Trying to make conversation, at which I am not good. The car. That’s always good for a half mile, right?
His was niiice. Large. New. Spotless. Swanky. Certainly more so than my ‘97 Camry (ye of the duct-taped-together sideview mirror. ‘Cuz that’s how I roll).
“Nice car,” I said.
"it's fast," he said. “I like fast cars."
I’ve never heard a human utter such a matter-of-fact sentence. Not a hint of distancing from the assertion. “You don’t like that? I don’t give a fuck.” Which, cough, is always a stance that appeals.
Said conversation took place during my not-so-great book tour (or whatever I dubbed it in a previous piece). Fast Car Guy worked for a livestock trade association; he’s the PR guy.
Genius at his job. (Maybe all that speed juices his brain?) (Speaking of which, he and another guy on the scene kept making pot jokes. By the time I left, I was wondering.)
He’d persuaded the overlings to give him the basement of the association’s building, which he transformed into a full-blown media production studio. He had at least five people staff full-time, plus a small but smart, talented collection of freelancers -- announcers, narrators, reporters.
Delightful group. It was early December, so I got to go to their group’s holiday party (after talking to them in a fascinating round-table kind of thing) (or whatever the business types call that).
One of the full-timers also played fiddle. Another is interested in film/media. The head producer/editor (that’s probably not her real title) had plans to write a book and she, wisely, grabbed the chance to ask me about the industry.
Anyway, thus ensconced in their basement, they create video of all manner, as well as “radio” broadcasts. High quality product, written, structured, filmed and edited with obvious talent and skill. No difference between what they do and what, say, NBC would do.
Not what you expect, right? There stood I in the middle of what many of my fellow countrymen dismiss as Bumfuck Egypt, U.S.A., dazzled by talent, ingenuity, creativity, etc. Out here in BFE, we got it all, folks.
No Major Message here. In the next ten days, I’m giving talks to two agriculture groups, which I suspect is what prompted this. That or my brain is shouting “MAUREEN! Do something, woman, do something.”
Wait for it . . . . NO FOOTNOTE.