Goo-ood . . .
Back onscreen: a lot of outraged, angst-ridden hand-wringing from Thorpe, who appeals, crybaby style, to the stern anchor, claiming he wasn’t given a fair hearing. The host then takes him to task, making him look even more of an asshole. Then they cut, thankfully, to the story of the conjoined twins. — Could be worse, Toby, dripping schadenfreude, nods at the screen.
A head shot of Annabel, some mousy aspirational chatter of her love for Stephen, then a close-up on intertwined fingers, as she’s revealed to be holding his hand. We pull out in long shot to see Amy looking in the opposite direction from Stephen, away from her sister. Rather than going tight on the lovebirds, the freak-show bastards keep her in shot. With her hook nose poking through her long hair, she resembles a scavenger bird perched on Annabel’s shoulder. My cell vibrates and it’s Valerie. — Hey, you, I shout with enthusiasm, to show that Toby creep that I’m not fazed. I turn to Marge. — Treadmill, twenty minutes, starting at jogging pace, 4 mph, and I’m moving toward the front door and some privacy.
— Hi, Lucy. I just saw the news . . .
— Yes, but surely it’ll blow over . . . I say, gesturing at a stalling, gasping Marge to climb the fuck on and get with it, as I step outside into the sun and look up at the azure sky.
— It’s got VH1 nervous. You need to
not talk
to the press or TV.
— Okay . . .
— Sorry if I sound a little strung. A singer client’s been caught with blow in some Ocean Drive spot. The promoter who has her on at the Gleeson is some kind of born-again asshole who has a weird antidrugs stipulation in the contract and is threatening to pull tomorrow night’s gig. Must go . . . oh, one other thing, the Total Gym people sent me a free home gym for you. They’ve enclosed a note, one of those “no obligation, but if you do like the product and feel inclined to endorse it, we would be grateful,” so that’s up to you. I’ll send it on.
— Wow! That’s rad!
— Yes, it’s all good. But don’t talk to the media, it’s all fuel to them, so just let it burn out.
— Cool, I say in cagey affirmation, thinking, just what I need in my life: a Chuck Norris-endorsed piece of crap fitness equipment, which will fall apart as soon as it’s taken half my life to assemble and eat up practically all the space in my shoebox apartment.
The line goes dead and I step back into the gym. I raise a lumbering Marge to 5 mph with a slight gradient, and the point of exhaustion. — Almost there! That’s what I need! The warrior Marge! And five . . . and four . . . and three . . . and two . . . and one . . . and the machine goes into cool-down mode. — Good work, I exclaim, as she looks at me like the kid who has fallen on her ass and doesn’t know whether she’s going to laugh or cry.
Fry that hoe’s cellulite. Smooth that bitch’s dimpled fat
. — Breathe, Marge: in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Jezzo, they still need to be told to do this! What the fuck is
that
saying? But Marge finishes her session and staggers gratefully to the locker room for a shower. On the screens Thorpe and Quist have gone, replaced by the mother of the conjoined twins, talking about the girls, followed by a nauseating, breathless voice-over, — . . . like any mother, Joyce fears for the future of her girls. But in the case of Amy and Annabel, their future, like their past and present, is inextricably bound up with each other.
I’m contemplating the grotesqueness of this setup when Sorenson appears, in new gaudy
pink
workout gear. It’s the sort of outfit either a retard or a ten-year-old would wear. — All righty! she sings. — I’m fired up and rarin to go!
— Good, I smile, teeth clenching, moving toward the machines, her following me.
How do I shave the beef off this irritating chubster? I get her on the treadmill, putting her through her paces. I’m upping the stakes, giving her more, nudging it to
Back onscreen: a lot of outraged, angst-ridden hand-wringing from Thorpe, who appeals, crybaby style, to the stern anchor, claiming he wasn’t given a fair hearing. The host then takes him to task, making him look even more of an asshole. Then they cut, thankfully, to the story of the conjoined twins. — Could be worse, Toby, dripping schadenfreude, nods at the screen.
A head shot of Annabel, some mousy aspirational chatter of her love for Stephen, then a close-up on intertwined fingers, as she’s revealed to be holding his hand. We pull out in long shot to see Amy looking in the opposite direction from Stephen, away from her sister. Rather than going tight on the lovebirds, the freak-show bastards keep her in shot. With her hook nose poking through her long hair, she resembles a scavenger bird perched on Annabel’s shoulder. My cell vibrates and it’s Valerie. — Hey, you, I shout with enthusiasm, to show that Toby creep that I’m not fazed. I turn to Marge. — Treadmill, twenty minutes, starting at jogging pace, 4 mph, and I’m moving toward the front door and some privacy.
— Hi, Lucy. I just saw the news . . .
— Yes, but surely it’ll blow over . . . I say, gesturing at a stalling, gasping Marge to climb the fuck on and get with it, as I step outside into the sun and look up at the azure sky.
— It’s got VH1 nervous. You need to
not talk
to the press or TV.
— Okay . . .
— Sorry if I sound a little strung. A singer client’s been caught with blow in some Ocean Drive spot. The promoter who has her on at the Gleeson is some kind of born-again asshole who has a weird antidrugs stipulation in the contract and is threatening to pull tomorrow night’s gig. Must go . . . oh, one other thing, the Total Gym people sent me a free home gym for you. They’ve enclosed a note, one of those “no obligation, but if you do like the product and feel inclined to endorse it, we would be grateful,” so that’s up to you. I’ll send it on.
— Wow! That’s rad!
— Yes, it’s all good. But don’t talk to the media, it’s all fuel to them, so just let it burn out.
— Cool, I say in cagey affirmation, thinking, just what I need in my life: a Chuck Norris-endorsed piece of crap fitness equipment, which will fall apart as soon as it’s taken half my life to assemble and eat up practically all the space in my shoebox apartment.
The line goes dead and I step back into the gym. I raise a lumbering Marge to 5 mph with a slight gradient, and the point of exhaustion. — Almost there! That’s what I need! The warrior Marge! And five . . . and four . . . and three . . . and two . . . and one . . . and the machine goes into cool-down mode. — Good work, I exclaim, as she looks at me like the kid who has fallen on her ass and doesn’t know whether she’s going to laugh or cry.
Fry that hoe’s cellulite. Smooth that bitch’s dimpled fat
. — Breathe, Marge: in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Jezzo, they still need to be told to do this! What the fuck is
that
saying? But Marge finishes her session and staggers gratefully to the locker room for a shower. On the screens Thorpe and Quist have gone, replaced by the mother of the conjoined twins, talking about the girls, followed by a nauseating, breathless voice-over, — . . . like any mother, Joyce fears for the future of her girls. But in the case of Amy and Annabel, their future, like their past and present, is inextricably bound up with each other.
I’m contemplating the grotesqueness of this setup when Sorenson appears, in new gaudy
pink
workout gear. It’s the sort of outfit either a retard or a ten-year-old would wear. — All righty! she sings. — I’m fired up and rarin to go!
— Good, I smile, teeth clenching, moving toward the machines, her following me.
How do I shave the beef off this irritating chubster? I get her on the treadmill, putting her through her paces. I’m upping the stakes, giving her more, nudging it to
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