Twinkies fame: still going

By Todd Stadler · Sunday, September 2, 2007 5:54pm

I got a call last week while I was at work.

In itself, this is unusual, since no one calls me on my work phone, except the occasional poorly informed cold-call from some software sales-schmoe (sample conversation: "Hi, are you responsible for making software purchase decisions for your company?" "Um, not really. Who is this?" "Can you transfer me to that person?" "Um, not really." Click).

I mean, I'm the internet guy at work. If anyone needs to talk to me, they either walk the several dozen feet to my desk, or they e-mail me. So I'm suspicious whenever the phone, nearly hidden behind a stack of papers and old design magazines, rings.

Anyhow, this time the call was actually for me. The guy on the other end of the phone said that he worked for some media company or other, and asked if I'd do a quick interview about my involvement in the T.W.I.N.K.I.E.S. Project.

Oh. Whenever I get these calls, two thoughts immediately go through my mind. First, how funny is it that some Web page I made twelve (!) years ago (with my co-Twinkies-scientist, Chris Gouge) is still resulting in media exposure?

Second, as much as I love the (now mostly warmed-over) fame and storytelling opportunities that result from such phone calls, I really have nothing interesting to say anymore. I wish I did, sure. I'd love to be hilarious for every (infrequent) interview I do. But I have nothing further to say, it seems. I don't find it a humorous discussion topic anymore.

It's like someone asking you what was your favorite part from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. "Oh, yeah," you'd say, "Huh. That was a good movie. Hadn't thought about it in a bit. Yeah, I dunno." And he then proceeds to act out all of his favorite scenes: "Blue! ... No, yellow!" And you just sit there and hmm and laugh politely, more at the memories of the movie than anything said in your actual conversation.

Not that the T.W.I.N.K.I.E.S. Project is remotely comparable to that movie, mind.

Anyhow, once I told him with some misgivings that I'd do an interview, the guy told me he'd call back quickly.

These misgivings transformed into a more proper dread when the phone rang again. See, you can always tell you're talking to a radio personality because, well, it occurs to you that you're not talking to a normal person. "What's wrong with this guy's voice," you might wonder, "Why is he over-enunciating and giving dramatic inflection to the most mundane phrases?"

What's strange is that this bizarre style of talking doesn't seem so odd when it's on the radio. But out of context — like, say, on the phone — it can be deeply disturbing, every bit as creepy as if your life suddenly gained a laugh track.

Let me be clear: radio people are freaks who have done something to their voices every bit as unnatural as that guy on the street with the tattoos all over his face. And chatting with a radio "personality" is a bit like being asked to sing a duet with an operatic soprano. You can't help think about how ... different ... you sound.

It turns out that the reason for this interview was that Interstate Bakeries Corp. (IBC) recently announced that it would be closing down its bakeries in Southern California. You know, IBC, makers of Wonder Bread? And Roman Meal bread? Oh yes, and Twinkies.

I don't know if this (ahem) journalist has my name filed in his Rolodex under "Food, Twinkies: go-to guy", or if he just plugged "Twinkies" into Google and found the T.W.I.N.K.I.E.S. Project and used his (ahem) journalism skills to find my work phone number. Oh, and my parents' phone number as well. (Thanks Mom, for taking that message.)

So there we were, talking about Twinkies and what I did to them twelve years ago. As much as I've already said about this event, I have little to say about the actual interview.

He told me it was being recorded to be played on the air, and I told him they'd have to edit it massively to make it sound interesting. He laughed a polite radio personality laugh that said, "If we have to create new words and sentences from your recording using a team of professional editors, we will!" (radio people learn to express themselves efficiently in radio school), and then babbled on about how he was sure I'd be a great interview. After all, I was a funny guy, right? That Web page I made was funny!

Which, ultimately, is the problem. Writing isn't speaking. In writing, you can edit your ideas repeatedly, and wait around for a particularly funny phrase to come to you. Not that I consider myself to have mastered writing — for instance, perhaps you haven't noticed, but I'm not terribly succinct — but I have spent more time writing and editing this story than I would in telling it.

Anyhow, the interview was terrible. On at least two of the questions, I just trailed off in the middle of answering, realizing that I was boring even myself.

To get an idea of what I was feeling, here's an exercise. Write something sort of funny. And then wait a decade or so. And then hand out a sheet to five people that you don't know, but who enunciate well, containing the following talking points:

• So, tell me about [what you wrote].
• I liked what you wrote when you said, "[read a passage from what you wrote]"
• What was your favorite part of [what you wrote]?

I mean, I know I sound really whiny right now, but I promise you that in ten years, you'll understand where I'm coming from. Until then, please don't rag on me in the comments. Thanks.