Permit me to set the scene.

Saturday morning: Sarah and I went for a nice long walk around our development, and then returned home to shower and prepare to meet our friends for drunken revelry and poker. Sarah jumped in the tub while I watched Norm Abrams carve wood, and when she was done I stripped to my skin and went to start the shower. Then my cell phone rang. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hello?
Brian: Two things. First, I'm going to go to the Phils game today [instead of coming over to play poker with you]. Second, do you have a minute?
Me: Uh, sure, I guess.
Brian: Okay, you're about to be interviewed.

Here's where I should explain that Brian works Saturday mornings at WDEL (1150 on your amplitude modulation dial). So here I am, standing in my living room, nude, on my cell phone (which doesn't work very well in the house), and the following thoughts are foremost in my mind:

1. I'm about to be WHAT?
2. I doubt I should mention on the air that I'm buck naked.
3. Don't drop the F-bomb . . . don't drop the F-bomb . . . don't drop the F-bomb . . .

That last was what was running through my head for the duration of the interview, which is why it's surprising that I did NOT say it. It was the most nerve racking 9 minute phone call of my life, and most of it was spent on hold listening to commercials. I was about paralyzed for about 4 minutes, and then I managed to squirm into a pair of shorts, and tell Sarah so she could turn on a radio.

Then I got to talk to some woman whose name I never caught while trying not to pee my pants. If you don't mind the 1.3MB filesize, give it a listen, and let me know if you can hear the abject terror in my voice.

Of course, I'd do it again in a heartbeat, of course, because I have an ego like Antarctica has ice.