If you were a cereal, what kind of cereal would you be?

(February 8, 2001)

What am I gonna ask this guy?

5:15 PM. I'm huffing and puffing on the treadmill, staring at (but not really focusing on) the Pink Floyd Live in Berlin poster on the wall directly in front of me. Casey is winning a game of Desk Hockey against Hub's pens and notebooks, but I'm not really focusing on him either. Through the half-open venetian blind slats, I register that Kenne Highland's dog is peeing on the neighbor's garbage cans. It momentarily occurs to me that Kenne, or anybody else out on the street, can see me treading away in here if they were to just glance up at the window.Is that...oh, uh, it is. Lexi, with fucked up hair, no makeup, sweating and wearing the world's oldest, raggiest T-shirt. Gross. But this is only a passing thought-- I'm not really interested in what Kenne or anybody else thinks of me right now.

I'm focused on one thing.What am I gonna ask this guy?

In an hour I'll be at the Brew Moon in Harvard Square interviewing another up-and-coming indie rock artiste. I should be brimming with insightful, brilliant questions. I should go in with a feel for the story, leading the interview subject through questions that will give me what I call "fodder." Stuff. But the right stuff. Some angle, something to make the story interesting. The tone of the interview sets the tone of the story. It's up to me to set the tone, based on how I want to write the story.

I don't know how I want to write the story.

A ten pound Neural Networks book skids off Hub's desk and hits the floor with an enormous thud. Casey scatters, sweeping everything to the floor in flurry of fur and nails as he pedals to gain traction on the smooth desk. Game over.

5:30 PM. What am I gonna ask this guy?