I said, “This is Brad.”
Long silence. “Hello?” I said.
“Hello,” she replied. More silence. Then, “Are you Marilyn Manson?”
“No,” I said, for truly I am not.
More silence. Then, “Do you know his phone number?”
“No,” I said, for truly I do not.
“Thank you. Have a nice day,” she said, then hung up.
This morning I checked Marilyn Manson out on Wikipedia. I’ve heard of him, of course. But I’m not really up on his history at all. Except that I know he’s from Canton, Ohio, which is a few miles south of where I grew up. The only things there are the Pro Football Hall of Fame and Belden Village Mall, which used to have an OK record store we’d go to sometimes.
Anyway, I found out his real name is Brian Warner. So this girl must have looked up every B. Warner listed in Los Angeles and decided I was Marilyn. I think she called once before. I got a call about a year ago which consisted of two teenage-sounding girls giggling and telling me I was the coolest guy ever.
This may be so. But for the record, I am not Marilyn Manson. OK?