Sup.

So, because I love nothing more than selling out and conformity, I volunteered myself for Interview 2009 after like half of you did it first. I don't never read A Free Man's blog regularly, however I probably will start doing so, because after stalking him all weekend he's got sweet tunes and science, which is like, a Duplex of Cool. Plus he writes good.

Obviously I don't.

Sarala is a stranger from Blogaway, who was assigned to interview me, because she is lucky as all get out. She's also from Chicago, and she's building an excellent photo collection for her blog with some pictures of the city and around the world. But I like it best when she talks about Chicago, because she gets it here.

And tomorrow, I will present the second half of this interview, or "What Happened To Numbers Five Through Eight." I'm sure you guys are shaking in your boots at how I'll respond to her questions.


1. We both live in Chicago. It is Karma or Kismet or something. We decide to do a meet. What do you pick for us to do and why?

First, I'm going to buy a thirty pack of PBR and some Smartfood white cheese popcorn, because it's delicious. Then I'm gonna go home, sit on my couch, have some beer and fuck around on the internet for about half an hour before I remember that I was supposed do something, so I'll text you with a harmless lie about being really tired and accidentally falling asleep. You'll be all, "it's cool, no big" and then I'll see if you just want to come over to watch Dating on Demand and turn it into a drinking game.

So you'll totally agree and come over and we'll sit around and get drunk watching everyone convince us they're special and worth fucking, until people start sending me text messages about where I'm supposed to go that night, and no one can agree on the same fucking place. You're gonna say something like, "I don't care what we do, I'm up for whatever" and then I will get really, really, really annoyed at your indecision. And in the end we're just going to agree to go to the same fucking bars that we always go to, and I'm not going to care, and everyone will bitch about how they want to go somewhere else, and I'll get increasingly irritated and start doing secret shots of whiskey.

No, seriously, Sarala, we'd go to Architectural Artifacts. It's a store that specializes in selling decorations to the obscenely rich. They have a crank-operated truck-drawn carousel, a room devoted to their door-knob collection, giant industrial bronze cartridges of baby doll heads stripped from a torn-down doll factory, faux bois Argentinian bird cages, and hundreds of fireplace mantles that you can sift through like vinyl albums. You would love it there.


2. "I'm like the crazy cat lady but with commas instead of kittens," you write. That is one of the best similes I've heard in a long time. OK, you just wrote the next Great American Novel. What will it be called and what will you tell your editor when she demands that you take out half the commas?

First of all, if someone's willing to edit and publish my words, I'm not gonna worry about my artistic punctuational integrity. I'm doing what she says, man. Because I never shut up, and I need people to tell me to stop sometimes. I just keep on adding commas and "ands" and sprinkling them throughout everything. As for a title? I'm at a loss.


3. Speaking of cats: cat person or dog person? Why?

Under normal circumstances, it's dogs to the bone. But then my sister, Yellavitch, came to visit me on Saturday.

"Wait, you have to see this, it's fucking adorable," I bolted over to her and snatched my roommate's cat out of her hands.

"But, she was all cuddly," Yellavitch whispers softly, "and I don't even like cats."

"Whatever, just watch." I curl up around Kitty on my chair and scratch above her tail. "She's not doing it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Why aren't you squeaking, Kitty?"

"Oh. My. God."

"What?" I'm still scratching and smiling like a dick at the cat, trying to coax her into squeaking. "Come on, Kitty."

"Do you realize how Crazy Cat Lady you are? You're all, 'why aren't you squeaking widdew iddy biddy Kitty? Googoo blahblah googoo.'"

"No fucking way was I saying googoo blahblah whatever," I look at Kitty, and hushed, smiling, "Squeak, you little bitch."

"Nearly. I never thought...seriously, Sister. You like cats."

"I know. And seriously, you would too if you had these cats around. I mean--I know, fuck, I know, but she's just so pretty. Yes you are. You're a pretty Kitty--oh, fuck me, I suck at life," I whine, throwing the cat on the ground and pouting.

"I'm telling everyone we know about this."

"You better. I deserve it."

In the end, I'm a devout dog person. My dog lives with my parents right now, as many of you know, and I miss the crap out of him. I mean, I'm so obsessed I got a tattoo of him on my forearm from a little sketchy comic I used to draw in high school. But basically, I won't take in a dog unless I have either a yard or can work out of home, because otherwise it's just not fair to the dog. I'm staunch on this.

Dogs. And MoLinder's cats.


4. You don't use pictures on your blog. Are you camera shy? Now you have to have a portrait for the book jacket on your novel. What will you wear and what pose will you pick?

Pictures are difficult for me. I'm afraid of stalkers, due to my traffic-stopping crime scene Trojan Horses gorgeousness. So, you know. Safety purposes. With this knowledge, affixed betwixt a bio and publication information on my book jacket instead of my own magnetic, elemental effulgence, I would probably find some painfully unexceptional girl of mediocre, perhaps slightly leprechaunish appearance, get her really plotzed on whiskey and beer, shove her down some stairs, take pictures of her trying to stand and put one of those suckers on there.

Now that I think about it, I really do kind of look like a leprechaun.

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