With “Media Sapiens” we understood the subtleties of black PR and media machinations, which are made in the name of power.
It was time for Minaev to take us back to the vicious world of the Moscow elite and he did not disappoint as this time he introduced us to Andrei Mirkin. The protagonist is a host of a super-successful reality TV show, has long since stopped worrying about how much money is in his bank account and rarely remembers the names of the beautiful women who end up in his bed.
Is it possible for such a person to meet true love and is he ready to sacrifice the world of fame and luxury? We will see in “Videos”.
And in the meantime, here is an excerpt from the novel …
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Mirkin’s Little Worlds. For a year and a half we have become one of the two most popular shows on the youth music television M4M. There is a hash! The idea of the show was to change the social status of people. On our air, prostitutes became sales managers, managers went out on the highway, bank bosses exchanged places with minibus drivers, and the chef in an Italian restaurant – with a seller of donuts. And among all these guys, I was wise – the man who checked how they drove her in their new role, who gave advice, who mocked, who laughed, who cried with them. The media flooded me with slop, carried me in their arms and drowned me in slop again. Participants in the show have filed three lawsuits against me in court, but to no avail. Twice my face was bruised, and both times it was done by the same complex drummer, the husband of one of the managers:
“She … stood in the way … like a prostitute!” Do you understand what that cost ?!
“But he didn’t push the client!”
It was not clear what he was more outraged about – whether it was my answer or his wife’s failure to reach the finale of the show.
Cultural figures wrote collective letters demanding that the show be stopped. A director with the title “deserved”, who had made a film and a half, screamed about morality and threatened to go to the president until a recording of his conversation with his own secretary appeared on the Internet. In which he offered to dress her as a student and threatened to slap her with a soldier’s belt. Then the alliance of the spiritually elevated disintegrated. And they visibly cooled their passions. It seemed that we had caught the most innocent of them. I imagined what the others had been talking about with their secretaries.
It’s hard to complain about life when you last used public transport just because you had to be on time alive or dead. – It was a contract worth fifty thousand dollars. For a contract, according to which you had to advertise beer for a month, evaluating the stories dedicated to her to her lovers, who send you. And you wouldn’t even appreciate them, all you needed was a name and a good-resolution photo.
It’s stupid to moan about your constant fatigue, given that you spent a total of seventy-five days abroad last year, and your fitness club card costs three thousand euros, but you don’t go there because you can’t find it in the drawer of your desk. It’s disgusting to talk about the difficulties of the shooting process and the sudden trips from place to place, given that the hotel rooms you stay in during your business trips must have cost no less than seven hundred dollars a night. It is hypocritical to announce that you often do not have time to have lunch or dinner, given that it is difficult to remember when you had lunch or dinner in a restaurant where the average bill is not less than five thousand rubles per person.
You have no idea how much your cell phone calls and health insurance cost on TV, and you never look at the entertainment expenses at the end of the payroll, you just sign. The taxis that you have the right to order if you are late for registration or stay up late for work have long been used by your friends and their girlfriends, and when the TV offers to hire a driver who modestly lowers his eyes, you say that you prefer to you move with the vespa without even thinking about how much your logistics costs.
The quantitative characteristics of finance had long since ceased to be my subject. At one point it became clear that the money we did not earn at the beginning of the century, we certainly would not have won at the end. And I calmed down. The salary I received on television was not enough to use charter flights, buy real estate abroad and other extras typical of the lives of stars in countries that have never been able to recover from the crisis, such as America and the United Kingdom. But it was enough for me twice a month to accidentally bounce, say, to London, without thinking about how much money I have at the moment in my cards.
Almost my entire wardrobe consisted of frayed jeans, ripped sweaters and T-shirts with idiotic prints, made by unknown designers, but bought either from Harvey Nichols or Camden Market, or some other place on the islands. Of course, I carefully maintained this deliberate negligence. Don’t believe the traffic jams who claim that in their countries “millionaires and stars walk around dressed like tramps because they don’t care what they look like.” All this teenage thrash is carried for one purpose only – to show that you don’t care. And you practically wear the same sneakers all year, not because you have nothing to wear, but because you have thirty-five pairs of them. In fact, it turned out to be harder to look like a tramp than to look like a Russian millionaire. It took more than money. But financial talks were considered a vulgar topic. I even angrily deleted the text messages I received after each credit card transaction. Because they distracted me.
Relationships with women began to resemble the use of expensive rental cars. You really want to ride with them, but you don’t want them to always be yours. There were a number of reasons for this – from the rapid satiety to the headaches caused by the presence of such cars. But unlike women, the car does not seek to enter your home and stay in your bed.