Jeff Johnson

Jeff Johnson's site is fittedsweats@blogspot.com (the support site for 44-year-old placekickers).

THE ULTIMATE INTERVIEWERS' GRUDGE MATCH, VOLUME ONE

Deborah Solomon From The New York Times Magazine Meets the VOICE's Shelter columnist Toni Schlesinger. In Hell.

TS: This strikes me as a good room to kill a parrot in. No fuss, no muss. Ever lie facedown on a webbed hammock and try to eat a taco through the gaps in the webbing? This neighborhood has mediocre tacos. They're all made with 7-grain shells. Anyway, you could hang one right here. A hammock. This doorknob wants to be "civil war" era, but really screams Restoration Hardware. And you could pass gas next to this aquarium, and this window over here would serve as your accomplice. The shade makes it look like it's winking at you. It's saying, "I can keep a secret. I can keep a secret." I hate pewter chalices. But I can't stop buying them. I may join the circus. I may not.

DS: Did I even ask you a question yet? No. Kindly shut the fuck up.

TS: Okay.

DS: That's better. You interview indigent dumbasses about their rent.

TS: Guilty. Did you know Drambuie ignites and can be used as a sunscreen? There was an old hobo who once gave backrubs under the boardwalk at Coney Island. He had an affinity for limes. Did I say hobo? I meant my cousin, Big Drama. He was in the union. What union? I didn't ask.

DS: Please die.

TS: Your skirt would look better off. It could be a tablecloth at Panna II. Do they call you D-Bomb? You're quite terse. Churlish. Brusque. Much like Sandy Duncan, or That Girl-era Marlo Thomas, sort of, if she were a COMPLETE bitch.

DS: I thought I told you to cease living. My turn. Do you believe any religion's god would allow a human to inhabit some shithole studio on 11th avenue above a poorly vented muffler shop and pay $3200 per month?

TS: Honestly, I--

DS: Do I even care? No. Your parents were quite homely. What role did that play in your writing? Or interviewing? Whatever it is, the text molests my eyes.

TS: Fiberboard, if lacquered, adds a rustic touch. I fell in love with a gypsy in Antigua once. Or was it Queens?

DS: People who read my column generally do not rent apartments. They have moved on. This is fact. Let me amend that. People who understand my column are home owners. It is possible to earn money and not feel killing yourself, or weeping loudly about the homeless. After all, some of us are trying to enjoy an expensive salad over here.

TS: I interview owners, too. Now this is a good room to beat a dwarf to death with a banjo. Get it at a thrift store. Don't use a credit card. Don't leave a paper trial, goddammit. Do it while sober. Spend the weekend at the Jersey Shore, I won't tell anyone. Okay, Jib-jib?

DS: You're vile.

TS: Did you know a woman named Gail who liked to hum the 1960's hit "Windy?" It would have been on Madison Avenue around 39th street. This was maybe 1975. She liked empanadas. She maybe didn't exist. I can't be sure.

DS: You take quirky, and then you beat the living hell out of it. You don't even have the courtesy to leave it in front of the emergency room. I think it may have been Rauschenberg who told me, "Quirky sucks." So. God to me is mentally retarded. There's evidence of this in dealing with New York City's landlords. Respond immediately or I will prepare another insult.

TS: Finally, we're getting somewhere. I think--

DS: Your bag is ass. I bet you rode the subway here. Sorry. I lied. I

TS: Ice cream melts. Even in freezing temperatures. But this ice box looks like something that could move troops through Tikrit or even across Mars. It has a DVD player built into it. It will tell you when your Frogurt is sufficiently chilled. Do you like almonds?

DS: I am going to filet my own nostrils with a chainsaw if I have to endure your odor for another moment.

[door opens. It's Linda Stasi of the New York Post]

LS: Not for nothin' but Scott "Chachi" Baio is back, and I for one have raised hackles! Bada-Bing!

DS: This has been unpleasant.

TS:Did you know there was a Chachi Avenue once upon a time? It was gravel. It ran underneath Stuy Town. It's where flappers took smoke breaks.