1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accouterments?
2. If you could return as any person or thing, what would it be?
A TED talk.
3. If needed, how would CNN get its ratings way up?
They have Dana Bash, on Capital Hill, and Anderson Cooper, in studio, break into “Suddenly Seymour” in the middle of a breaking news report. Once consumed by her solo, I would implore Dana to take her hands and simultaneously shove the faces of the two Senators who arrive on time, for the scheduled interview. They will be in her shot and that can’t happen. All the while, the love for both musicals and political punditry will collide worldwide and ratings will soar.
4. Well, that’s one way to do it. Who knew —
Then, I’d have Wolf, Soledad and Erin work the peplum and bring it on home with “Little Shop of Horrors.”
Why so smug, Erin? You know you’re into this.
5. Are you done?
Never, but I get the feeling you want to move on to the next question.
6. And here I thought I was going to stump you. Who knew a blazer by way of the 8th arrondissement was so versed in U.S. cable news?
I’m dynamic. Ou dynamique, pour les francophones.
7. If you could be anywhere where would you be?
Right where I am for the nonce because I’m loyal and I stick by those who wear the living hell out of me. With that said, I’m currently sitting in a tasteful duffel, in a Chuckawalla Valley State Prison locker, awaiting my girl’s release so we can be reunited.
8. I thought the connection was a little muffled. Why, pray tell, are you in a tasteful duffel in Chuckawalla Valley?
It all started in the Ford Field announcer booth. My girl’s headphones were firmly cupping her ears and that’s because she and her comrade-in-arms were the first female sportscasters to preside over the Super Bowl. Oh, how proud I was to be there and so fierce I was looking. Are we still using that term? Fierce?
9. I’m not sure. If you want, I can make a call?
No matter. And so, My girl was in the zone, making those listening terrestrially or by satellite feel as if they were right there in the stadium, on the field even, “Beautiful night here in Detroit on this Super Bowl Sunday. Has this been a battle or what, Glads?” Glads, or Gladys, rather, was the partner in crime, the friend she met in college and bonded with over the same dream: to one day be exactly where they were, in the booth guiding an auditory-only audience through a Super Bowl — the white sticks for the truckers, commuters, security guards, people working in various toll booths… The ladies would bust their asses to make the listeners feel as if Ford Field and all of its trappings were at their proverbial doorstep because to these two announcers, it wasn’t just a job, it was a necessity. Like butter, Gladys responded, “The game has certainly lived up to the hype in Michigan today, folks. Now let’s take it down to the field.” The Kansas City Chiefs’ huddled tightly together, taking orders from the quarterback, “Now, we’re in this to win this, boys! ‘Win’ on three. One, two…” The players bellowed back, “Win!” Their leader continued his quixotic rant, “Remember, lotta tempo, lotta tempo… Mix that cadence, alright?! We gotta use that cadence versus that blitz! Deuce right, nineteen slant on one!” One, en masse clap and the team immediately scrambled out of the huddle. Meanwhile, back in the booth, I was continuing to look absolutely amazing, while simultaneously giving off a “work and play” vibe, when suddenly, my girl leaped to her feet and started to wring her hands, rapt focus trained on the field below. It was right here that I noticed Gladys staring at her with pity. I had no idea what the troubled look was for, but the reason would soon prove to be not good at all. The focus on Gladys was interrupted by my girl, “And we’re off! Matt Durman in the gun… Kevin Cross right next to him… And… Everybody out! Durman pumps to… Huntley down the sideline! Huntley laterals to Burns!” Everyone jumped to their feet as if sucking on the fumes of my girl’s elation — save for Gladys, still with the concerned gaze locked on her friend. “But why,” I wondered. My girl continued on, every part of her was caught up in this game, “Burns laterals it back to Huntley! Oh god! Can they catch him?! Oh god! Are you kidding me?! Oh god! Huntley! Oh god! Touchdown! Kansas City! Unbelievable! Touchdown! Heavens to Murgatroyd!” Gasping for breath, she muffled her microphone and motioned for Gladys to chime in “Come on. Earn your keep, lady.” Gladys would go on to earn her keep but the enthusiasm stopped at her voice for the face told a different tale entirely, “Eigh-ty-se-ven yards! Eleven seconds left! Right place, right time! Calvin Huntley touched down and Matt Durman helped him do it, folks! The game is over and the Chiefs, for the eighth year in a row, walk away, by the skin of their teeth, with the Vince Lombardi trophy!” The booth celebrated. My girl ripped the cans from her head and tossed them onto the console. Excited and winded, she looked to Gladys confused, “What happened to you? You’re slippin’. Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to trade you in.” Suddenly, her focused shifted to six FBI agents busting through the doors! I should note, only four agents were assigned; the other two just wanted to attend the big game. In any case, they bee-lined for my girl, the lead agent uttering the words a garment such as myself did not need to hear, “Jemma Hopper, you’re under arrest for racketeering and promoting gambling in the second degree.”If my color had the ability to drain it would’ve. Naturally, the color did drain from my girl. She knew to look to one person and one person only. Gladys’ head was already shamefully bowed. It was awful. A years-long friendship disintegrated. Dust. The moment the agent slapped on the cuffs, my girl’s eyes welled with tears. She had only one simple question for her friend, “How could you, Glads?” Don’t get me wrong, she knew had broken the law, however, to have a confidant, someone she had trusted with everything, betray her on such a grand level? It was incomprehensible. Gladys had a simple rejoinder for the simple question, “They had me by the balls, Jem.” So, that’s it. That is why I am now sitting in a tasteful duffel, real gimcrack-like, waiting for my girl to serve out her 9 years and retrieve me. I’m also hoping she’ll impress the hell out of the parole board in 3 years so we can blow out of this joint early. And while I’m hoping upon hopes that she gets paroled, I’d be lying if I said I was opposed to her bustin’ out with a few of the ladies from cellblock 8 who’re planning an escape. The only problem with that scenario is the chances of her making a pit stop to pick my ass up are slim to none and this particular Balmain don’t wanna be thrown into the grabby bag for COs to sift through, if you know what I mean. On second thought, I’ll just pin my hopes on a stellar appearance in front of the board. *whispers* Gotta run! Someone’s coming!