of the ocean, what would you want to put in it?
CB: George Bush. Ahhh…. god bless’m. Our national treasure.
SM: Please recommend a way for us to recognize you in the land of sleep and dreaming.
CB: I’ll be the one being chased. I may be wearing black with a shock of multicolor feathers for my hair.
SM: When was the last time you really noticed someone saying your name?
CB: While in Europe, Terri called me “Christopher” instead of Chris, seducing me with her Polish/British accent.
SM: If you were to draw a picture of yourself sleeping, what would you be sure to include?
CB: The bridesmaids bent around me, like angels, taking away my bottle of alcohol. If I happened to decide to draw myself in bed, it would include “Offended” (my teddybear which is on indefinite loan to me from Anya.) If I was feeling lonely, a dark shadowed horse would loom over the bed.
SM: Please describe an impressionable moment from childhood.
CB: My dad had some surgery, almost died actually, appendix burst or something. Sometime shortly after, we were walking on a path around a lake, and I asked my dad if I started to slide down the slope towards the water, could I grab onto his arm to keep from falling, to which he explained, no, because his stomach would likely tear open. This made me sad on several levels. I think I’ve worked through the resulting emotional issues, and he’s still healthy and fine.