So It's Come to This: Author Self-Interviews

Short of roaming the streets, hollering through a megaphone—which is really more of a summer activity—there is little I won't do to promote a book I wrote. When I relayed this sentiment to my editor at Scene, his response was unexpected. In essence, he said, “Go interview yourself.” I took that as a positive since there were worse words he could have used in place of “interview.”

Since I self-published More Stories, and Additional Stories, I suppose the next logical step in publicity is to self-interview. Right?! Honestly, I'm just trying to figure life out as I go along.

Now, before readers lose their patience and dare me to do something to myself that has nothing to do with interviewing, it’s worth noting that before I begrudgingly settled for me, the top three Q & A maestros I had in mind were Oprah, Conan, and my own mother. All three declined and threatened a lawsuit if I ever called them again. I kid! She is a truly amazing woman worthy of infinite gratitude... and now that I think of it, the same goes for my mom.

My fourth choice was, at least, willing to talk to me—and so here we go.

N.O. 1: Thanks for setting aside an hour or so to do this interview.

N.O. 2: You're welcome. Once we realized that we both have Wednesday nights free, the puzzle pieces just sort of fell in place.

N.O. 1: Let's get down to brass tacks, Nick. To promote More Stories, and Additional Stories, is there some kind of an ugly jumble of letters that can be put on this page, newspaper or otherwise?

N.O. 2: I'm so glad you asked that question. Yes. http://www.amazon.com/More-Stories-Additional-Nick-Olig-ebook/dp/B00PJB4XPS

N.O. 1: Whoa! It looks like the alphabet got into a car wreck and then staggered out, spewing characters.

N.O. 2: I never thought of it that way...

N.O. 1: Do you remember stuff about the book that you could—oh, I don't know... maybe describe to people?

N.O. 2: Definitely. It's a collection of funny short stories, loosely formatted like a newspaper. That means it's sectioned into topics one might find in a newspaper: Top Stories, Entertainment, Local News, Opinion, Personal Ads, Obituary, and Bottom Stories. And within every chapter, I'm mostly trying to get laughs, but a lot of sincere emotions and revelatory thoughts went into the book as well, and so everyone who reads the book will ideally laugh, think, and have their emotions moved. In a quirky way, the book was partially inspired by Jim Valvano’s “Don’t ever give up” speech.

N.O. 1: I'm sorry man, but what the hell kind of a summary is that?

N.0. 2: Well, there are 34 different stories (plus a foreword by my editor, Tyler Maas, who was incredibly helpful throughout the process), and each story has its own summary, so that's where it gets tricky to summarize everything. I can give you examples, though. “The Cat Lady and the Munsons,” one of the Top Stories, is about childhood adventures, sneaking into the soon-to-be condemned house of a mythical cat lady in my best friend's neighborhood, having slam dunk contests on an adjustable hoop with mini-basketballs, and staging X-Men battles at the park, pretending to be superheroes alongside the incorrigible Munsons, who really set the bar high when it came to bad behavior.

N.O. 1: I trust you just a little bit more. Go on...

N.O. 2: In the Entertainment section, I deliver stories about TV shows, movies, and popular music. There's one called “Billy Joel Is My Generation's Dad,” which I like to think is a pretty self-explanatory title for the children of Baby Boomers. Local News shows my fondness for the kind of fake news one gets from The Onion or Weekend Update. I included a story about a vacuum cleaner outlet going out of business. During his final commercial, the owner laments that he just wanted to compete with Dirt Devil, which isn't necessarily a bad idea, only he misguidedly named his vacuum line Soil Satan, and his store became swarmed with Satanists and Christians protesting each other.

N.O. 1: Whoa. I like it but it sounds pretty bonkers. Maybe dial down the crazy a tad.

N.O. 2: Sure. Admittedly, I do have some satirical, offbeat tendencies, but redemption is very important to me as well. I write a couple kooky yet heartfelt letters to my three-year-old nephew, explaining to him the realities of Santa and the plight of the Chicago Cubs. Another one, “The Mario 2 Outlook,” gets goofy-philosophical and explains why daydreamers and misfits have long-preferred Mario 2 to its more popular counterparts for the Nintendo. “The Appendix Is a Lazy Psycho” is in there because the vermiform appendix needs to be protested. Finally, the Bottom Stories are the most personal and vulnerable pieces I’ve done so far. That’s part of the reason why I originally wanted Oprah to be on the other side of this interview.

N.O. 1: Well, we’re stuck with each other, so deal with it. This is better than nothing, right?

N.O. 2: That’s true! And it’s a nice segue to an endearing theme of the book: Something is better than nothing. So, learn to love something, because nothing is for nihilists, and nobody is worse than a nihilist. In the Bottom Stories, especially, I wanted to acknowledge all the heartache and resentment in this world, and still affirm that it’s all completely, 100% worth the trouble.

N.O. 1: That’s beautiful. You know, at first I thought you were a flaky smartass, but I’ve warmed up to you—so much so that I’m going to try to set you up on a hot date.

N.O. 2: Awesome. I’ll shower and brush my teeth and be polite and everything. But I should pass along that if she hates The Simpsons, then there’s a good chance the date would be doomed. 

Idiot Writes Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I turn to you in your infinite realness because you represent the true meaning of Christmas: the presents. I've got a hankering for some cool stuff and I've been nice all year long, so you gotta hold up your end of the deal, fatso.

As for any potential red tape regarding my claim of niceness, bare in mind that I wrote that story “Down with Santa” way back in December, 2013. That was last year! Now that it's 2014, I'm operating with a clean slate and a clear conscience.

Like it or not, tubby, it's time to cram all the goodies on my wish list into that magic sack you tote. You can't spell “commercialization” without “me,” so for starters, gimme a Hoverboard.

Yes, a Hoverboard, and not one of those crummy Hoverboards that can only go on land. I want to float above that water. Not unlike Jesus. Oops! My bad on the name-drop. I didn't mean to bring up your competition.

Anyway, there's a lot more cool stuff I want from you. I think you'd better add a cup of espresso to that jug of eggnog you keep stashed in your sleigh, 'cause Santa, this is gonna take a while.

By Christmas I'll be needing a wheelbarrow-full of wool socks—and I intend to keep the wheelbarrow, of course. Priority one is not freezing to death this winter. Actually, I take that back; the Hoverboard is priority one, but the wool socks and not getting frostbite and dying—that's kind of important, too. Other Christmas presents you'd better give me—OR ELSE—include an indoor hammock, a case of Miller High Life, that Andre Dawson baseball card when he was on the Cubs and sporting a jerry curl hairdo, an oil drum filled with nacho cheese, a fooseball table with secret tilt-control switches that allow me to cheat and always win, and a bar of solid gold engraved with Batman's signature.

Wait! How did I get this far into the letter without mentioning EZ Bake Ovens?! Put me down for five.

I'd like to add a genie lamp to my order. Don't worry, I won't be asking for infinite wishes. That's bush league. I am a law-abiding man of integrity! If you must know, I'll be wishing for that copy of Playboy from 1996 with Jenny McCarthy on the cover, a gun (any kind will do, but unregistered is strongly preferred), and a million dollars-worth of the finest and most dangerous fireworks ever made in America.

And while we're on the subject of wishes, could you put in a good word for me at the Make-a-Wish Foundation? I pray it doesn't happen, but if I get terribly sick, it would be a relief to know that at least I'd get to meet Aaron Rodgers, or even the chick who played the cheerleader on Saved by the Bell, as a solid fallback option.

Let's see... what else? Oh! Playstation controllers. Give me, like, a hundred of those. I want to make sure I have enough, 'cause when things don't go my way, I like to smash 'em. It's cathartic, you know? A hundred Playstation controllers is all I ask, along with all the other cool stuff.

Speaking of which, can you also bestow me with the Ferrari from Scent of a Woman, 50 square feet of additional space in my apartment (to be completed by no later than Boxing Day), and some matching bullets for the gun I'll be getting from that genie? You'd better respond with a jolly “Yes, indeed!” If not, I'll have no choice but to finally convert to Judaism. So help me Santa, if you fail me, I'm going to title my next December story “Santa's a Gordo Schmuck.”

If I could make another addition to my queue, I want Hollywood to produce another Rocky movie, and Santa, you're the overweight man who's gonna pull those strings to make that dream a reality. Can you believe they've only done six Rocky's so far?! I say keep 'em coming. You can't spell “public” without an “I,” and I demand another Rocky installment. Oh, and I want Rocky's next opponent to be the Predator, and I think it would be super-dramatic if the referee was played by Mr. T. Consult me for any script changes or casting problems, especially if Mr. T asks for too much money.

I suppose the only other items on my list that you absolutely must give me—that is, unless you want another Dreidel-spinner on your hands—would have to be a rock from the moon that I could sell on eBay, a Segway with a big plow attached to it, a lifetime's supply of Extra Sweet Watermelon gum, a two-hour singing telegram from Sir Paul McCartney, and the original stone tablets that list the Ten Commandments.

I mention this last one because, if I don't get everything I want from you, Santa, I will be forced to search for answers elsewhere, and those answers might not have anything to do with material possessions. Heck, those answers could involve a spirit that is priceless and immaterial, a positive attitude we share with our community, and an appreciation for the loved ones who give our lives so much purpose and support. Golly, maybe I've had it all backwards sending you these demanding letters since I was a first grader up until my current age of 31. Perhaps I should cut you some slack and trim my requests down to the wool socks, the EZ Bake Oven, and the Rocky movie, and focus on making other people happy this Christmas...

It's a tough call... I'm torn 'cause I still like cool stuff! Tell you what: I should sleep on it. Mind you, I'm leaning toward doing the right thing here, Santa, but if I don't, I'll be so extreme in celebrating your commercialized Christmas that I'll check out how much I could get for those sweet Commandment-tablets on eBay.

Sorry about all the fat jokes (even if they're true).

Your Fully Grown Believer,

Nick

Church of Zeppelin

I'm not an atheist in the traditional sense, but I'm an atheist when it comes to Christian Rock. Those two words just don't fit together. They oppose each other, like Dubstep Unplugged and Amish Casino. As far as art forms go, Christian Rock is more painful than extreme body piercing.

Now, before it seems like I'm updating my resume for admittance into hell, I should note that I'm biased on the matter. I live entirely too close to a progressive church, and so I am subjected against my will to Christian Rock in my own residence. Every Sunday morning, disagreeable music seeps through my floorboards, walls, and windows. My bed becomes engulfed in a plodding death march of drums, instruments too stricken with guilt to express joy, and redundant, gravelly testaments about everything from God to the Supreme Being to Our Heavenly Father.

Furthermore, I'll gladly admit that some faith-based music has merit. Oddly enough, a few summers ago, I lived in a place beside a church on the north side of Chicago. When that choir's renditions of “Amazing Grace” and “This Little Light of Mine” carried into my bedroom, my emotions were stirred. I became less of a grouch. The choir's tone was one of perseverance, of overcoming our struggles to find love and hope all around us, and they sang with galvanizing soul.

Christian Rock has soul, too, I guess, but it's the soul of an adult who demands to be scolded after tripping down a flight of stairs and accidentally blurting the “s-word.”

On a philosophical level, Christian Rock is confusing. If God is truly, perfectly virtuous, wouldn't that make Him supremely HUMBLE, too? After all, the word of God preaches humility, not arrogance. (“Blessed are the meek,” yes?) If God doesn't endorse egotism, why would He demand that we all constantly stroke His divine ego? He wouldn't require an entire genre of music that's entirely obsessed with commending Him all the time. My understanding of God is that He'd probably be content with a simple “thanks” and an occasional tribute of “Amazing Grace” on holidays.

If I'm wrong about that, and God is the most adamant supporter of Christian Rock in the universe, I'm in trouble, sure, but we'd all be in trouble, the members of Third Day included. God as a Christian Rock aficionado could actually be terrifying. It's got to be impossible for mankind to match God's ability to criticize, or to compete with his love of Himself. What if God, the Christian Rock fanatic, and an infallible one at that, voiced his displeasure to the players at Life Fest in their dreams?

“Terry! Thou hast disappointed me.”

“Wha? Whatever do you mean, Lord?”

“Sigh. Your debut recording, Infinite Praise, was a double album, but your latest album, Neverending Worship, was only one disc. That's two full hours of telling Me how awesome I am down to a measly 45 minutes of telling Me how awesome I am. What, do you suddenly love Me less?! Did I get a lot less awesome between the years of 2012 and 2014? Because that is the impression I get from your erroneously titled Neverending Worship.”

“Oh, what have we done?” Terry cries. “Lord, I speak for the entirety of Rage Against the Pagans when I beg for your forgiveness. You see, there was pressure from the record company to make the album divinely concise...”

“Silence!” God bellows. “I decree that you begin work immediately on a TRIPLE album! And until the deed is finished to my approval, I shall torment you by giving you nightmares about gay hippies.”

“Nooooo!” Terry howls with righteous despair.

Amen.

With that horrific scene gone from our lives forever, I'd like to reiterate that I'm not opposed to faith or religious music entirely, but I do sincerely wish the church in my whereabouts stepped up their game tunefully. The solution calls for some sacrilege, perhaps, but my alternative to Christian Rock in church would still uphold causes such as offering food drives for the hungry, free counseling for troubled souls, and a spirit of togetherness. My prospective church would mostly be different due to its preference for secular music and harmless hints at “false idols.” Plus swearing is allowed and you can be upfront about having a hangover. This idyllic place of worship would at least be a better representation of Rock—if not the Christian part. If not me, somebody needs to found a Church of Zeppelin.

A few pillars of the Church of Zeppelin are as follows: No mass on Sundays. We know better than to try competing with the NFL. That's basically like the programmers of a TV Land rerun of Murder She Wrote expecting to get higher ratings than the Super Bowl. It's ridiculous! And we don't have early morning masses, either, since the music of Led Zeppelin clearly favors the night. The Church's masses are held once a month. We don't want to overdo it! We live in an insanely busy world with overfilling dates in our calenders. The Church of Zeppelin would therefore congregate at 8 pm on the first Tuesday of every month.

We're not going to be sticklers about attendance. Parishioners who find themselves stuck in an ongoing communication breakdown with the Church of Zeppelin are welcome to return on any given first Tuesday of the month to cleverly admit, “It's been a long time since I rock and rolled.”

Opening sermons could begin with the cryptic words, “Many times I've wondered how much there is to know...” Brief remarks would be made by the preacher, whom we refer to as the Hed Zeppelin Honcho, who would quote insightful scripture such as, “I'm telling you now, the greatest thing you ever could do now, is trade a smile with someone that's blue now.”

After that, the congregation would pretty much just mingle and visit nicely with one another while rocking out to Led Zeppelin for 45 minutes. There is no penalty for leaving early, but if doing so causes you to miss seeing a group of smartly dressed beautiful ladies swaying in unison as they sing along to “Fool in the Rain,” it's your loss, pal.

No topical guidelines are imposed while socializing and enjoying Zeppelin, but if you'd care to discuss the songs and legacy of perhaps the best band ever, you're welcome to do that. Consider “Your Time Is Gonna Come.” Is it about a scandalous lover or Jesus? I don't know, discuss! For an even longer conversation that could easily verge on endless, ponder “What Is and What Should Never Be.” Even if you've got claptrap theories about Robert Plant being the reincarnation of Bilbo Baggins, feel free to ramble on.

Now, to be entirely forthcoming, I'm too lazy and easily distracted to found the Church of Zeppelin. There's got to be a lot of paperwork and financing involved in an enterprise like that, so count me out. But somewhere in Fond du Lac County, or wherever this gets read, maybe I could act as the muse for a living loving maid whose dazed and confused state of mind becomes enlightened by the potential of the Church of Zeppelin. Yes, there are two paths she can go by (one that dismisses this story as nonsense and the other that gives it some thought) but in the long run, there's still time to change the road she's on. I can almost see her pretty face now, biting her lip and nodding reflectively, then searching for rental properties online, making a phone call or two, and opening her checkbook...

And she's buying a stairway to heaven.