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skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Monday, 24 February
A Misanthrope + Wonderful, Deluded Woman = Wedding Plans!

Deciding on Who to Invite

This process--known also as "culling the herd"--gives you a good insight into the staggering organizational power of the human brain. I never realized my capacity for creating disturbingly Microsoft-esque mental folders each with bafflingly nested sub-folders many layers deep. The top level folders, of course, are "People I Really Want to Be There," alternatively titled, "People Who Will Literally Murder Me if Not Invited." It includes, of course, close family, the people in the wedding party, and That One Friend Who Everyone Rolls Their Eyes About Because She's Such a Fucking Drama Queen. Being an actor, I can safely put that out there for my friends to read, and everyone will think it's someone different.

Then it gets more difficult. There are those who are Probably Not Going To Show Up, But They Might Get Us A KitchenAid. There are those who are Almost Certainly Too Safely Far Away To Come, But Then Again, They're Crazy. There are People I'd Love to Have Come, But We Suspect We're Not Cool Enough. There are the Bastards We Kind of Have to Lump It and Invite No Matter What. And there are even the Bastards We Don't Really Want to Invite and Probably Won't Come, but They Might Buy Us A KitchenAid, But on the Other Hand, Are Just Crazy Enough to Come, And to Add Insult to Injury, Would Probably Buy Us A Dog Bed or Some Other Terrible, Useless Thing.

So that's where you start, with this horrifically long list of people that you begin systematically cutting down. When you start, there's a lot of stuttering and backpedaling, and you say ridiculous things like, "I like those guys, but they probably don't want the trouble, you know?" Or, "With the baby and everything, it's probably doing her a favor to leave her off." Then somewhere halfway through you get kind of tired, and things take a decidedly more Manichean turn: "Howie? He gave me socks for Christmas. Off." "Bess didn't even invite us out bowling that one time. Nah." By the end, forget it. "What about Eric?" "Eric can go fuck himself." "What about Merle?" "Merle can go fuck Eric. I hear he's free that night."

Selecting the Menu

Sane people have their weddings catered, and of course we are doing this, because all of our friends are actors, and without weddings, they don't eat at all. You know when you go to friends' weddings, even friends you know pretty well, and there's like a whole galaxy of weird strangers wandering around? Those are your local stage actors, which is also why all of their formal wear looks like it dates back to the vintage "Gasoline Alley" years. Weddings are like when an okapi gets brought down on the savannah, and actors are the grinning, high-pitched hyenas that immediately fall on the corpse and all the other predators stand around going hungry thinking "Where the fuck did these dicks come from?"

The menu from our particular place--Denny's--really cracks me up, because it is such a splendid example of gastronomic horseshit-ese. "Bleu Potato Salad." This dish is named specifically for the noise you will make if you try and eat some. "What's this stuff here . . . bleu!" And a half-chewed lump of goo hits the chenille antimacassar. Oh and here's the ever-popular "Antipasti." Let me translate: "Bottles of shit dumped on a tray." Also known as: "Chef needs a smoke break." Ah, this sounds homey: "Rustic Mashed Potatoes." Which simply means that they leave the skins on and aren't terribly enthusiastic about a smooth texture. People who breathe romantic sighs over all things "rustic," I suggest, have never experienced actual rusticity (or whatever, I'm sticking with that word because I like it). Other "rustic" things include lack of plumbing, high infant mortality rates, and grizzly bear attacks.

What else? "Chilled Asparagus." Dear chef: Please cook my fucking asparagus. And finally, "Nutted Wild Rice Salad." Wonderful! Either this dish was prepared by a dangerous lunatic; or possibly the implication is that you will be driven irrevocably mad by the taste; or possibly that it contains testicles.

Picking Out A Tux

So you slink into a store, feeling kind of dumb, because the last time you did this was Prom, and you remember how well that went. Three hours of freakish, awkward misery followed by definitely no sex. Great precedent! Take a look at the dizzying array of tuxes and vests and ties and cummerbunds and shoes and hats and codpieces? It might be. Anyway, it's not as bad as you think, because they are almost all irretrievably ghoulish. Individually categorize their apparent intended effect: I Am Disco Stu. I Dance Along With Falco. I Am A Gay Man Entering A Sham Marriage. Would You Like A Jointe Of Fynest Roaste Beefe, Milady? There's even one that seems to say, I Am Wearing This Only To Cover My Track Marks. Finally, you pick out something not too offensive, which is really just an eternal euphemism for "It doesn't look really stupid right now, but wait until you see the pictures in twenty years." But it doesn't matter, because right before you're done, two incontrivertible facts loom into your mind. One is that you remember that, as the groom, nobody really even gives a fuck about you and will not be looking at you. This is, of course, the bride's day, and that's cool. It's just as well, because you'll probably have chilled asparagus on your vest. And the second thing is, prices for tux rentals have gone up by fifty bucks in the intervening years. Those bastards better come through with the KitchenAid for this.

XOXOX | Skot | 24 Feb, 2003 |

Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


Just watch. Now you'll end up with seven KitchenAids and no bath towels. And then what will you do?

Comment number: 002528   Posted by: iceberg273 on February 25, 2003 05:41 AM from IP:

I am *so* getting the dog bed.

Comment number: 002529   Posted by: rodii on February 25, 2003 06:06 AM from IP:

You can make an awful lot of rustic mashed potatoes with seven KitchenAids.

Comment number: 002530   Posted by: Anapestic on February 25, 2003 07:41 AM from IP:

I'm getting you lovebirds The Best of Falco, just you wait and see.

Comment number: 002531   Posted by: lia on February 26, 2003 02:03 PM from IP:

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