Me: So...we meet at last. I am a hard man to get hold of.
Myself: I am in demand, Mr. Arvin. Very much in demand.
Me: Indeed, Mr. Arvin. Indeed. Before we start, can I just say, My God! I am an attractive man.
Myself (laughing quite cockily): Why, thank you, thank you, and, as the Germans say, donkey sham. I do what I can. One must always strive to keep one's girlish figure.
Me: I mean, truly. Just gorgeous. Can I touch myself?
Myself: What? No! This is an interview. Show a little decorum, for gods' sake. Keep my hands to myself.
Me: I am. Honk Honk.
Myself: Get my hands off that! And stop with the sound effects.
Me: Sorry. Anyway, let's begin with a classic question that I'm sure all our readers want to know: If I were a tree, what type of tree would I be?
Myself: What the hell? Are you kidding me? Is this the line of questioning I've come up with? I will leave, bitch. I will leave. I have an affair with a chocolate muffin to get back to in the kitchen. She's a lusty whore.
Me. Okay, okay, Mr. Arvin. Just calm down.
Myself: Just drop the Barbra Walters impression, okay? If it wasn't good enough for Kate Hepburn it ain't good enough for me.
Me: Okay, sheesh. Diva...Are we good?
Myself: YES. Just ask the stupid questions. I gotta be somewheres.
Me: Me too.
Myself: Where do YOU need to be?
Me: Wherever you need to be. We're the same person, douche-dangle.
Myself: That's no way to talk to a superstar.
Me: You're right. It's not.... I'll let that sink in. So, when we head to GRL, or, as I like to call it, Grrrrrrrl...
Me: Thanks. Ass. What's something we would like people to know about us before we get there, you know, to avoid disappointing them too bad?
Myself: That I do not in any way resemble Hercules. I workout, yes, in garage/barn/gym, but I haven't the time, the money, or the energy to be a bodybuilder these days. I'd take sexy pills but they're illegal and they might interact with my recovery. So I just drink a lot of protein.
Me: I bet you do. Are we bringing anyone with us?
Myself: Why, yes I am. I am bringing along my mother. She doesn't know I'm gay, so this will be quite the eye opener for her. I told her GRL stands for Getting Real with the Lord.
Myself: You're an idiot. Of course not. She's known I'm gay since I had my Malibu Barbie ride My Little Pony in Ken's nude wedding to GI Joe where my Ewoks were in the wedding party. We haven't taken a big trip together since I was in high school, though, so this should be fun. That said, it may put a bit of a cinch on any...um...grownup exploits. Having one's mother around doesn't really say, "Come and get me, boys!"
Me: I know that we are not a fan of flying. How do we plan on dealing with that?
Myself: Well, it's not the flying, it's the airports. With my vertigo they are not the most pleasant experiences for me. I'm a slow walker and I have a cane as well, which makes hectic things all the more dizzying. Did you know that once I actually fell up the ramp getting off a plane?
Me: Yes. I did know that. That was in Cleveland if I remember correctly, right before we were dumped by a certain cutie.
Myself: Also, to my ever-growing throng of readers and fans I would just like to say, if you wave at me and I do not respond it is not because I'm a dick...
Me: Isn't it?
Myself: Not completely. It's because my vertigo makes it difficult for me to adjust quickly to new places. Things get blurry. And I probably won't be wearing my glasses. Damn you Vanity! So, just wave and holler and sooner or later I'm bound to see you, even if it takes security bringing you down with a taser gun to draw my attention your way.
Me: Will we be telling everyone we see about our novel Woke Up in a Strange Place winning the Gaybie for Best Speculative Fiction back in April?
Myself: What? Certainly not. How inappropriate. How gauche. I am not the type of award-winning writer who goes on and on about how he has won an award, blah blah blah award. We are all, every one of us, wonderful writers at this convention. Some of us are just award-winning at our wonderfulness, that's all. What an ass I would be if I had to point out sentence after sentence my award-winning stature! Us award-winners are graceful and grateful. Just ask Meryl. She's an award-winner too. Like me.
Me: Yes. I can see how that type of person may be... grating. They're nearly as bad as people who talk just to hear themselves speak.
Myself: Ugh. Agreed. What a bunch of Bachmans.
Me: Who are we looking forward to meeting at GRL?
Myself: I open my arms to everyone. But -
Me: Legs too, no doubt.
Myself: Excuse me?
Me: Nothing. Just some predictable insult. We were saying?
Myself: I am looking forward to finally meeting my arch enemy, Tj Klune. There shall be a battle. A battle like none ever witnessed before. Of course, it will all be in my head, but still... And after this great battle there shall be the makeup sex. All great battles end with makeup sex. And then the two of us and a few of our craftier ne'er-do-wells plan to take a trip to Roswell and capture us an alien. I'm hoping for an alien more reminiscent of the one at the beginning of Prometheus than the one that pops out of tummies. But I realize one can't be choosy these days when shopping for aliens... especially so near the Mexican border.
Me: Are we planning any other side trips while in New Mexico?
Myself: I'm hoping me and my mom will be able to hit Santa Fe.
Me: And did I hear we are staying at one of the most haunted hotels in New Mexico?
Myself: Ah, yes. The Andaluz. We're Andaluzers. I'm looking forward to being molested while I sleep by the ghost of a muscular groundskeeper. Fingers crossed.
Me: And what about the strippers that first night?
Myself: They can molest me too, if they want. But I'm not a big fan of strippers. They're all, "Hey, look at my wiener! Let me shake it in your face. Let me pretend you're the only one I care about. Wiggle wiggle wiggle." Such posturing. They're hurting people. They're hurting people, dammit! I was in love once with a... Never mind.
Me: What's it mean when one has an awkward silence with one's self?
Myself (shrugging): A Lobotomy.
Me: So...uh...we're not bringing any swag to give to people to draw them to our books?
Myself: Not this year. This is my first huge event, so I just want to observe, really.
Me: We don't have any money to spend on swag, do we?
Myself: I'm broke. Broker than Brokey McBrokeback. A reader of mine, a hot actor named Barrett who I intend to court and woo, came up with an idea that I quite like, though, and I think I might use it someday. I might have some undies made, and on the butt cheeks have my name in big juicy lettering with Kid Christmas (as designed by Absolutbleu) lounging across it.
Me: Oooooh! That sounds fun.
Myself: Yeah, it does.
Me: Am I getting as turned on as me?
Myself: You know it. Are we done here?
Myself: Good. Then let's play with our boobays.
I: Hey! What the fuck? Why wasn't I invited to this little soiree?
Myself: Shit. Because, man, you always talk about yourself in third person.
Me: Yeah. It's weird, dude. Real weird.