When we ordered from the book club in sixth grade, it was the only book I cared about, The Guinness Book of World Records… well that and Mad Libs. I’d sit for days looking up the tallest man, the fastest train and the largest monkey. It was probably my first foray into the international world, other than National Geographic. Who knew what exciting things people were doing all over the globe.
But what makes a record? I’m not quite sure. It’s gotten so stupid these days. The largest omelet, the biggest flute ensemble or most people eating potato chips simultaneously (yes all true). Concorso Italiano, which I will be covering over the Pebble Beach weekend, is now promoting they will have the world record number of Ferrari 288 GTOs at their event. 12 was the previous international record while four being the US record. I get it, it’s real special. I’ll take some pictures. Then one day… taking a long walk in the park with my grown son over a Guinness buzz, I’ll be able to say:
“Son, when I was your age I once saw more than 12 Ferrari 288 GTOs in the same place, at the same time.”
“Gee dad, no foolin’… is that all you got for me? Because I thought you were like going to share something meaningful. Howdy doody, they got a bunch of cars together in one place.”
I’ll take unique over multiples any day. The definition of Guinness has evolved over my time. What used to be a book is now a buzz but has quickly changed to mean a blow. Because clearly the people passing out these records is working it for two out of three.