Читать книгу Craig Lee's Kentucky Hemp Story - Joe Domino - Страница 9

SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA — While Hemp is commonly used to make such products as clothing and paper, one California company has found a way to make cheese from the seed of the controversial plant. Hemparella cheese alternative reportedly melts, stretches, and tastes just like cheese, but has no cholesterol or lactose and is low in fat. Billed as “Barely Legal,” it is available only in Jamaica Jack flavor, flavored with garlic and parsley leaf.

–– New Cheese Made from Hemp By: Richard Rose, owner of Sharon’s Finest Healthy Alternatives September 9, 1994

We both wore denim blue jeans, commando boots, and button-down hemp fabric golf shirts. We never felt ashamed sticking out from the crowd. It was part of the job description. I carried one of our Canadian hemp bales atop my pot belly and Joe slung a sac full of hemp goodies over his shoulder. As if we arrived straight from the bluegrass North Pole, commando Santa and his side-kick elf were ready to globetrot through CNN’s headquarters to deliver the foundation their hempen gifts.

Once through the revolving glass doors, there was no time for déjà vu because an oncoming stampede of well-dressed Turner associates were cascading down the mammoth-mouthed escalators. We were about to be trampled by the first wave of the luncheon hordes. As soon as our wits matched the scenario, we barreled forward shamelessly. The contrast between our attire and the building’s normal denizens was painstakingly apparent. Without a care in the world, we peeled back the straight-suited, Rolex-wearing, shiny shoed onlookers like a zipper—wearing their glares of shock and surprise like it wasn’t going out of style! Joe and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Can you imagine the scene? Two Kentuckians ho-ho-hoing through the most prominent media center on earth. We stirred the entire atrium hive, muffling the buzzing for a few eerie moments. People were appalled at the sight of us. I don’t think “Casual Fridays” was a concept they were accustomed to. And upon further inspection, hemp hurds rained from my bale. The hemp hurds earmarked my every step throughout the entire visit (hurds are the woody inner core of the hemp stalk which, once decorticated, are separated from the outer fiber into a mulch like by-product).

Scooting off the escalators, we could see that security was very busy. The metal detectors had long lines. Luckily, our Campbellsville insider saw us coming from a mile away. Like I said, we stood out. With one assured glance, he signaled us to the front of the security line. Joe elbowed me in the gut, “Just like greasing a hog!” As we skipped the long line, those in our wake were appalled. I could read their minds: “Who do these two hillbillies think they are?” My mindreading was confirmed once in the elevator. A woman shot us a snide remark, “You must know someone really important to jump that line.”

Little did Joe and I know—we soon would.

We expected another quick visit like before. We were in a hurry again. Joe and I had to be in North Carolina to drop off another hemp bale for a university research initiative. Our foundation contact, Peter Belmuth, greeted us in his normal gregarious manner. As we caught Peter up with our progress, Peter’s assistant abruptly tapped him on the shoulder and pulled him aside. We didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary until people in the office began glancing and giggling. I soon found out why.

After a few minutes, Peter returned and confronted Joe and me: ” I don’t know what you two did, but both of you made a BIG impression upon arriving here today.” I half expected him to shove a broom in my face and demand that I sweep the hurds that were dropping around his feet. Peter continued, “My boss, Mr. Turner, err—or Ted as he wants me to call him—wants to know if you two would be available at 2:30 [p.m.] for an appointment on the tenth-floor executive office. Apparently—and this comes as a complete surprise—word has reached his ears about your, uhmm, hay bale... And, umm, its remnants throughout his building.”

Although I recognized the name that made the request, my first reaction was to politely decline Mr. Turner’s offer due to our prior engagements in North Carolina. One glance in Joe’s direction and I knew declining wasn’t an option; I knew we were arriving late to see our friends. We told Peter we’d be honored to meet with his boss. After a short call with the North Carolinians, they more than understood and encouraged our decision. I think they’d do the same given the opportunity to meet one of the most renowned men of the 21st century.

Of all the people Ted could meet that day, he chose us: two badly dressed Kentuckians. One minute we were terrorizing his cleaning staff and then, the next minute, becoming his guests of honor. Before we could meet the boss, though, we had downtime to kill. Peter suggested a novel idea: why not take us two on a backstage tour of CNNstudios? By the grace of Ted, we were being treated like royalty. We shed our obscurity as quickly as my bale was shedding its’ hurds. Our identities transcended from two hemp hucksters into Turner Foundation all-stars.

To begin our backstage tour, Peter Belmuth with the foundation introduced us to another Peter with CNNstudios. This new Peter was a big-wig producer for CNN’s global media operations. He was dressed to the tens and held himself in high esteem. He wasn’t snobby, either, and gladly reciprocated our banter. We eagerly followed our guide into the inner hearth of CNN’s media machine. Down the elevator, beneath the world-engraved promenade, within the global broadcast abyss. “This is where the magic happens!”proclaimed Peter praisingly.

Like a moonshine punch in the mouth, Joe and I felt knocked-cold every turn we took. Now I knew how Dorothy felt on the other side of the rainbow, “Joe-Joe, I don’t think we are in Kentucky anymore!” As if stumbling through a corn maze on a cloudy night, we tripped over ourselves through a labyrinth of control rooms, studio sets, and green rooms. Everywhere I looked there were percolating lights from monitors, switchboards, and cameras. For those youngsters who don’t know about the 90s, computers weren’t as prevalent as they are today. I was overwhelmed by the massive consolidation of technology. The tour was an eye-opening treat that expanded my perspective on the mass media apparatus.

Peter rushed us through the tour to ensure we wouldn’t be late for our big date, but first, he introduced us to celebrity anchors and behind-the-scenes staff. Although we were the guests, the CNN employees treated us like the main attraction. They were intrigued by their uncouth visitors. I guess they didn’t see many country-folk while burrowed beneath ground covering the world’s top stories.

When 2:30 p.m. approached, Joe and I were rocketed to the top floor. The elevator doors parted like the Red Sea. Ted Turner’s executive suite was pure salvation: high ceilings, gold trim, and a massive oriental rug. The walls were plastered with framed magazine covers that displayed Ted’s grinning face: Time, People, World News, Success, and many notable titles. Before I could drool on Ted’s expensive rug, the receptionist snapped her fingers to get our attention. She quickly took Joe and me before two ancient oak doors that proclaimed: “The Boss Lives Here.”

Ted actually did live inside his executive suite for quite some time. Ted once told reporters he spent twenty years in his executive office sleeping most nights on a couch. He rarely left his high rise unless there was an Atlanta Braves game taking place. Ted will always be known for being a frenetic fan, bombastic businessman, and audacious advocate. He was my type of guy. I was getting giddy, but before I could break into a nervous sweat, the two executive doors flung open to reveal Ted Turner in the flesh.

He approached us with his iconic smile outlined by his moniker pencil-thin mustache. There was a sense of awe about him. Joe and I were magnetically drawn toward his jovial embrace as if he were an old friend. It was immediately obvious that he was good at making friends.

“So, ahh—what do you two boys got here?”

I began by correcting his first assumption that the bale was hay, “This here, sir, is an industrial hemp bale.”

“Ah, I see, and, daa—what do you do with it?”

“Besides dropping it on your floor, Mr. Turner?” I said as a feeble apology for sprinkling hurds on his oriental rug, “I’d be happy to tell you…” Joe and I told Ted the facts about hemp. We told him how hemp biomass could offset deforestation if it ever became the preferred feedstock for paper, plastics, and other cellulose-based goods. I lectured Ted that a single acre of bi-annual hemp could produce as much as four times the woody-pulp than one acre of trees, which takes twenty years to grow. Just like the foundation representatives, Ted seemed genuinely interested. Thankfully, he wasn’t bothered by the hurds. The businessman in Ted was most impressed by our hustle, “That’s what we need more of in, daa—today’s world. If the American automobile manufacturers had an ounce of your hustle, then they wouldn’t be losing so badly to, ahh—the Japanese automakers.”

Ted’s competitive spirit was contagious. The entire encounter was worth its weight in gold. Personally, the encounter confirmed the path I had chosen: the path of an industrial hemp advocate. Although Joe and I were not a part of the billionaire clique, Ted could still admire us for our hard work and unrelenting hustle. And that meant a lot.

Before leaving Ted’s office, we presented him with our presents that still hung over Joe’s shoulder. Ted smiled even wider when he received his gifts—but I will never know if he ate his Hemparella cheese. I’ll be sure to ask him the next time we meet. And I still kick myself, till this day, that I forgot my camera in the car! That would’ve been one mighty nice picture to put in this book.

Joe and I departed the executive suite smiling ear-to-ear. I’m not the type of person to brag about the people I’ve met. The more important takeaway is that Ted Turner wanted to meet with us. Earning respect—especially from those on Ted’s level—is a priceless reward that validates the grind. To be acknowledged for your passions just feels good inside.

What made Joe and me feel even better was a call we received two weeks later. It was from Peter with the foundation. According to him, our little visit had made quite the lasting impression. Peter chided that the foundation office was still in a frenzy. While laughing, Peter told us the entire staff kept reliving our shenanigans from the hemp hurds’ trail, to skipping the security line, to our exclusive behind-the-scenes tour and, last, our remarkable meeting with Mr. Turner. Peter’s call brought back that ear-to-ear smile.

The best advice I can give an aspiring advocate is to go all the way and never look back!