It's an easy claim to want to dispute, but it lands squarely in a (rare, thankyouverymuch) blind spot. It's been two years sunk wholly into his work a lifelong preference for the likes of books, physical puzzles, or forums before that. Spotty access to cable and waning interest in contemporary film never stood a chance at compensating. The man standing in front him could be James Bond, and Edward can't honestly say he'd be able to clock it unless his name made it into a crossword. So he accepts it with a dip of his chin and a hum, turning his face away when the wind picks up.

"They could be paid to pretend they don't know you, couldn't they? And you wouldn't know them, if they weren't working in the same circles. Local types, improv experts." What little of him Edward had observed inside doesn't lead him to believe he has any particular familiarity with any other party attendees, so he skips that question for now.

Hand emerging from his pocket, he raps the knuckle of one finger to the cold exterior of the car. Mindless, grounding. His next question is more indulgent.

"...Did you ever guest host Jeopardy?"