You Can’t Make This Up
So I’m doing a little publicity for Someone Bought the House on the Island, and I send three photographs to the local Fourth Estate. I break them down into three emails because the pictures are large. My first email reads:
Dear [Name Withheld], Timm Holt has asked me to submit some photos to you from the Saints and Sinners Festival production of Someone Bought the House on the Island. Because of their size, I will send them individually. There are three for the time being.
This first shot features So-and-So and So-and-So.
Thanks for all your help.
My second email reads:
This second photo again features So-and-So and So-and-So.
I get a response to this second note that says:
Who are these people?
And I think to myself, Well, I don’t really know. I can’t say that I have any personal knowledge of them, or insight about them, beyond their names (which I found on Stageclick.com – and you can, too).
I don’t know if they are good people or if they are bad people or if, like most of us, they are somewhere in between. Perhaps they are fathers with children they love and adore or maybe they are fugitives on the run from some local, state, or Federal governmental agency. I just don’t know. Existentially, perhaps I can never, may never, ever know.
It might be that the older man experienced certain difficulties in his youth, some heartache perhaps, a lost love. It may be that the younger man is headed for some disaster, his bloated, bullet-ridden body to be found someday floating in the river. But I can’t be sure. I’m sorry. I feel so inadequate. Forgive me.
I soon get a response from my third email in which I had written:
This final photo includes, clockwise from the left:
- This One
- That One
- The Other One
- Another One, and
- The Final One
Now I’m done. Thanks again.
The response asks me:
I assume the names are list, (sic) left to right.
Well, no, they weren’t (aren’t?), but I wrote back, changing the order to meet her needs.
This person I am corresponding with is a person who works as an editor on a daily newspaper in a kind of major city (well, it once was), and she expects me to take her into my arms, feed, and burp her.
Come to think of it, this pretty much explains the state of the American media today, doesn’t it? Just spoon feed them what you want them to eat, and they’ll spit it up or poop it right back out while you sit over them, cooing about what good boys and girls they are.
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