Thomas Wictor

I just finished my first radio interview, conducted by Bobbo Brown, KNTX AM14010, in Texas.

Great guy, and like me, he loves film music. His favorite film—according to his bio—is The Godfather. One of mine too. And his favorite actor is Al Pacino.

If you ever get a chance, see The Devil’s Advocate, Pacino’s best performance. Incredibly profound film about what people are willing to pay for success. As a chronic failure, I loved it. Over the years I’ve watched extremely successful people I’ve met become disillusioned and bitter. I never understood that. Is it because the “success” they achieved isn’t as satisfying as they thought? Is that any reason to be bitter? If I’m not bitter, then none of those people have even the slightest justification.

Bobbo’s favorite book is The Talisman, a joint project by Stephen King and Peter Straub. It’s a doozy of a story and shows that Bobbo has an infinte attention span. The paperback is three inches thick. I’m shocked that it was never made into a movie, given the advances in CGI. They could turn it into a trilogy like Lord of the Rings and clean up. It’s got werewolves, winged men, epic battles, and deformed monsters.

If you haven’t already done so, Bobbo, read Peter Straub’s Shadowland. What’s great about it is that most people can’t figure out what the author wants you to think.

Good.

That’s my goal too. I gave the doctor who diagnosed my Meniere’s disease a copy of Ghosts and Ballyhoo. After he read it, he said, “I feel bad about laughing at what’s happened to you!”

Don’t feel bad. If I can laugh, so can you. Heck, if my mother can laugh at what’s happened to me, so can you. We both laugh at her cancer. Yesterday I went to see her during her chemo session. She’s finally lost most of her hair, so I gave her my fedora to wear to the car and back to the nursing home. When she put it on, it came down to the bridge of her nose because I have a monstrously outsized head.

“How did you give birth to me?” I asked. “Did you extrude me?”

She laughed so hard she started crying. Passersby paused and wondered why the giant-headed graybeard was making the old lady in the wheelchair cry, but then she shouted, “I did not extrude you!”

And the concerned passersby thought, Ah. She’s senile. Got it.

Which is funny, because the Meniere’s brain fog often makes me less on the ball than my eighty-five-year-old, cancery, chemo-sodden mother.

So thanks for the interview, Bobbo. You were in my mind when I wrote Ghosts and Ballyhoo, even though I didn’t know you at the time. I’m grateful that you like it.