Chapter 8 the story of miss america in the green room

Whether it's a bomb going off, or a gunman taking hostages in the Great Hall, none of these things are about you personally.When a special warning signal appears on the main control screen of the TV network, any affiliated TV station must hand over the incoming national news to the anchor. If you happen to be watching TV, the producer and director of the local station will first set up a picture-in-picture.This is what most people know as split screen.Then the local anchor reports, "For the latest news on the sinking of the cruise ship, see Joe Blue's coverage from New York." That's what they call a "drop" or "switch."

The news from the TV network took up the time, and the local anchors could only sit with their hands tied and wait for the TV network to announce when the special report would end. No publicist would ever think of explaining these things to the new guy they hired, whether that guy was promoting an investing video, a book, or a new carrot peeler. So, sit through Wake Up, Catalonca! ’ backstage in the green room, the young man with his hair all oiled back explained some facts of life to the blonde. He told her she was a super over-the-top blonde, the kind of shiny blonde hair that would drive a set director crazy because there was no way to light it to the point where it wasn't reflective, and the limited set director said it was "popping out" .Her blond hair seemed to be on fire.

"Anyway," the greasy boy said to the blonde, "if you have the cheat sheet, don't read it, or the camera will just look at the top of your head." He said that on-site directors hate guests who bring cheat sheets, and they hate those guests who refuse to put away the materials.They will tell you: "Just be your product, don't sell it." Ironically, this same field instructor will call you "the exercise wheel" because that's what's written in your slot on the schedule.The greasy boy is the "investment and financial management video tape", and the old man is the "stain remover".

Blonde girl and oily boy, they sat on the old leather sofa in the green room, a few cups of old coffee were discarded on the table in front of them, and two TV sets hung high on the wall in the corner, almost ceiling.On the monitor screen of a TV, national anchors can be seen talking about the news of the cruise ship wreck, and then cut into the video footage, with the bottom of the boat in the sky, and piles of orange life jackets floating around.The blonde said the situation was even more dire on the monitor screen of the second TV. In the other corner, you have the dork from Section A, the old guy with the parted hair, who gets up here at five o'clock in the morning from his motel room number six to hype up his special invention of the stain remover brush.Poor dork.He put on makeup, went on stage, and was sent to the "living room" where there were as many artificial bonsai as a rainforest. He sat under the hot lights, while the live anchor began their "gossip" at the beginning.

The "living room" scene is different from the "kitchen" and "main scene" because there are more fake plants and cushions. The idiot thinks he's got a solid ten minute slot.Because this TV station comes according to the hour, the commercials will not appear until ten minutes after the start.Most TV stations run commercials at eight or nine minutes.In this way, we can keep the audience from turning the channel and get the highest ratings in the entire fifteen-minute period. "Too bad," said the greasy boy to our blonde, crossing himself like a good Catholic, "but it'd be better for him than for one of us."

The demo tape of the stain remover had just begun, when the program of segment A was interrupted by the unfortunate shipwreck. Sitting in the green room, on a battered leather sofa, in a double-digit ADI, the greasy guy said he had about seven minutes to teach our Miss America the whole world. The so-called ADI refers to the "direct impact area".For example, Boston is the No. 3 ADI in the United States, because the media there can reach the No. 3 consumer market.New York is the No. 1 ADI, Los Angeles is No. 2, and Dallas is No. 7. Where they sit now, it ranks pretty low on the ADI list. "The Morning Show in Lincoln," or "A New Day in Tuscha."Some communication media have zero figures in the consumer market statistics.

Another good piece of advice: don't wear white.Definitely don't wear any black and white patterns, as that will "spend" in the camera frame.Also, always be thinner. "Just maintaining the weight we're at now," our blond tells the greasy boy, "is hard enough." The oily boy said that the online live broadcast, that is, the live anchor of Catalonka, the TV host here, is an out-and-out megaphone.Everything they said to her through the wireless earbuds came straight out of her lipsticked mouth.The director would tell her "... oh my god, we've been doing this for too long. Cut to a PSA for adopting a stray dog, and then it's on the ad..." and she'd say it.

A sounding board without compromise. Our blonde listened carefully, she didn't laugh, she didn't even smile. The greasy guy in the bathroom told her about the other TV guys he'd seen himself, once on a live show, with a warehouse on fire in the background, and the journalists already on the line looking straight at the camera while their hair was fixed During the live broadcast, he said: "Can you repeat the question again? My ear fell off just now..." The reporter should have said "earphones", the greasy boy said, pointing to the anchor who appeared on the TV monitoring screen, why the anchor's hairstyle is always crooked, and the hair is combed to one side to cover the ears, It's because she has a little radio headset plugged into her ear to listen to the director's instructions in case the show goes on too long or they have to plug in the news of something going on in the nuclear reactor.

This blonde, she's on the road promoting an exercise wheel that loses weight when you push it.She was wearing a pink tracksuit and purple leggings. Yes, she was thin and blond, the greasy kid told her, but the more bumps on her face, the better she looked on camera. "That's why I always carry my before pictures," she said, as she sat in a chair and bent over, her body leaning forward until the twin peaks were on her knees, and she reached out to put her hands on the ground. “It’s the only thing that proves that I’m not a natural blonde.” She took a piece out of the bag and pinched the side with two fingers. .It was a photo, and the blond said to the greasy boy, "The average person who doesn't see this probably thinks I was born this way, and they'll never know how much work I put into it."

He told her: On TV, as long as you have a little bit of baby fat, you look like nothing.A false mask, a full moon, and a large circle, without any memorable facial features. "Getting rid of all that flab is the only really great thing I've ever done," she says. "If I grow it back, it's like I haven't lived at all." You know, said the Greasy Boy.Television turns a three-dimensional object -- that's you -- into a flat object.So you will look fatter on camera, flat and fat. Our blonde pinches the photo with two fingers, looks at herself before, and says, "I don't want to be just a normal slime."

Regarding the issue of her hair being too "bright", the oily boy told her, "That's why you can't see natural red hair in erotic movies, the lighting can't be done well, and it can't match real people." What this guy is trying to do: be behind the camera behind the camera and let you see the final truth. We all want to be the last one standing.The person who can say what is good or bad.Decide what is right and what is wrong. To our girl whose hair color is too bright, the camera lens will "blow out", the oily boy explained that the programs produced by these local TV stations are divided into six paragraphs, with commercials in the middle.Call it section A, section B, section C, and so on.Those like "Good Morning Fargo" and "Sun Rises on Siduna" are endangered species, and compared to just buying a few national talk shows to fill the archives, the production cost is too high up. A publicity tour like this one, is a new generation of vaudevillians.From town to town, hotel to hotel, on local TV and radio one show at a time.Sell ​​your new and improved curling or stain brush or exercise wheel. You have seven minutes to introduce the product.At that time, it was said that if you were not squeezed in paragraph F, that is, the last paragraph, that paragraph would probably be squeezed out in most ADIs, because the previous paragraphs were too long.Some guests are so funny and charming that the host drags him past commercial breaks.Give him "double segment" time.Either that or the TV network inserted the report of the sinking. That's why segment A is such a shooter.When the show starts, the host will make an "opening show", and you will be on the show. No, soon, these hard-to-learn tricks that the oily boy kept together will be ineffective for everyone. Maybe that's why he's willing to teach her for free.Really, he said, he should write a fucking book called The American Dream: Turning Your Life Into Something That Sells. The blonde still looked at her fat self in the picture and said, "It's horrible, but this picture of a big fat man is worth more than anything to me." She said, "This picture used to make me look I just feel sad. But right now is the only thing that makes me happy." She stretched out her hand. "I eat so much fish oil that you can smell it." She shook the picture at the oily boy and said, "Smell my hands." Her hands smelled like a dog, like skin, soap, and her translucent nails were polished smooth. He smelled her hand and took the photo over.Printed flat on photo paper, she was just the right height and width for her like a cow, in a cropped top and low-slung jeans, and her hair, as he saw it, was normal, normal brown. If you look at what Greasy is wearing, a light pink shirt, a light blue tie like a robin's egg, and a dark blue top, it's perfect.The pink made his complexion rosy, and the blue brought out his eyes.Before you could open your mouth, he said, you must stand up, stand up, and dress up for the camera.If you're wearing a wrinkled shirt and a stained tie, you're the one they remove when they run out of time. Any TV station wants you to be clean, neatly dressed and full of charm.Be camera-friendly and have a pretty face, because a stain brush or exercise wheel doesn't speak.It's about being happy and energetic. On the monitor screen of the TV, the skin on the old guy's neck was loose and packed in layers, tucked into his starched and tightly buttoned blue collar.Even so, as he sat there gulping, some excess skin squeezed out above his neckline, like the fat around the waistband of the jeans in the girl's pre-used ultras Same. That picture looks nothing like that girl.Mostly because of the smile on her face in the photo. The oily boy looked at the TV and pointed out that the camera never moved over to illuminate the auditorium, and never let us see the panorama.That means that there are only some old ladies with bad teeth.The person in charge of finding the audience must have spent a lot of work.Pull these old ladies here at seven o'clock in the morning to fill the auditorium, and the TV station will arrange an "elderly talent conference".That way they can find someone to applaud local shows.Around Halloween, all the people who come here are young people, and the TV station will launch a large fundraising fund for haunted house adventures.At Christmas time, the audience is full of old people who want their charity bazaar to be noticed.Fake cheering and clapping for free advertising. On the monitoring TV that played the broadcast content, the national anchor gave the time back to the local anchor, and the local anchor advanced a pre-recorded preview of tomorrow's program, and then a small title: a beautiful rain scene, There was a blast of horns, and then there was an advertisement. The ship sank, hundreds of people died, and the film was due to air at eleven o'clock. The oily guy rewrote his investment and financial video pitch pitch in his head, adding God's will.There are also other disasters that you cannot predict.So it's all the more important to be a good and sound investment for those who depend on you.He, incarnated as his product, hides the original. He, the camera behind the camera. It's been as long as the cruise ship has been sinking, and it looks like our blondes' shiny blond hair won't be on camera. Before they pick it up from the ad, insert a traffic bulletin, faceless reporter report a road camera scene, and before that, the producer will accompany the stain remover back to the green room.As for the on-site guidance, she will hand over the radio microphone to the investment and financial video tape.She'd tell the exercise wheel, "Thank you for stopping by, but I'm really sorry we took so long..." Then she would ask the guards to escort our blonde out onto the street. That way they could time the shows offered by the networks—serials and celebrity talk shows—to air at ten o'clock on time. The old guy on the TV monitor was wearing the exact same shirt and tie as the Greasy Boy.With the same blue eyes, his thoughts and actions were all correct, but he came at the wrong time. "Let me do you a favor," the greasy boy said to the blonde.Still holding her pre-use photo, she said, "Would you be open to good advice?" Of course, she said, anything would do.Then she listened, picking up a cold cup of coffee with a smear of lipstick on the rim of the paper cup, the same color as the pink lipstick on her mouth. This blonde with too much light is now in the oily kid's own personal ADI. Especially don't let any hot guy on a daytime talk show like this trick you into bed, he said to her.He wasn't talking about the presenter at the scene.The thing you want to watch out for is the salesman, the guy you'll see peddling their magic rags and get rich schemes from city to city.You'd be in the same green room as them in ADIs all over the country, and you'd be stuck on the road as lonely as they were, with only one motel room to go to each night. From his own experience, this kind of green room romance is not going to work out. "Do you remember the girl who sold the never-tight pantyhose?" The blond nodded and said yes. "She's my mother." The greasy boy said.She met his dad when they were both on the promotional tour, seeing each other in the green room over and over again like this.In fact, he never married her and dumped her as soon as he found out that something was wrong.She lost her contract to promote pantyhose because of her pregnancy.And the Greasy Guy was growing up watching shows like Wake Up Poddletown and Tamba Wake Up trying to figure out which of the smiling, fast-talking guys was who? It was his father. So: business affairs, is his first code. The blonde said, "Your mother is really, really beautiful..." Damn...he said those pantyhose that never got out must have had asbestos in them, and she had cancer a few months ago. "When she died," he said, "it was so fucking ugly." The green room will be open anytime now.And the live director would come in and say she's sorry, but they might have to lose another guest.The field director would look at the girl's shiny blond hair.On-site directors will look at the oily kid's dark blue top. The F segment went when the network cut in on the shipwreck, and then the E segment -- her name tag reads "Color Advisor" -- went when that segment looked like it was going to drag on too long. up.Then there is going to leave the scene to talk about children's books in section D. The sad reality is that even if you have the right blond hair color, you can pretend to be fun and energetic and presentable, and even then, a terrorist with a big knife might kill your seven minute period.Yes, they can let you record it and show it on the next day's show, but the problem is they won't do it.They have arranged all the content of the program for this week, and if you broadcast your video tomorrow, another person will have to be blocked... At the last minute of their alone time, just them in the green room, the greasy guy asked if he could do our blonde one more big favor. "You're giving me your time?" she said.Then she smiled a little, like in the photo, and her teeth weren't so horrible. "No," he said. "But when people are being polite... when people tell you jokes..." Greasy Boy said, before tearing her ugly pre-use photo in half.Put the two halves together again, tear it into four pieces, then into eight pieces, and then tear it into pieces.Small pieces, confetti.He said. "If you want to be successful on TV, you have to at least put on a smile." At least pretend to like someone else. In that green room, the mouth of the blond girl with pink lipstick opened, opened wider, opened wide, opened and closed, opened and closed two or three times, like a fish panting.She said, "You bastard..." At this moment, the on-site director walked in with the old guy. The on-site guide said: "Okay, I think we will finally have an investment and financial management video..." The old guy looked at the Greasy Boy the way he would look at a big department store buyer who ordered half a million items, and said, "Thomas..." The blonde was sitting there, holding her cup of cold black coffee. The field director was unhooking the radio microphone from the man's back strap.Hand it over to you boy. And he said to the old guy, "Good morning, Daddy." The old guy grabbed the oily boy's hand and held it, and said, "How is your mother?" The girl who sold the never-ending pantyhose, the girl you dumped. Our blond lady stood up.She stood up, ready to give up, go home, defeated. The oily boy took the radio microphone, checked the switch, made sure there was no fever, and said, "She's dead." She died and was buried, and he would never say where she was buried, or, even if he did, he would lie to him that it was in another city. Then, there was a crash. His hair and face were cold and wet. He was drenched in coffee.Cold coffee, his shirt and tie, ruined.His shiny hair was all over his face. Our blonde took the radio mic behind her and said, "Thanks for the suggestion." She said, "I guess it's my turn now..." Much worse than being too blond, worse than ruining his beautiful clothes and hair, is that our slim girl is really fucking in love with him. In the hall of blue velvet something rattled down from the upper flight of stairs in the shadow of the first balcony.Level after level, the sound became louder and louder, and finally, like rolling thunder, a black mass rolled down from the dark second floor.It was a bowling ball rolling down the middle of the stairs with a bang bang all the way.Rolled darkly and silently across the blue carpet in the hall.Sister Security's bowling ball rolls past Cora Reynolds licking her paws, then Mr. Whittier drinking instant coffee in his wheelchair, past Mrs. Homeless and her diamond-turned-husband.Then the ball slammed open the double doors and disappeared into the auditorium. "Peckle," said Mrs. Tramp to her Diamond, "something is locked up here with us." Lowering her voice, almost in a whisper, she asked Diamond, "Is that you?" The glass on that side that should only be broken in the event of a fire, Miss America has already shattered.In each of the small windows with red-painted metal frames and a small hammer hanging by a chain, she broke the glass and flipped the switch inside.Miss America is now doing this in the lobby, and then went to the red paint, there are many Buddha statues, like a promenade in the style of a Chinese hotel.Then there's the Mayan temple-like vestibule with grinning warrior faces in the basement.Then there is the Arabian Nights-style balcony behind the box on the second floor.Then there's the projection booth squeezed under the roof. In the end, nothing happened, no bells rang loudly, no one came to hack the locked fire escape door to save her and save us.Nothing, always nothing. Mr. Whittier sat in the hall on a blue velvet sofa, and above his head the glass blades of a crystal chandelier as large as a shining gray cloud hung over him. Matchmakers already refer to chandeliers as "trees."A row of chandeliers hung low in the middle of every long salon, balcony, or lounge.He said they were glass fruit trees growing from velvet-covered chains and rooted to the ceiling. Each of us is looking at the reality of our own daily lives in these same great rooms. The Earl of Slander was writing in his notepad, and the Gossip Detective was on video.The Countess of Vision wears a turban around her.Sheng Gutless was eating. Inspector Negative swung her whole arm to throw a dummy mouse, which landed halfway to the door of the auditorium, and with her other hand she rubbed the shoulder where she swung her arm, and the Cora Reynolds The cat brought the mouse back, and the cat's paws picked up a cloud of flying dust on the carpet. Mrs. Clark watched them attentively, propped her breasts with one hand across her chest, and scratched the back of her head with the other hand, and said: "At the Diodete estate, they have five cats." Holy Gutless is eaten with a plastic spoon out of the vacuum pack and the orange butter crepe rolls. Mrs. Nomad manicured his nails with a spatula, watching spoonfuls dripping with pink juice from the wrapper into his mouth."That can't possibly do any good," she said. Nothing else happened, nothing happened. Then Miss America came and stood between us and said, "It's against the law!" What Mr. Whittier did was kidnapping.He detains people against their will.This is a felony. "The sooner you finish what you promised," Mr. Whittier said, "the sooner these three months will pass." The Negative Inspector threw the fake mouse out and said, "What is Diodedi Villa?" "That's a house on Como Lake," said Mrs. Tramp to her big diamond. "Lake Geneva," said Mrs. Clark. In retrospect, Mr. Whittier's position has been that we were always right. "That's not a question of right or wrong," Mr. Whittier would say. In fact, nothing is wrong at all.At least in our minds, in our own reality. You can never do anything wrong. You can never say the wrong thing. In your own heart, you are always right.Every action you make—no matter what you do, say, or appear to be—is automatically correct as soon as you move. Mr. Whittier raised his glass with trembling hands, and said, "Even if you say to yourself, 'Today, I'm going to drink my coffee the wrong way...into a dirty boot. "Even so it's still right. Because you decided to use the boots for coffee." Because you can do no wrong, you are always right. Even if you say, "I'm such an idiot, I was so wrong..." you're still right.Saying you are wrong is right.Even if you're an idiot, you're still right. "No matter how stupid your idea is," said Mr. Whittier, "you must be right, because it is your idea." "Lake Geneva?" Mrs. Tramp said with her eyes closed.Pressing her temples, and massaging them with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, she said: "The Chateau Diodete is the place where Sir Byron raped Mary Shelley..." Mrs. Clark said, "No" Everything we can think of, we must be right. In this restless and dishonest world, everyone is right, and every thought is right once you practice it.Mr. Whittier would say that the only certainty is your commitment. "Three months, you promised," Mr. Whittier said behind the steam of his coffee. At this moment, something happened, but it was not a big deal. With another look, you feel your asshole tighten and your hand reaches up to cover your mouth. Miss America holds a knife in her hand.The other hand grasped the knot in Mr. Whittier's tie and pulled his face up toward his own.Mr. Whittier's coffee fell and spilled hot all over the floor.His hands dropped, trembling, paddling in the dusty air on either side. Holy Gutless's bag of orange butter crepe rolls falls, and it's all sticky red cherries and clotted cream on the cornflower-blue carpet. The cat ran to taste it. Miss America's eyes almost met Mr. Whittier's.She said "If I kill you, am I right?" That knife was one of a set of knives that Chef Killer had brought in an aluminum case. Mr. Whittier looked into her eyes, so close that each other's eyelashes met in the blink of an eye. "But you'll still be stuck here," he said.His thinning gray hair hung loose at the back of his head.His voice was almost muffled by his tie. Miss America swung the knife at Mrs. Clark and said, "What about her, does she have the key?" Mrs. Clark shook her head, no.Her eyes are wide open, but her pouty doll-like mouth still maintains the state of silicone cosmetics. No, that key is somewhere in the house.Hidden in a place only Mr. Whittier would go looking for it. However, even if she killed him, she was right. If she set this house on fire and hoped the fire brigade would see the smoke and come and save her before we all suffocated - she'd be right too. If she had stuck the point of the knife into Mr. Whittier's white cataracted eyeball, picked it out, dropped it on the ground, and let the cat run after it—she'd be right. "In the face of the situation," said Mr. Whittier, his tie firmly in her hand, his face dark red, and his voice low. "Let's just start doing what we promised." Three months, write your masterpiece, end. Miss America let go, and the chrome-steel wheelchair creaked as he slumped back.Rug dust filled the air because she had slumped so hard that the two front wheels of the wheelchair lifted off the carpet.Mr. Whittier put his hands in the collar to loosen the tie.He bent down to pick up the coffee mug that had fallen on the floor.The gray hair, brushed aside, fell straight down, hanging like tassels around the bald head with age spots. Cora Reynolds has been eating cherries and cream from the dusty rug next to St Gutless's chair. Miss America said: "This is not over yet..." She shook the blade and gestured to everyone in the hall.With a quick flick of the arm, a tense muscle, the knife was now lodged in the back of a large chair across the room.The blade buzzed and buried itself in the blue velvet, and the handle kept shaking. The Gossip Detective said from behind his VCR, "Print this part." Cora Reynolds' pink tongue was still licking and licking the sticky carpet. The Earl of Slander wrote something in his notepad. "Well, Mrs. Clarke," said Mrs. Tramp, "what's the matter with Diodete Lodge?" "They had five cats there," Mr Whittier said. "Five cats and eight big dogs," said Mrs. Clark, "three monkeys, an eagle, a crow, and a falcon." It was a summer house party in 1816, and a group of young people were stuck indoors most of the time because of the rain.Some of them were married, some were not.man and woman.They read ghost stories to each other, but all their books were bad.Afterwards, they all agreed to each write a story, a horror story of any kind, to entertain everyone. "Like the Algonquin Round Table?" Mrs. Tramp asked about the diamond on the back of her hand. (①The Algonquin Round Table is a small group formed by a group of writers and critics in New York in 1919. They had lunch at the Algonquin Hotel every day, told jokes, played smart, and played language games on the table, which inspired many human creativity. The group school lasted nearly ten years.) Just a group of friends sitting together trying to scare each other. "Then what did they write?" Miss Puchi asked. Those middle-class, idle people who just want to pass the time are a bunch of people stuck together in their hot and humid summer retreat. "Nothing," said Mr. Whittier, "only the Frankenstein saga..." Mrs. Clarke said: "And "Count Drogule the Vampire"..." The Sisters of the Vigilante came down the stairs from the second floor, across the hall, and looked under the tables and behind the chairs. "In there," said Mr. Whittier, pointing with a trembling finger to the double doors of the auditorium. Mrs. Bumbo looked sideways at the two doors leading to the Auditorium through which Miss America and the bowling ball had disappeared. "Sir and I are experts at being bored," said Mrs. Tramp, and she made us wait while she took three, four, five steps down the hall to remove the knife from the back of a chair. Pull it out. She took the knife and tried Dolly with her finger, and said, "I can tell you how those rich and boring people spend their time..."