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mallorys_cameraTed Balesteri – Tony Soprano look-alike and part owner of the Cannery Row Company – wanders into the store yesterday with a bunch of guys in suits and ties. This is just after we've finished taping the acoustic ceiling tiles back together, weighting them down with ancient science fiction paperbacks so they won't blow down and hit people on the head. Ben's version of the fix: it's been very windy recently here on the quaint and scenic central coast.
"So what happens the first time a customer wanders into the store and gets hit on the head by Martian Time Shift?" I ask.
"He'll discover Philip K. Dick!" says Ben. "It doesn't weigh much, it won't hurt him. And anyway, that won't happen. Trust me."
Trust Ben. There's a concept.
Since I'm Italian, I'm allowed to indulge in racist stereotypes here. Ted Balesteri is guinea to the max – flushed florid face straight off the Dean Martin: The Golden Years commemorative medallion series, 5 caret pinkie rings, blood pressure higher than his IQ. Squinty little eyes.
"This is one of our more unusual success stories," he tells the suits with a wave of his hand.
Fortunately the vicissitudes of my life right now are such that I've lost the habit of laughing out loud. Slow Burn! A success story! I'll remind the Cannery Row Company of that in a little note written on heavy-weight 25% cotton paper next time the rent is late.
In truth the store didn't make its numbers in May. We did just under $10,000. Down 5% from last year. And the numbers so far for June have been even worst. Last weekend we did under a thousand bucks. Under a thousand bucks! How is that possible for a summer weekend? Summer is supposed to all about the good times rocking and rolling.
"See the way they got the sauces?" says Balesteri. "They got them arranged by heat. On different shelves. Clever, huh?"
These suits must be the financial muscle for one of the investment firms underwriting the big new luxury hotel that's going in next to the Aquarium. Just what Monterey needs! Another luxury hotel. This one's permits were 20 years in the wrangling. They tore down a lot of the old historic wooden lean-to's and shacks, left a big gaping hole in the middle of two blocks, which they tried to camouflage behind badly painted murals. Turned the remaining historic buildings into Disneyland.
The one building on Cannery Row that isn't behind signs with adorable otters or leering John Steinbecks, oddly enough, is Ed Rickets' original lab, a plain, non-descript, brown shingle building.
I can't imagine what the business plan for the new luxury hotel looks like. How do they plan to make money? Why would a rich person come to the Monterey peninsula to stay on Cannery Row – Kitsch Central – when he could stay in Pebble Beach?
But then clearly I know very little about making money.
On that last note, I have decided to just drop the Bartleby job. I was thinking I'd give them two weeks notice but fuck it, I can't make all the phone calls I need to make, write all the press releases I have to write, fax all the pages I have to fax and track it all if I'm sitting in that dreary little office eavesdropping on the lifers –
"Maybe I buy toast in the cafeteria once a week," says Jesse.
"It's expensive," says Vickie
"It sure is. A dollar and a half for two slices of toast. Now I can go to the commissary and get me a whole loaf of Orowheat for a dollar. It's four dollars in town –"
It's a job through a temp agency for God's sake! Badly paying, no benefits. The one advantage to temp agency jobs is that they're supposed to offer flexibility though this one didn't even offer that, just out-sourced drudgery.
"If you doin' too much work, you workin' youself straight out of a job," Jesse tells Vickie. I missed a connection somewhere. I don't know how they've progressed from Orowheat to labor elasticity and production functions. But hey! Bread is bread.
"So what happens the first time a customer wanders into the store and gets hit on the head by Martian Time Shift?" I ask.
"He'll discover Philip K. Dick!" says Ben. "It doesn't weigh much, it won't hurt him. And anyway, that won't happen. Trust me."
Trust Ben. There's a concept.
Since I'm Italian, I'm allowed to indulge in racist stereotypes here. Ted Balesteri is guinea to the max – flushed florid face straight off the Dean Martin: The Golden Years commemorative medallion series, 5 caret pinkie rings, blood pressure higher than his IQ. Squinty little eyes.
"This is one of our more unusual success stories," he tells the suits with a wave of his hand.
Fortunately the vicissitudes of my life right now are such that I've lost the habit of laughing out loud. Slow Burn! A success story! I'll remind the Cannery Row Company of that in a little note written on heavy-weight 25% cotton paper next time the rent is late.
In truth the store didn't make its numbers in May. We did just under $10,000. Down 5% from last year. And the numbers so far for June have been even worst. Last weekend we did under a thousand bucks. Under a thousand bucks! How is that possible for a summer weekend? Summer is supposed to all about the good times rocking and rolling.
"See the way they got the sauces?" says Balesteri. "They got them arranged by heat. On different shelves. Clever, huh?"
These suits must be the financial muscle for one of the investment firms underwriting the big new luxury hotel that's going in next to the Aquarium. Just what Monterey needs! Another luxury hotel. This one's permits were 20 years in the wrangling. They tore down a lot of the old historic wooden lean-to's and shacks, left a big gaping hole in the middle of two blocks, which they tried to camouflage behind badly painted murals. Turned the remaining historic buildings into Disneyland.
The one building on Cannery Row that isn't behind signs with adorable otters or leering John Steinbecks, oddly enough, is Ed Rickets' original lab, a plain, non-descript, brown shingle building.
I can't imagine what the business plan for the new luxury hotel looks like. How do they plan to make money? Why would a rich person come to the Monterey peninsula to stay on Cannery Row – Kitsch Central – when he could stay in Pebble Beach?
But then clearly I know very little about making money.
On that last note, I have decided to just drop the Bartleby job. I was thinking I'd give them two weeks notice but fuck it, I can't make all the phone calls I need to make, write all the press releases I have to write, fax all the pages I have to fax and track it all if I'm sitting in that dreary little office eavesdropping on the lifers –
"Maybe I buy toast in the cafeteria once a week," says Jesse.
"It's expensive," says Vickie
"It sure is. A dollar and a half for two slices of toast. Now I can go to the commissary and get me a whole loaf of Orowheat for a dollar. It's four dollars in town –"
It's a job through a temp agency for God's sake! Badly paying, no benefits. The one advantage to temp agency jobs is that they're supposed to offer flexibility though this one didn't even offer that, just out-sourced drudgery.
"If you doin' too much work, you workin' youself straight out of a job," Jesse tells Vickie. I missed a connection somewhere. I don't know how they've progressed from Orowheat to labor elasticity and production functions. But hey! Bread is bread.
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no subject
Date: 2005-06-10 03:52 pm (UTC)