My take on house meeting notes.
The desert artist leads a hard life. While he may dream of verdant landscapes and lush ponds of water lillies, all he sees as he gazes longingly out his window is a bleak and dessicated wasteland, an expanse of sand and cacti, gila monsters and dry river beds.
Such is the case of one Filibert T. Wooseldorf, self-proclaimed desert painter extraordinaire. We meet Mr. Wooseldorf one morning in early March, as he is deep in thought over his breakfast of runny eggs and stale coffee. Mr. Wooseldorf has been without inspiration for several weeks now, having exhausted all the possibilities the bleak landscape of his home could provide. His critically acclaimed set of twelve oil paintings entitled “Dirt at Different Times of Day” sits, unbought, in his garden shed, gathering dust.
“Perhaps,” sighs the pitifully lonely Mr. Wooseldorf to himself, “I should sign up for Loro’s Special Dinner on Friday May 23 from five to ten p.m. — it’s free and both is special and includes dinner.”
Inspired by this new thought, Mr. Wooseldorf quickly stands up from his breakfast table, knocking over his plate of runny eggs in the process.
Yolk covering his thigh, Mr. Wooseldorf thinks — again, to himself — “If only I had some friends! This would make for a most comical picture, the kind I would like to submit to Angela by May 31 to be put in a yearbook, or to submit to Anna for the end of the year slideshow.”
Once again depressed by the cruel hand fate has dealt him, Mr. Wooseldorf stumbles over to his sink to attempt to wash the egg off of his designer chic plaid corderoy capris. “Damnit!” Mr Wooseldorf exclaims to no one in particular as he tries to fit his corpulent leg underneath the faucet “Tiffany was right — these sinks are too small.”
Resigned to the fact that his trousers would never be the same shades of chartreuse and mauve again, Mr. Wooseldorf makes his way toward his bedroom — a room that now serves solely as a receptacle for his clothes collection, Mr. Wooseldorf electing to fall asleep each night as he watches reruns of “Happy Days” on his all-to-ironically named loveseat. Entering the stuffy room, jarringly accented by his electric blue wallpaper, Mr. Wooseldorf drifts back to his high school days, when he was named “Most Likely to Burst into Flame upon Entering his Kitchen One Day.”
“If only I had voted for my own choices for end-of-the-year awards by responding to DHo’s future email,” Mr. Wooseldorf thinks to himself. “But at least my life isn’t a total trainwreck — I haven’t burst into flame now, have I!”
Mr. Wooseldorf chuckles to himself, now in good spirits as he squeezes out of his capris and begins oiling his porcine legs in order to shove them into his 34-waist leather pants.
“Wait!” thinks Mr. Wooseldorf, “I’m invited to the WestFlo barbeque on Friday May 16!” Surely I can meet people there, and how can they not like me — I’m so cultured and chic! Even better, I could go to Spring Faire for dinner tomorrow — even if I didn’t get a ticket, I can get some there (and FloMo’s closed for dinner anyway). Spring Faire is just pretentiously misspelled enough for me to enjoy it, too!”
Overcome with joy over this turn of events, Mr. Wooseldorf begins to do what he always does when he gets excited — get hungry. “I could sure use some delicious biscuits baked by Tiffany,” he thinks to himself, and begins to drag his bloated body back to the kitchen.
Upon entering his kitchen, Mr. Wooseldorf bends greedily over his stove to fish out the biscuits. Unbeknownst to him, however, Mr. Wooseldorf has foolishly left the stovetop burner he used to brew coffee on. His hairsprayed, oiled, and slicked back hair is quickly disheveled as he wiggles around in a vain attempt to reach the lone biscuit in the back corner of the oven. The strands stray near the burner and instantly ignite, soon engulfing the unfortunate Mr. Wooseldorf in billowing flames.
At the all-to-young age of 58, my friends, we lost Mr. Wooseldorf that bleak March morning.
This is why I am writing this email — all to often desert artists suffer similar fates, and as a community we must stop this tragedy! Last year, 78% of all desert-artist deaths were caused by wolverines. But another 13% was caused by fire! Fire, friends! We must unite and together, we can raise awareness of this sad, sad, senseless waste of human life.
Chief Activist and Warmonger on Behalf of Desert Artists for ACLU, NAACP, FBI, and NASA
Please mail all donations to:
United People Against the Combustion of Desert Artists
PO Box 13275
Stanford, CA 94309