Hey, man, I'm gonna be on the radio. I'm going to be interviewed by Welsh radio presenter Beti George on Monday. Assuming I don't choke -- gripped in fear of bungling my Welsh -- we'll be talking about the joy that is blogging.
There is something funny and ironic in my being called upon as a sort of expert on blogging (I get a sense that Meaghan would be best equipped to comment on my ineptitude as a blogger*). But people who are well equipped to talk about blogging don't speak Welsh.
So, ha. I am the blogging expert by default because I'm one of the few people blogging in Welsh.
I lurched through a pre-interview this morning and it was very trippy. I don't get many opportunities to hold conversations with Welsh speakers -- this was only my second, as a matter of fact. I am used to either talking to myself or listening to the radio. The linguistic isolation that comes from living in the United States -- where everyone thinks it's funny to tell me I'm speaking Klingon (tell me again; it gets funnier after I've heard it the thousandth time) -- has caused me to internalize the language so much that it's a bit of a disconnect when I remember it's a living language that is 2,600 years old and not just some made-up thing that exists in my head. It was weird to be, you know, interacting with someone else on the phone.
The program's researcher would ask me a question and there would be a pause while I realized, "Oh, hey. I should answer that question. We're having a conversation" ("O, hei. Fe ddylwn i ymateb y cwestiwn 'na. Cael sgwrs ydym ni.").
Eventually things got a bit more fluid and I started to feel slightly more comfortable with speaking in Welsh, but I will nonetheless be spending the next several days being kept awake by visions of worst-case scenarios for Monday's interview ("What do you mean I agreed to purchase a 150-year-old island fortress?!").
In related news, I have my co-workers hooked an using Welsh profanity.
Everyone seems to love this blog.
I wish I could claim to have done something like this.
I've been reading a lot of rugby stories today in preparation for the second Lions test match against New Zealand. I was particularly struck by this quote in the Guardian: "In the week before the Test we thought the All Blacks had cracked our lineout code, so we changed a few things. In hindsight that was suicide."
Oh, good grief. This is like changing all of a quarterback's play calls in the week before a game. That shit never works (see 2004-2005 Minnesota Vikings defense). Even if the other team does know the plays they aren't as well versed in them as your team should be, so your chances are better than if you just go out there and guess. What the hell is wrong with Sir Clive?
*I suspect Esther would also be good at this and could point out all my flaws in a sharply honest and funny way. I am immensely jealous of her acute sense of observation and humor. You know all those things they say about the brilliance of Oscar Wilde? She makes him look like a hack. And she's prettier.