It was a partially professional brunch. The first thing he ever heard me say was probably, “Oooh, they have Mango Lassi.”
No one in their right minds would expect sparkling conversation from that soundbyte, but he chose to sit next to me. Asked me about my dissertation.
My passions--whether enthusiasm, anger, affection, agony, anything--lack stamina, so it’s unlikely that I droned on for too long about my writing.
At some point, I claimed to be totally awestruck by the fact that he, the son of Scandinavian missionaries, had been born in Madagascar and grew up in Fargo. Why you ask? Because they’re both places that have movies named after them.
Clearly, I’d blown any semblance of being a critical mind to contend with once I had aired that gem. Which is why, despite his satisfyingly sincere demeanor, I continue to parse and dissect his, “You really should be on NPR.”
I just *know* it was meant as an insult of some sort.