Hamburger and shoes.
I did an interview this morning with a newspaper in an unnamed city. I found out about the interview via a sheet of paper with a phone number and name written on it slipped under my door sometime between midnight and whenever I woke up this afternoon.
The reporter's name was a Spanish word for "fitness" (so she told me without me asking) and she was super nice. I was pissed before I made the call because a sparrow got into the front door of my hotel and *somehow* got onto the 27th floor? What? It rammed itself into all four walls of the hall until a housekeeper caught it with a towel and stomped it to death. I walked into the hallway just as that was happening.
Dead bird. Housekeeper. Interview.
She asked me three questions about the show I pretended to not know the answer to. She laughed and asked if I was serious. I said no and answered the questions. As I talked, I got less angry about the bird and more into what I was saying about myself and the show. It's hard not to get all wrapped up in talking about yourself to someone whose job it is to write... about me.
Then we got personal. I told her about my parents I disowned at 14, how I went from success (I was in 10 commercials before I was three) to failure (public school) to success (understudying Alphonso Ribero in "The Tap Dance Kid") to failure (causing a fire at a dinner theatre and going to jail for 2 years) to well, whatever I am now.
Then she threw it at me:
"I have an eating disorder."
Silence. She apologized but I comforted her and told her to go on. I care. She's 411 pounds and works from home in a wheelchair. Her house is equipped with ramps everywhere, even in the shower. So sad. She uses tubes to doo doo.
I'll skip to the end. She told me the story might run in a week or she was thinking of adding to a bigger story about peoples' lives in the midst of the down economy. Either way, I asked if she'd send me one of her unused tubes so I could try it out.