Since I have been sitting here for an hour wondering what the fuck to write about, and have been failing to actually write, I have decided–mostly out of frustration, but also hunger, because, well, Christ in clam sauce, an hour?–to simply write about the stuff that I considered writing about, started to, failed, deleted, and am now going to write about anyway. Clear?
First failed idea: Wedding stuff.
Rejected because everything’s been going really well, actually, and how interesting is that? We picked out a cake from a really nice old guy who has been making them since the Hoover administration, and we got a plain old white three-tier cake with incredibly baroque icing on it that is going to look fucking smashing right up until we destroy the shit out of it, and there goes two hundred and fifty dollars right down all of our friends’ gullets, and I think I’ll remind them of that as they are eating it, just to be a jerk: “You’re eating four of my dollars, so enjoy it, you bastard. You better not have bought us towels.” What else? Oh, the invitations are done and are going out, after a bit more judicious weeding from the invitation list to get it down into a number we can express without resorting to scientific notation. Included in this tally was at least one dead person, who could have really livened things up. It would have been kind of neat to rig up the corpse of my dead great-aunt so that right in the middle of the ceremony, she could be hoisted up by wires and jerk around crazily, while a hidden recording blared out “UNCLEAN! UNHOLY UNION! THE DEAD RISE UP IN OPPOSITION!”
Second rejected idea: The secret conversations of my houseplants.
Oh, doesn’t that sound ducky? I only have four houseplants and one little snippet of a houseplant that was given to me in the hopes that I would one day put it in soil, which of course will never happen. So it will die in the little specimen jar thingy I got it in, but the thing is, it’s been not-dying for like six months now. Not so for his big brother, who is doing nothing but dying despite being in a very nice sunny spot and getting lots of water. I tried the other route: no sun and little water, but the little fucker hated that even more, and drooped and paled so aggressively, it looked like a vegetative wraith. I think it might be the soil, which looks like stony earth from Nosferatu’s coffin; it holds no water and just looks redolent of evil, and pretty clearly betrays its arid Eastern European peasant past, and probably has fond memories of breaking poor Romanian hoes while peasant tears rained down upon it, and it heard their lamentations because there would be no potatoes this year, or any other. It’s having a harder time with my houseplant, but it’s getting there.
I also have two cactuses and an irradiated rubber tree. The cactuses are just as useless as all cactuses except for those cool big bastards that sometimes fall on desert rubes, and the irradiated rubber tree grows like something out of a fucking fifties movie like Them! and would someday make for a terribly cool retro-fifties horror movie if it could just grow some legs and eat fear-blighted townspeople, which at this point, it might, but then again I could always stave off that bit of nastiness by repotting it in the Romanian Soil of Morbidity.
Third rejected idea: The Arquette family.
This seemed initially most attractive, because look at them! What the fuck happened with this family? One started out in a Toto video, then paraded moistly through a few interesting oddities, like After Hours and by God, Pulp Fiction (albeit briefly) and then flamed out with terrible, soul-manglers like the impossible The Big Blue or the unwatchable Hope Floats. Last time she was seen, she was swallowing poison on the set of Joe Dirt.
Then the other one, the sheened pneumo-babe with the pickled brain, started out all va-va-voom in the slick, veneered True Romance, but then some similar malady took hold and then she found herself crying wetly through unspeakable horrors like Stigmata and Beyond Rangoon, that latter being a precise description of where all extant copies of that movie were quietly buried under a cairn piled high with dingo skulls and discarded babies.
And of course the most offensively afflicted of these sufferers of Arquette’s Syndrome is unquestionably the vile, shambling idiot-mass known as David, whose turn in Scream seemed to verge on the not-horrible, but of course we all know what happened then: ghastly, flaming wreckage. Ready to Rumble, 3000 Miles to Graceland, and, worst of all, the AT&T commercials, where he proceeded to actually make you wish for Carrot Top, or if not Carrot Top, then perhaps a cold shotgun to suck on as you cursed the shabby little capering demigods that exist solely to invent the likes of David Arquette, whom at this point you aren’t even capable of thanking for his one good deed, which was to gradually suck all the marrow out of Courtney Cox until she resembled a rattling scarecrow hung with tattered leather.
That’s what I didn’t write about tonight. Tomorrow: On the usage of frightening run-on sentences.