Chapter 23: Norman Forms A Committee

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J.P. Winslow arrived upstate on a bright summer day, one hand carrying a briefcase, the other slapping every back he could find. He dared you not to like him.

“J.P.’s the name; PR’s the game,” he loved to say again and again

Norman had assembled a group of community leaders to meet J.P., all of them were Rotarians, all of them were boat owners. Babe was one of three women in the room

J.P. started out the meeting by affirming the assertion about the need for proper preparation..

“I’m proud to say my firm had a strong hand in the first Iraq War,” he beamed from the front of the room where his Cheshire Cat grin and PowerPoint presentation vied for the group’s attention. The slide on the screen showed a cruel unshaven Iraqi soldier tipping a helpless infant out of an incubator. Even today, years after the incident, the harsh image made you mad.

“We were the first to bring these atrocities before Congress,” he said while switching to another slide of a pert, blonde U.S. Army PFC from West Virginia.

“Once the war started, we helped tell the Jessica Lynch tale to the world, and, when the war itself came under attack, we exposed critic Senator John Kerry’s fabrications of valor in another conflict.”

A slide of a long-haired, unkempt Kerry testifying before Congress appeared on the screen.

“I’m proud to say our efforts to expose this man produced a new English word, ‘swift boating’.”

The assembled group, all mariners themselves, were impressed to be in the presence of someone who had coined an original nautical term.

“Now, I understand you have a problem with some Birds …Starlings, are they?” he shuffled through his notes while Norman rushed to the front.

“Starlings were from my dad’s time here. We’re dealing with Swallows now,” Norman whispered in his ear.

“Swallows, of course,” J.P. said, with a degree of certainty in his voice that belied what was in his mind. He frantically continued to scan his notes. J.P. knew a PR Pro should always seem to be in control of the situation. He finally found the page he was looking for.

“Ah, yes, Swallows… fast little buggers,” he stalled for time.

“The Nazis adored them; Die Schwalbe, they called them,” he said with a loud laugh and a pretty good German accent. Now he was hitting his stride.

“Did you know Hitler named the world’s first turbojet airplane, the Messerschmitt ME 262, ‘The Swallow?’ That was no coincidence, I am sure,” J.P. said, scanning the room with a knowing look.

He continued, “These killer Birds exterminate thousands of innocent creatures every day, just like their buddies, the Nazis. Then, as if that isn’t bad enough, they take the rotting remains and spread them all over the place in their feces. Even the Germans had the common decency to burn their victims,” he declared, pausing to let all this information sink in.

“These Swallows are barbarians, they’re disgusting, they’re, they’re…Animals.” J.P. sputtered, finally coming up with what was, in his mind, the ultimate insult.

Norman liked what he was hearing. Looking around the room, he could sense everyone else was impressed as well. J.P. seemed like the kind of guy “who would be ready for any unforeseen events, which may or may not happen,” Norman said to himself.

They had to get this genius on board for the long haul.

“We’ve already alerted the media to the problem and formed this committee. What do we do next?” Norman asked.

J.P. looked pleased. He didn’t like to dwell on the negative too long.

“Proper PR is primarily a positive proposition,” he liked to say, always labializing each “P” for added emphasis.

There was no need to worry about further impressing this audience. It was obvious everyone was primed and pumped up. To literally “drive home” the importance of the journey they were about to embark upon, J.P. said, “The hopes of the civilized world ride with us. Let’s get going!”

“All right, are any members of the commentariat here today?” he enquired.

Babe whispered in Norman’s ear, “That’s highfalutin talk for ‘media’,” she said.

So Norman answered J.P., “Oh, no. We thought it better to keep quiet about your presence.”

“No need for secrecy,” J.P. scolded. “I work best out in the open. I’m a member of several press clubs. Many of my best friends are journalists,” he said proudly.

“Let’s see now,” J.P. said, fumbling through his notes again. “Are any of you Godhead figures… in your local community, I mean,” he asked to keep the meeting moving ahead.

Everyone looked at each other, a little puzzled. Again, only Babe had an inkling of what J.P. meant.

“Norman owns the local Toyota dealership,” she said.

“Very good, we’ll make him head of the committee,” J.P. said.

“Ah, he already is,” Babe meekly replied.

“Of course, of course,” J.P. said, shuffling his notes again. Most times, he could readily recognize the leader. This one, however, was more pedestrian than the typical Washington numero uno, who usually stuck out like a sore thumb because he was driven by ambition. He made a mental note to talk to Norman about upgrading his imperial qualities.

“Are any of you doctors?” J.P asked. All heads shook, “No.”

A middle-aged woman spoke up, “I’m a nurse. Does that count?”

I’m sorry, ma’am, it doesn’t, J.P. said. “We need recognized medical experts.” She looked hurt, but J.P. pushed forward. “Okay, no doctors in attendance, how about dentists, psychiatrists, chiropractors, any veterinarians?” J.P quizzically looked at everyone. Again, no positive responses.

“Well, that’s something you’ll definitely need: expert medical testimony about the Swallow’s health hazard,” J.P. said. “We need to prove it.”

Norman dutifully wrote it down in his Handy Dandy Planner Notebook. He felt proud of himself because he had already filled the first five pages, both sides. This practice of using front and back of each page before going on to the next was to vex future scholars. To follow his thoughts, they also had to repeatedly flip the flipover notebook that was hinged at the top.

“Anything else?” Norman asked.

“You’re going to need lots of money for the PR campaign, for publicity, for the media. Have you found a fundraiser?” J.P. asked.

“I have lots of money,” Norman said.

“No matter how much you have, you’re going to need more,” J. P. said. “Remember, Hilary had to lend her campaign millions of dollars and she still lost.”

“Boy, I bet her husband was mad,” Norman said, without thinking. Babe raised her eyes to the ceiling. She reminded everyone, “He was the one who made her do it.”

J.P. tried to regain control of the meeting. “No one needs to criticize another. Money can solve any trouble. You need lots of loot to buy the media an occasional meal, a few drinks, maybe a junket or two. Make someone your fund raiser,” he said.

“And we probably should be shooting some VNRs,” J.P. said, knowing there would be an inevitable follow up question.

“Before you ask,” he said, that’s a ‘Video News Release’.”

Norman looked confused, “Do you mean videos for the media? I thought they took those themselves.”

“Well, some of the stations do, but if you want saturation coverage, which I’m sure you do, you’ve got to help the others out and prepare some shots for them,” J.P. said.

Babe was nonplussed. “Do you mean all those reports I watch on TV are prepared by the very same people who are involved in the stories?”

“Guilty as charged,” J.P. said, flashing his Cheshire Cat grin.