Previously On Mallory's Camera...
Dec. 31st, 2007 07:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraOver the weekend, the BeaTea Faerie – such a naughty girl – brought me all twenty-four episodes of Dexter.
Dexter is a Showtime series about a serial killer who catches other serial killers. Sound gimmicky? I thought so too. I was determined to avoid it.
Then along came the Hollywood writers' strike which has forced me to reevaluate all my beloved Nielsen Family traditions. See, the truth is I watch an enormous amount of television. An enormous amount of really, really bad television. Yes, yes, yes – I should be writing business plans, or the great American novel. I should be washing the kitchen floor. Doing laundry. Preparing cassoulet. Bonding with my youngest son so he doesn't put me in a substandard Alzheimer's Home 20 years from now.
Instead I'm watching bad television.
It has to be original bad television though! I don't like reruns. And with the writers all on strike, there isn't any of that anymore.
Thank God for the BeaTea Faerie.
Anyway, Dexter – your basic comic book antihero set-up saved from banality by excellent acting and brilliant art direction.
I watched every episode over the weekend. A Dexter orgy!
My absolute favorite thing about the show though has to be those crisply edited summaries at the beginning of each episode that function both as helpful Cliff notes and foreshadowing of key thematic elements.
In fact, I like this device so much, I'd like to borrow it for my own life.
Previously, on Mallory's Camera…
…Flash of Smooth Jazz Kevin doin' the funky feyadeen slide in an otherwise empty Steinbeck Plaza. There's a keytar around his neck. The day is cold and grey.
…Flash of Fumani in my own Little Store. She's stalking the reflection of her butt in my wall mirror. She's Ernest Hemingway! Her butt's a lion! "Can you see my panty line?" she asks. Takes me a couple of seconds to realize the question is aimed not at her reflection, but at me.
…Flash of me behind the counter smiling at a potential customer, only to have that customer metamorphose most unpleasantly into the first Mrs. Kevin. The first Mrs. Kevin is just as insane as the second Mrs. Kevin, but in a way that owes more to Fresno County's thriving methamphetamine manufacturing industry than to endogenous brain chemistry. "YOU'VE BEEN SPREADING LIES ABOUT MY SON ON THE INTERNET, YOU BITCH!" she screams. Takes me a couple of seconds for me to realize she must be talking about this very journal!
Huh.
I scramble furiously to think what if anything I've written about her son. Oh, right. I said I thought it was a mistake to get married at eighteen. And I wrote Sean was a bright kid, and that it was a shame he'd never been educated. Supposedly his dad was home-schooling him. Only, see, his dad wasn't. I know because Sean told me.
"YOU WHORE, YOU CAME ON TO HIM AND HE REJECTED YOU SO YOU SPREAD THESE FUCKING LIES! I AM GOING TO SUE YOUR FAT ASS!"
Huh again. In the first place my ass isn't particularly fat – I carry all my excess weight in my thighs and my stomach.
In the second place – me come on to Sean? What a bizarre notion.
It reminded me a little of Roy's outburst in response to a sympathy note I wrote JDK when JDK was forced to pull Cirque du Méprise off the road midseason when he ran out of money. In this note I had suggested that while Roy might have many talents, producing a stage show was not among them, and that this was probably one of the reasons why attendance had been so poor. Apparently JDK felt the need to share this note with Roy. Roy wrote me back the most virulent email you can possibly imagine. Called me cunt. Called me fat-assed bitch (hmmmm… maybe my ass is plumper than I realize…) Told me my work for Cirque du Méprise had been a disaster from Day One and this is why the show bombed – because I was fucking incompetent –
In both instances the attacks unnerved me so much I started to shake uncontrollably. There was no truth to the accusations in either case. Nevertheless, I went down. Part of it was the virulence of the attacks: they hate me. They really, really hate me. But part of it was that the attacks were so unimaginative, so unoriginal. So much of my own energy goes into trying to be original! Is this wasted energy? Does nobody really give a fuck about originality of thought?
I don't want to live in a world where there's no originality of thought.
… flash of Kevin mit keytar dancing up to my store a couple of minutes after the afore-described to laugh at my distress.
…flash of Mike the Face Painter telling me, "You should know he's really got it in for you. He's talking legal action –"
"Legal action? That's insane."
"He says he's going to have you arrested –"
"He doesn't know the difference between the criminal code and torts? That's pretty pathetic, Mike!"
"It is, isn't it?" laughs Mike. "He came up to me and told me I was going to have to choose between you and him. 'It's war, Mike,' he told me. 'I'm gonna take her down!'"
"Jeeze, Louise," I murmured.
"I told him that nobody tells me who my friends are or aren't. And he said, 'You'll be sorry,' and walked away."
This was kind of interesting. Mike and Kevin had actually had a social relationship that extended beyond Steinbeck Plaza. The couples would occasionally have dinner together. Mike and Lisa had taken Fumani and Kevin out on their boat a couple of times.
"Well, I'm sorry to have come between you," I said. "I know you were friends."
Mike waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. I was ready for that to end. It's always something with that guy – first Ernesto, then Alligator, then Jack" – Sly McFly's owner – "And now you. Frankly I'm sick of it."
I was so-o-o grateful to Mike for that! I had tried the placatory shit-eating routine with Kevin and Fumani once – I mean, not that I thought I'd done anything wrong but you know, you do what you have to do to keep the peace. It hadn't worked though. And things had gotten so bad that I'd started feeling sick to my stomach when I came into the Little Store on weekends and Kevin was playing.
Thank God for Mike.
On Friday, evidently, Mike and Kevin got into it. Big time. At issue was the volume of Kevin's so-called music.
Now, Kevin has been playing the same stuff for three years. Note for note: the same. It's maddening. Like being forced to listen to the soundtrack of a bad Pam Grier movie over and over and over again. He never improvises. He's long since tapped out whatever fan base he once had so sales of his CD's are way down. His response? Why to turn up his amplifier and to two-step around Steinbeck Plaza with the goddamn keytar strapped around his neck ever more manically.
It's always been a trade off. Much as I dislike them and their music personally, for a long time Kevin and Fumani drew customers off the sidewalks and into the plaza. This was good for my business.
But in the past few months, customers have started to complain. "How can you stand that?" they ask. "It's so loud!" I've begun to wonder how many potential customers he's driven away.
This is bad for my business.
Kevin does one Santana song in particular – his signature piece, I guess. And you know technically he's not a bad musician. But when you start hearing the same Santana tune ten times in a four hour period – each time a little louder – it drives you nuts. I was contemplating a letter to the cannery Row Company, but held off because etiquette demanded that I ask Kevin and Fumani to hold it down before turfing it up the chain of command. And the thought of talking to Kevin and Fumani makes me nauseated.
Mike has a stronger stomach.
"Look," he said to Fumani. "You really need to turn it down –"
And Kevin and Fumani went ballistic on him. Fumani turned into this raving, ranting shrieking harpy, Kevin started blustering about harassment –
These people are fucking nuts –
Part of me feels desperately sorry for Kevin. Fumani racked up a lot of credit card bills before she left him last year. Since she's been back, I imagine she's racked up more. And they're not making any money at all from the music. I think she's the crazy one. But I think she's his sole human contact these days, so he's bought into her craziness. Classic folie a deux.
Anyway, I'm calling the Cannery Row Company about this today.
Dexter is a Showtime series about a serial killer who catches other serial killers. Sound gimmicky? I thought so too. I was determined to avoid it.
Then along came the Hollywood writers' strike which has forced me to reevaluate all my beloved Nielsen Family traditions. See, the truth is I watch an enormous amount of television. An enormous amount of really, really bad television. Yes, yes, yes – I should be writing business plans, or the great American novel. I should be washing the kitchen floor. Doing laundry. Preparing cassoulet. Bonding with my youngest son so he doesn't put me in a substandard Alzheimer's Home 20 years from now.
Instead I'm watching bad television.
It has to be original bad television though! I don't like reruns. And with the writers all on strike, there isn't any of that anymore.
Thank God for the BeaTea Faerie.
Anyway, Dexter – your basic comic book antihero set-up saved from banality by excellent acting and brilliant art direction.
I watched every episode over the weekend. A Dexter orgy!
My absolute favorite thing about the show though has to be those crisply edited summaries at the beginning of each episode that function both as helpful Cliff notes and foreshadowing of key thematic elements.
In fact, I like this device so much, I'd like to borrow it for my own life.
Previously, on Mallory's Camera…
…Flash of Smooth Jazz Kevin doin' the funky feyadeen slide in an otherwise empty Steinbeck Plaza. There's a keytar around his neck. The day is cold and grey.
…Flash of Fumani in my own Little Store. She's stalking the reflection of her butt in my wall mirror. She's Ernest Hemingway! Her butt's a lion! "Can you see my panty line?" she asks. Takes me a couple of seconds to realize the question is aimed not at her reflection, but at me.
…Flash of me behind the counter smiling at a potential customer, only to have that customer metamorphose most unpleasantly into the first Mrs. Kevin. The first Mrs. Kevin is just as insane as the second Mrs. Kevin, but in a way that owes more to Fresno County's thriving methamphetamine manufacturing industry than to endogenous brain chemistry. "YOU'VE BEEN SPREADING LIES ABOUT MY SON ON THE INTERNET, YOU BITCH!" she screams. Takes me a couple of seconds for me to realize she must be talking about this very journal!
Huh.
I scramble furiously to think what if anything I've written about her son. Oh, right. I said I thought it was a mistake to get married at eighteen. And I wrote Sean was a bright kid, and that it was a shame he'd never been educated. Supposedly his dad was home-schooling him. Only, see, his dad wasn't. I know because Sean told me.
"YOU WHORE, YOU CAME ON TO HIM AND HE REJECTED YOU SO YOU SPREAD THESE FUCKING LIES! I AM GOING TO SUE YOUR FAT ASS!"
Huh again. In the first place my ass isn't particularly fat – I carry all my excess weight in my thighs and my stomach.
In the second place – me come on to Sean? What a bizarre notion.
It reminded me a little of Roy's outburst in response to a sympathy note I wrote JDK when JDK was forced to pull Cirque du Méprise off the road midseason when he ran out of money. In this note I had suggested that while Roy might have many talents, producing a stage show was not among them, and that this was probably one of the reasons why attendance had been so poor. Apparently JDK felt the need to share this note with Roy. Roy wrote me back the most virulent email you can possibly imagine. Called me cunt. Called me fat-assed bitch (hmmmm… maybe my ass is plumper than I realize…) Told me my work for Cirque du Méprise had been a disaster from Day One and this is why the show bombed – because I was fucking incompetent –
In both instances the attacks unnerved me so much I started to shake uncontrollably. There was no truth to the accusations in either case. Nevertheless, I went down. Part of it was the virulence of the attacks: they hate me. They really, really hate me. But part of it was that the attacks were so unimaginative, so unoriginal. So much of my own energy goes into trying to be original! Is this wasted energy? Does nobody really give a fuck about originality of thought?
I don't want to live in a world where there's no originality of thought.
… flash of Kevin mit keytar dancing up to my store a couple of minutes after the afore-described to laugh at my distress.
…flash of Mike the Face Painter telling me, "You should know he's really got it in for you. He's talking legal action –"
"Legal action? That's insane."
"He says he's going to have you arrested –"
"He doesn't know the difference between the criminal code and torts? That's pretty pathetic, Mike!"
"It is, isn't it?" laughs Mike. "He came up to me and told me I was going to have to choose between you and him. 'It's war, Mike,' he told me. 'I'm gonna take her down!'"
"Jeeze, Louise," I murmured.
"I told him that nobody tells me who my friends are or aren't. And he said, 'You'll be sorry,' and walked away."
This was kind of interesting. Mike and Kevin had actually had a social relationship that extended beyond Steinbeck Plaza. The couples would occasionally have dinner together. Mike and Lisa had taken Fumani and Kevin out on their boat a couple of times.
"Well, I'm sorry to have come between you," I said. "I know you were friends."
Mike waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. I was ready for that to end. It's always something with that guy – first Ernesto, then Alligator, then Jack" – Sly McFly's owner – "And now you. Frankly I'm sick of it."
I was so-o-o grateful to Mike for that! I had tried the placatory shit-eating routine with Kevin and Fumani once – I mean, not that I thought I'd done anything wrong but you know, you do what you have to do to keep the peace. It hadn't worked though. And things had gotten so bad that I'd started feeling sick to my stomach when I came into the Little Store on weekends and Kevin was playing.
Thank God for Mike.
On Friday, evidently, Mike and Kevin got into it. Big time. At issue was the volume of Kevin's so-called music.
Now, Kevin has been playing the same stuff for three years. Note for note: the same. It's maddening. Like being forced to listen to the soundtrack of a bad Pam Grier movie over and over and over again. He never improvises. He's long since tapped out whatever fan base he once had so sales of his CD's are way down. His response? Why to turn up his amplifier and to two-step around Steinbeck Plaza with the goddamn keytar strapped around his neck ever more manically.
It's always been a trade off. Much as I dislike them and their music personally, for a long time Kevin and Fumani drew customers off the sidewalks and into the plaza. This was good for my business.
But in the past few months, customers have started to complain. "How can you stand that?" they ask. "It's so loud!" I've begun to wonder how many potential customers he's driven away.
This is bad for my business.
Kevin does one Santana song in particular – his signature piece, I guess. And you know technically he's not a bad musician. But when you start hearing the same Santana tune ten times in a four hour period – each time a little louder – it drives you nuts. I was contemplating a letter to the cannery Row Company, but held off because etiquette demanded that I ask Kevin and Fumani to hold it down before turfing it up the chain of command. And the thought of talking to Kevin and Fumani makes me nauseated.
Mike has a stronger stomach.
"Look," he said to Fumani. "You really need to turn it down –"
And Kevin and Fumani went ballistic on him. Fumani turned into this raving, ranting shrieking harpy, Kevin started blustering about harassment –
These people are fucking nuts –
Part of me feels desperately sorry for Kevin. Fumani racked up a lot of credit card bills before she left him last year. Since she's been back, I imagine she's racked up more. And they're not making any money at all from the music. I think she's the crazy one. But I think she's his sole human contact these days, so he's bought into her craziness. Classic folie a deux.
Anyway, I'm calling the Cannery Row Company about this today.
