I willingly bought into the sales pitch for the new Amazon Prime television series. The promotional teasers did not do a good job of selling the show to me; I did that myself. I believed what the marketers told me I would get. Despite evidence to the contrary, I allowed my anticipation to build—I convinced myself the show would be at least as interesting as the marketing spots led me to believe. The new series would readily fill the emptiness left in my entertainment schedule with the demise of Bosch. Three back-to-back episodes of the new show—Ballard—did not fulfill the promise. I found myself harshly judging the script writers, as I listened to actors try and fail to deliver lines that could have been (and probably were) written by unemployable highway weed crews. These so-called “writers,” I imagined, were thirteen years old and immensely proud of their profound stupidity. But I might be unfairly relentless in my condemnation of their literary skills. Probably not. But maybe. Now, though, I question whether my appreciation of Bosch was entirely unearned. Was my adoration of Bosch a side-effect of my chemo-induced catatonia? Should I be embarrassed that I recommend Bosch to people who might consider my high esteem of the show a sign of irreparable mental decay? Or should I give it one more shot? I doubt I’ll be able to put myself through another of its mind-numbingly stupid and deeply improbable storylines again. The Dukes of Hazzard probably was more intellectually stimulating and emotionally riveting than Ballard can ever hope to be. Yet another reason to stick with the Scandinavian Crime Noir genre. I suspect I would get more out of a revival of Sunday morning church sermon re-runs that I would get from Ballard. Dammit. I just wanted to experience mindless entertainment. At least it was mindless. The production cast has considerably more work to do to make it entertaining.
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I could return to my old standby topics: cancer and other such downers. But I won’t. Not for now, anyway. Instead, I’ll pretend I am emerging from a cocoon suspended by a single silken thread from the highest point in the atrium of the Hyatt Regency San Francisco. Below me, last night’s crowds left a mess of cigarette butts and wine stems and nearly-empty cocktail glasses reeking of whiskey. A few scraps of police “crime scene” tape litter the floor, as well, and cover elevator doors…warning guests to stay clear of the drunk, disorderly, and deceased who clog the clear-glass passenger cars. The $1400 Brooks Brothers suit I am wearing will be wrinkle-free when I leave the cocoon, as if it had just been pressed. Theatre-style spotlights, trained on me from the floor, will draw attention to me, but most guests will be staring instead at the magnificent magenta costumes worn by a flock of wingéd racoons soaring in formation from one balcony to the next. San Francisco is a city absorbed with itself; the only West Coast city known to have written its own fictionalized autobiography. The book’s publisher, Liquid Serpent, has published only one other book, Latter Day Saints and Sinners: Diving for Taffy in the Great Salt Lake. Both books were nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, but the nominations were later withdrawn without explanation. Oh, the SF book’s title is Fermenting Okra on Telegraph Hill.
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I’ve been awake far too long today. Three hours so far this morning. I crave sleep and conversation, but not at the same time. My gut prefers sleep; something to take my mind off the pain that slipped back into me without warning. I imagine the pain will dissolve into the sheets…or into the creamy white leather of the sofa.
