Sunday, January 20, 2008

David Lynch's New Bedford

Just in case you happen to be one of those striking teevee writers, I thought I'd toss this out to help you when the producers stop equating the size of their genitalia with the size of their bank statement.
"Equating" or "confusing." You're the damned writer, you figure it out.
Remember those moody spooky teevee cop-shows-that-weren't-cop-shows-but-there-were-cops-in-them that usually had a ghost story and a weird know-it-all and a quirky town full of off-center characters. You know, like American Gothic or Twin Peaks or that other one.
The pilot always began with someone -- a construction worker or likable rube or homeless physicist -- finding a body or body part or ancient cursed amulet in an unlikely spot, usually a spot owned by or frequented by or mysteriously avoided by another character of questionable background or proclivities, and the episode would unfold like an onion, just as layered and usually just as stinky.
Welcome to New Bedford.
For all the gentrification and creative economy going on, it's still the #1 money-making fishing port and that means shipmates tossin' back a few. I am one of the few people of my age and vertical ambulatory ability to visit the Cultivator. Like The National and the late lamented Whalers' Edge and the No Name, they were shot'n'a'beer spots that let you run a tab because they knew your boat, its owner, and the rest of the crew. Cultivator Shoals was one of those seaport bars that had spent a great deal of time -- and very little money -- to develop a steadily terminal clientele.
But all good things get sold.
The guys who now own it want to call it The Pequod and make it into a swell microbrewery. Which actually makes it a fine addition to a neighborhood that already boasts a wine and tapas bar and a flashy "bistro" with singing waiters.
And now they have a fun story to tell on opening day. The story about when the guys digging out the cellar found bones.
Last Thursday morning, as they were clearing out the floor of the basement to make room for the brewery equipment, they found bones, called the cops, and there you have your first page of the script. No charge.
Of course, they could be dog bones for all anybody knows.
But I do remember there was this one guy who was always sitting at the end of the bar who didn't move much.

2 comments:

karie said...

I am seeing Darin McGavin... straw hat cocked slightly askew, rumpled jacket, big boxy camera and INS badge in hand, pushing his way toward the scene of the "found bones" to get a shot and prove the tale of the whaleman's ghost (or his dog's) is for real, and the evil haunting of the local tapas bars and bistros is NOT just a tourism marketing scheme!

Large said...

fear-naught for in several months time you will see the tagline..


" And I would have gotten away with my scheme if it werent for those,...meddling kids...."