Reliable Source

Reliable Source: When Interviews Go Wrong

Marion Cox | 13 Feb 2010 14:00
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Subject: Yaaar Matey!

I be wantin' to gab at ye. These scurvy landlubbers desire yer tales of plunder and pillage. If'n you could so oblige a dirty bilge-rat like meself, I'd be mighty abateful.


Marion Cox
Dirty Bilge-Rat, Escapist Magazine

Two things happened a few minutes later, I received an email from Mr. Daurghty's mother and I determined that "abateful" wasn't a word. She said her son was busy, but that he would be contacting me soon. I replied and suggested that "abateful" was more of a nautical term. If she didn't believe me she should consult a maritime dictionary or go abate herself. I then waited for a reply.

Almost 15 minutes went by with nary a response. 15 minutes is an eternity in these days of instant gratification and 140 characters. Surely, I'd scared him off - or maybe the internet was broken? Worried, I called my editor in North Carolina, but I wasn't sure that he'd have answers. My concern proved true: he had nothing. Instead, Tito told me that I should be patient because not everyone sat in front of their computer constantly refreshing their inbox. He also told me not to call collect again unless I was stuck in a hospital, jail or Halifax.

Obviously, Greg didn't get the memo about the internet being instant. Something was wrong; I knew it. Had my piratical greeting scared Dale and his mother off, or had he perhaps read some of my other columns?

Regardless, I obeyed the law of all journalists, "A day wasted is never wasted." I had a bottle of whiskey and a press copy of the infanticide simulator BioShock 2. No one asked me to review it, but if I was to rate the experience I'd say that the whiskey was scored a 9.2 and the gameplay only a 7, putting the game at a solid score of 8.1. Perhaps the publishers could learn something from my experience and start packing free booze with each review copy. I fully support Halo Reach coming with a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

A few hours later, BioShock 2 had become a regular drinking game. In retrospect, it was probably lucky that I was interrupted by the phone ringing, as I had nearly run out of real alcohol and I was seriously eyeing a bottle of cough syrup. On the phone, Tito told me that I needed to check my email, because Mr. Daurghty had been trying to reach me for the last three hours. I assured Greg that I was on the case and that he had no cause to worry, but I suspect that I was slurring my words because he kept asking me if I was okay. I tried to change the subject and get him talking about his new manuscript: a collection of humorous quotes from fictional dogs.

After a long discussion about the nature of Snoopy and Woodstock's relationship, Greg seemed reassured that I could at least hold a conversation. He was mostly right, at least until I some took liberties with the cold medicine.


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