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to interview me for the many wondrous achievements of my storied career.

TERRY: This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. I’m talking with world-famous copywriter and poet Finbar Dolan. Your first book, Me, How Wonderful, a collection of poems and an international bestseller, is being made into a film directed by Ang Lee and starring both Brad Pitt and George Clooney as you at different times in your life. You’ve been asked to act in it and to write the screenplay. Is it hard to write a screenplay for a book of poems?

FIN: It is, Terry. But I was able to do it in a day.

TERRY: You chose to live in Paris for much of the writing. Why was that?

FIN: It’s one of my favorite cities. I bought a home there. And, of course, I speak the language without any trace of an accent.

TERRY: You’re the youngest member ever to be elected to L’Academie française.

FIN: Oui.

TERRY: That’s an incredible accomplishment.

FIN: Thank you, Terry.

TERRY: You once landed a 747 safely after the pilot passed out. How did you know how to do that?

FIN: Luck. And of course a great deal of skill.

TERRY: You’re far better looking in person than on your book jacket photo.

FIN: (embarrassed) That’s very kind.

TERRY: You recently played against Roger Federer in a charity tennis tournament and beat him. Left-handed.

FIN: Roger’s a sweet kid.

TERRY: What’s the capital of Nevada?

FIN: Carson City.

TERRY: At what temperature are Fahrenheit and Celsius exactly the same?

FIN: Minus forty.

TERRY: Marshal Phillipe Pétain oversaw Vichy France during World War Two. What color were his eyes?

FIN: Blue. A startling blue.

TERRY: This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. If you’re just joining us, my guest is Finbar Dolan, copywriter, poet, hero. You mentioned climbing K2 without pants last year.

FIN: I wanted a challenge.

TERRY: What’s sex like with Miss France?

FIN: Nice. Really pleasant. We had fun.

TERRY: How tall are you?

FIN: I’m six-five.

TERRY: Are most people happy?

FIN: That’s a great question. I don’t think so.

TERRY: Why?

FIN: They lack fulfillment in either love or work.

TERRY: You have a lovely speaking voice. How much can you bench-press?

FIN: Ohhh, I’m not sure, really. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

TERRY: You broke your former fiancée’s heart.

FIN: Excuse me?

TERRY: You broke her heart. You embarrassed her and yourself. You called off a wedding with a month to go.

FIN: I . . .

TERRY: Your mother died.

FIN: Please don’t . . .

TERRY: Your mother died when you were young. Tell us about that.

FIN: Please don’t do that.

TERRY: Are you close with your father?

FIN: Why are you . . .

TERRY: You have family. You have a sister and two brothers. Are you close? Do you keep in touch?

FIN: No. We, ahh . . . no. We kind of lost touch and . . .

TERRY: Your brother Eddie called you and asked that you call him back. Your brother. And yet you can’t pick up the phone to call him. That seems sad and pathetic. You make no effort to keep in touch with these people, your siblings, your flesh and blood. Your family. You’re a terrible person. What are your plans for Christmas?

• • •

“Fin?” It’s Martin. “I said, what are your plans for Christmas?”

I’m blinking quickly. I’m touching the scar on my face. I sip tea and spill some on my shirt.

“I’m going to Mexico.” I smile.

“Right. You mentioned that.” Martin leans forward in his chair, looks toward the door as if he is about to share nuclear codes with me. Quieter voice now.

“What if I told you that Snugglies was in possession of the world’s first eco-friendly, one-hundred-percent biodegradable diaper that can be flushed down a toilet, not thrown into a landfill?”

His eyes are wide, his shock a mirror, he palpably hopes, of the shock and facial expression I will soon experience. He lets the news sit in the refined air. Then, right elbow on desk, he separates his thumb and forefinger, slowly rotating his wrist, as if carefully imparting a biblical insight: “Redefining disposable diapers.” Eyebrows still raised (they look stuck up there at this point), Martin sits back and says, “What d’ya think?”

Here is what I think, in an amount of time that perhaps only NASA could measure.

I think, I love when a hockey team pulls its goalie in the final minute of the game, down a goal. I think, I hate the word panty. I think, do I have an average, above average, or below average–sized penis? I think, where’s the punch line to what Martin just said, because there has to be a