Mediocre Pudding
or Disco Banana?
I’m thinking about starting a different newsletter called Mediocre Pudding. (Disco Banana is an emergency backup title in the event that Mediocre Pudding infringes on somebody’s copyright.)
When I think the word “tapioca”, my mind wants to turn it into “mediocre”.
Why? Who knows. “Tapioca” doesn’t even sound like “mediocre”, except maybe in New York.
See, I have this theory that everything popular in America, everything lauded and venerated and viralized, is actually very mediocre. It has to be in order to appeal to the broadest possible audience.
Look at the humor of Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck, Jerry Seinfeld. Look at authors like Elin Hilderbrand. Look at the Kardashians.
Broad, bland, universal. Nothing is actually happening on Keeping Up With The Kardashians. But that’s okay. You’re not watching that show because you want to think.
Mediocre is, most of all, easy to understand.
Mediocre Pudding would be an examination of how everything in America is dumbed down, from safety labels to blockbuster movies, and how we as consumers are more than willing to stoop to mediocre’s level.
(If I was just an expert at something, this would be so much easier. I really should’ve taken college more seriously. Maybe then I wouldn’t be flailing around like a baby turtle trying to reach the ocean before it gets eaten by a pelican.)
My mom wanted to visit my dad’s grave today for the first time in several years, so we went for a drive.
There are two extra burial plots next to my parents’, which are meant for me and some hypothetical husband.
I would rather be eaten by a shark than buried on a windy hill in rural Ohio.
It’s not even a cool cemetery with old, interesting headstones. It’s one of those flat-plaque places where it looks like you were buried in an underground apartment and all anybody can see is your name next to the buzzer.
Today half the cemetery was submerged in water, and me being me, my first thought was that the water would speed decomposition. But then I thought about how the caskets are probably water-tight and how unnatural it all is, the way we’ve chosen to dispose of our carcasses.
I commented to my mom that it was nice dad was close to the driveway so we didn’t have to walk too far to freshen up his plastic carnations. We saw peopling wading out to the edges of the cemetery like they were storming Omaha Beach.
I would suggest that this is a huge design flaw.
Most of the name plaques had colorful plastic bouquets in their brass vases, and the overall effect was clean and neat and cheerful. No glowering angels or vandalized headstones.
The Masons had their own section off by themselves, which seemed snooty.
Other than the standing water, I guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing to rot there in the ground next to my parents while my ex-husbands rot someplace else far, far away.
Since it's rather hard to communicate with the deceased we almost have to invoke a kind of out of the body experience to try and make sense of it all, dead that is. The only plus side of visiting cemeteries, or at least those not in a loud city is the sense of quiet all around, quiet enough to hear the breezes or anything else alive. Sometimes that's when is worth visiting a cemetery.
I like the idea. You could maybe sell it to these guys: https://mediocre.com
Regarding the cemetery, aka bury patch, marble orchard, etc. - It does seem archaic, like we're leaving this for future archeologists to ponder over why we chose that as our final attire. My goal is to draw my terminal breath (God I loved "The Life of Brian") the evening before trash day so I can depart in the wheelie bin. Just make sure it's the one for trash, not recyclables!