Preservatives [Tame Impala, “Alter Ego”]

January 14, 2011

There’s a woman on television discussing her extraordinary life.  Her neighbor snuck into her attic crawlspace and drilled pinprick holes into her bathroom ceiling and inserted cameras with views of her shower and toilet.  He bought the cameras from a web site that sold private eye equipment, and I calculate the cameras cost him enough to have purchased a decent flower bouquet and dinner at a fairly nice restaurant—a shared appetizer, two entrees, and an alcoholic beverage apiece.  And I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s about as much as a woman like her could have expected.

“Eat, sleep, go to work.  That’s all I thought I did.  Throw out garbage, take in mail, hang up on creditors,” she says.  “I had a very normal life.”  Her lower lip trembles.  Her eye shadow sends reflected studio light out into space.  She squints.  Her eyes are dull. She speaks as if she had been dragged on television to discuss things she’s normally too polite to mention, and I’m annoyed that she shares the details of her fame so perfunctorily. You have a camera locked on you and an upper lip that was waxed for the occasion, I think.  You are store brand tampons, comfort slacks, chamomile tea.   Relish it, bitch.

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