The morning of Friday the 13th, I had a teleconference with Yanni, the world-renowned, multiplatinum, Grammy-nominated, Cheez Whiz clown-composer. I'm not kidding. That morning, I went to a location downtown and was led with a few other people into an office where Yanni Skyped in on a 17-inch MacBook. In support of his newest album, Truth of Touch, Yanni is doing teleconferences. I planned to get kicked out quickly. I'd ask him something about balls and touching their truth, or something about the truth of touching my balls. I didn't have it exactly worked out. All I knew is I wasn't going to last long.
On the computer screen, Yanni looked tired. He was wearing a robe and sipping coffee. He was in San Diego, where he was playing that night. He has overmanicured chest hair. His hair is shorter, and his molester 'stache is gone. Whatever accent he has I think is fake. He's not from Kalamata, Greece; he's from Cleveland. The three people at the teleconference were allowed two questions each for Mr. Yanni, which we had to have approved beforehand. I said I was going to ask him about mic'ing techniques for string sections and something about where he was most looking forward to playing on this tour.
I was told I would ask my questions second, so I had a few minutes to take it all in. The first guy began, "Blah, blah, blah." Yanni is an extremely confident and cunningly tacky man. He's got this accent—and he went on about how much he likes his own album, and how it's fun, and how this one is something different, and how he was playing with the rhythms and new sound design. Everything he says, he's said 1,000 times before. Yanni really wants people to believe that he's into what he's doing. But I think it's pretty obvious he's just in it for the money. The whole Greece thing is a terrible adult-contemporary act. I know that he knows how mind-bogglingly cheesy it is. He may be fooling Republicans and the elderly, but there's no way he actually thinks the music he's making is good. Come on. And he knows that I know he's being cheesy all the way to the bank, in Cleveland.
It came time for my questions too soon. I thought I would have a few more minutes to work out my thing about balls and truly touching them or whatever. But the first person was finished with their Yanni Time™ and looked satisfied. My Moment of Yanni was upon me. The PR person in the room turned the computer toward me and signaled for me to go ahead, and Yanni smiled like a cartoon gopher. I froze. I went blank. I couldn't speak. Yanni waited, sipping from his mug (like someone from Cleveland would sip from a mug). I felt like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he gets to Santa and forgets what to ask for.
Finally I said, "So your new album is called Truth of Touch... have you ever gotten high and put your balls on a gerbil?" Totally not what I meant to say. I meant to say something witty about the Truth of Touching the Underside of My Balls. But I screwed it up. My heart was exploding, I was screwing up my Yanni Ball Moment. I had been waiting weeks for this.
"Excuse me?" Yanni said. With my second chance, I said, "Have you ever done blow and put a gerbil in your fanny?" Which was not really what I meant to say either. But at this point, I was just firing off words. Then I said, "What is the truth behind Touching My Balls?"
With that, it was over. The PR person pulled the cable out of the computer and told me I needed to leave. He pushed the computer screen shut and escorted me out of the building. We did not speak. As I was walking out of the parking lot, I looked over my shoulder—I could see him standing inside the glass door laughing to himself. I can't be the first person to have been thrown out of a Yanni interview—I mean teleconference. 
