On a (relatively) slow day this week, Mr. Charles was telling me about another slow day that he remembered several decades prior. Greta Garbo happened into the store all by her lonesome, drawn in by the splashy window display. Mr. Charles and Miss Annette tactfully pretended not to recognize her, much to her relief. These were the days when Greta was perpetually hounded by the media at every turn and it was nice for her to pretend to be a normal person. They chatted about the cheeky merchandise and laughed together. Ah, I can see them now- the three of them, young and in their prime, at the height of New York society, their laughter as light and sparkling as a thrown fistful of golden glitter. But then some waiter, “some little tart,” as Mr. Charles put it, walked by with a tray of dishes and screamed “OH MY GOD! IT’S GRETA GARBO!” and dropped the tray, everything shattering and deafening and poor Greta ran out of the store. It’s so hard to be a movie star.
Today’s special guest at Zemblanity: Katie Holmes (Mr. Tom Cruise’s wife and supposedly soon-to-be ex-wife) and her daughter Suri. She came in at a time when the restaurant was a real mad house and my managers were nowhere to be found. I was piloting this ship of fools on my own and took her and her friends in to the table where Andy Warhol always sat. She looked tired but Suri, truly one of the most beautiful little girls I have ever seen, was amped up and seemed to be having a ball in our sparkly Christmas dreamscape. Children love Zemblanity. I felt sorry for the poor little thing. After all, her father is Tom Cruise. Can you imagine? No. No you can’t.
As would be expected, a large milieu of dastardly paparazzi gathered outside. These dudes really are as douchey as they are made out to be. They all pulled up on their douchey mopeds with their douchey helmets and douchey cameras. Like I said. Douches. They all knew each other too. When a new one would pull up, they would all exclaim, “Well look who decided to show up late to the party! It’s douchey Johnny!” And douchey Johnny would smile and crack wise about some of his other predatory assignments. Listening to these guys talk outside was gross. They are the scabby symptom of a sickness in our culture, I sickness I am now often forced to confront.
Katie’s bodyguard was pretty cool though. I’m probably in no way qualified to be a bodyguard but, so far, they all seem to be real swell guys. I showed him the side door from which to make a furtive escape. He shook my hand and thanked me for my help and tipped me a fiver. Top notch guy.
By the time I got off work, there was a gigantic semi-circle of photogs (an aptly disgusting term) surrounding the entrance. I walked out onto the sidewalk and it was like walking out onto a stage. The douches took pictures of me and so I decided to take pictures of them with my phone. Then, on my walk home, I counted 34 magazine covers with Katie Holmes and Suri on the front with disgusting titles. I stopped and examined these magazines featuring the person I had just talked to and watched eat. These photographs were probably taken by the same douchebags.
Looking at these magazines gave me a strange feeling. It is one that I have felt before at work: a slight vertigo induced by the muddling together of fiction and reality. A lovely example of this awkward position is to watch a reality show being filmed. So far, this has happened to me twice.
The first time was a reality show for MTV. Table 51 was reserved for a reality show and, per usual, two or three tech guys showed up first. They scouted out the premises and made preparations for the arrival of “the stars.” Soon, a bratty and grotesquely attractive couple arrived. I don’t mean to imply that they were very good looking, I mean to imply that they were grotesques, distorted exaggerations of the concept of good looking (which isn’t actually good looking at all). First the couple comes in, looks around, waits to be told what to do, then exits the building so that a shot can be taken of them entering the building. Then a shot ascending the stairs. Then a shot sitting down.
It was strange so watch this… reality being staged. They sat upstairs and spoke (fought) with each other very loudly although I doubt this was necessary. Some of the other patrons were amused by this unseemly spectacle and some were bothered and asked to be moved. Now, as I was working, I ought to admit that I didn’t see the whole business filmed. But here’s what a know. The couple’s waiter said that the couple was completely calm when the cameras where off and completely angry when the cameras were on. Is this acting or an effect of the all-seeing gaze of a national television audience? Also, said the waiter, the cameramen prompted the girl when to leave by asking “Do you both just want to hang around here all night?” It was in the cameraman’s best interest to encourage movement.
Thus, while all the staff was downstairs, debating whether or not the frat boy “star” was gay, the heroine of the reality show ran down the stairs in tears, screaming on her phone while running out the door. A cameraman ran after her down the street. We all laughed.
Some minutes later, the dude protagonist trudged down the stairs, looking at his Blackberry with a bored expression. Either this dude was not really just broken up with, or he did the breaking or it was all arranged in advance. I wanted to know and so I went outside to smoke with him and interrogate him. “What is the theme of the show?” I asked. The response was magnificent and ludicrous.
“Ah shit braw,” (no I’m not making this up this is how he spoke) “it’s about how I’m all playa’ and she can’t take it.” I should mention that this dude is as white as a cloud and has the dumbest tattoos and clothing I have ever seen worn by a human person. “The show’s all about how I just don’t give a shit. Like upstairs, all those people were looking at us and I just didn’t give a shit. I act all crazy and shit. I couldn’t even give a fuck. See, I’m trying to get a reality show of my own. And all you got to do is get on tv and act all crazy and shit and they give you your own show.”
I stared at the foolish baffoon, baffled by his stupid stupidity. How in the world can someone operate under such a worldview? And while I should have quickly dismissed his heinous outlook on fame, people as or more stupid that this absolute monkey have become famous on reality shows and have, I assume, made a fair chunk of change in the process. By the way, while the two of us were on the sidewalk, it turns out that his “girl” had just ended up in the parking garage across the street, soliloquying into her phone and into the camera.
As I left work that evening, this dude was still out on the sidewalk, texting on his Blackberry. I nodded to him and said, “good luck with your televised misadventures!”
He put his fist in the air and said, “Fucking A right I will!” Neat.
No comments:
Post a Comment