So I just spent the morning on the phone talking about myself.
No, I'm not the biggest narcissist in the world (we'll get to him later), in truth I'm promoting my latest album.
It's such a strange thing talking about yourself and your 'art'. The first few times it's a bit of a rush thinking that people are actually interested in you and your life and for a nano second that bottomless pit of need gets a real hosing. By the 80th interview, you feel more like a porn star who's trying to get it up for the umpteenth sex scene, only difference is you don't have a fluffer! More's the pity, as trying to sound excited about something you've said ad nauseam is tantamount to sexual dropsy.
And that's why a great interviewer who thinks of different ways to ask the same question and god forbid even finds new questions altogether is on a par with the lowly but oh so necessary 'fluff-meister'. And that's what happened this morning dear readers.
On the phone with numbers 2 & 3 interviewers I found myself revitalised and inspired by their deeply researched, incredibly intelligent questions. These questions were SO good, hearing them second hand via an interpreter didn't even diminish them. Hell these people knew my work, my background, my whole bloody story. No lazy journalism here, I was being quoted the tiniest details of my life and least known lyrics. We spoke about the importance of soulful, emotionally intelligent art in this ever more plastic and tech driven de-humanizing world, and even discussed Mahler, Miles and Monet.
And just like the ending to the most perfect fantasy both hoped I would please come to their country to perform, promising great warmth and musical appreciation. I was embarrassed to admit I'd never visited their part of the world, even though it's so ridiculously close. I felt ignorant and lacking and told them so.
They ALL apologized for their 'bad' English (I wish I could converse in any other language). Embarrassingly for a lazy Brit like me, the only one who did speak fluent English was so accent perfect, I was convinced he was calling from Oxford University on a prank.
It wasn't till I'd hung up, still luxuriating in a warm bath of mutual appreciation that I suddenly remembered (just in the nick of time I might add), that Mexico was a land full of 'rapists and criminals' determined to smuggle their deviant, illegal ways into America.
How cunning those journos were hiding behind a facade of civility and education, and to think I was almost duped.
Let's not confuse Mexico's shocking gang violence with anything we might see in ANY city in the United States, say for example New Orleans where I live and know full well that gangs of children are dealing drugs, armed and ready to kill. Now that I think about it maybe we should build a wall around them AND make 'em pay for it! Damn sight easier than dealing with the real problems that claim so many lives every year.
Maybe the guy with the ridiculous hair (told you I'd get to him), and the wife I keep wanting to call Malaria has a point! Think of the jobs, of all the new brick factories. We'd be a nation of bricklayers. Pretty soon there'd be grout wars, and prizes for the biggest wall, maybe 'The Golden Trowel'. This is starting to get exciting people. Imagine it... our very own Donald Delano Trumpvelt!!
I'm buying a ticket to Mexico.
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