30.Nov.2002
Heathens
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and thus ends her favorite month
You've seen Heathers. You haven't? Yes, you have. Therefore you know that scene in the aforementioned film ("you always say 'film' when it should be called a 'movie', you fuck." Hi, Ben.) where Heather McNamara and Veronica Sawyer are subjected to the brutal alpha-maleness of Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeny directly following the death of Heather Chandler. Yes, I am talking about the cow-tipping escapade, which really is a great scene-seque from funeral to pasture (hi, Duck).
Now, towards the end of their date where Veronica, covered in shit and/or mud (hi, Kristina), we haven't decided, walks away from the very inebriated Mr. Kelly, you notice, in the background, like a wanton gothic sex god rising from the shadows (hi, Jubal), Christian Slater appearing from smoke-tainted air. Veronica then regales him with the double-date tale of merry good white-trashed teenaged times (hi, ex-boyfriend).
Does it not bother anyone else that Slater just happened to know where Veronica was, without her having to say a word? Keep in mind this is the period in the film before the viewer notices Slater is stalking her (hi, Patty). (One could justifiably argue that was noticed as soon as Slater slipped through her bedroom window, but come on, did Dawson ever accuse Joey of "stalking" him? Would anyone ever accuse someone like Katie Holmes of anything other than not catering to their sexual whims? I digress.)
Had I been Veronica (hi, Kaitlin), I would have stumbled over to wanton sex god Jason Dean (hi, Jason) and in mid-explanatory-sentence said, "Wait a minute, how the hell did you know I was here?"
Nevermind the fact that earlier in the week we had just killed probably the most killable person in history.
I have to say it, though.
I have to say it.
Christian Slater was one Very Delicious Piece of Thing in 1988, perhaps setting my sexual archetype, as I'm usually only attracted to dark-haired, dark-eyed, light-skinned broody fellows, as a personal rule.
As the years have progressed for Mr. Slater, however, I am forced to write this letter. I hereby refer you to the succeeding document (hi, Joseph and Al) entitled "Dear Christian Slater":
Dear Christian Slater,
You are an idiot.
Love,
Ravie.
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time & machine