There’s a certain horror to writing a “statement of purpose” for grad school applications. Isn’t the fact that I’m applying to MFA writing programs pretty much the entire statement? Why must I clarify that decision? I want to write. Period. My temptation in situations like this is to write something pithy and not take myself too seriously, but come on – who is more self-serious than an MFA writing student? If I manage to get into a program, I’ll have to pick up an affectation just to fit in. Perhaps I’ll start smuggling ferrets in my shirt. Or illegal immigrants. Or speaking in haiku.
Statements of purpose
Suck on so many levels.
No school will want me.
I wrote that in under one minute. Bet you can’t tell because it’s so good. Jealous much?
– a guy passed me on roller blades twice and was talking on his cellphone BOTH times
– someone let their dog take a big shit on the street next to the driver’s door of a sedan – the person who drives that car will have to be paying attention in the morning
– some wind chimes sound magical and relaxing – if they are hanging outside of a scary looking house, however, they seem to be chiming your impending death
– if you are admiring someone’s dog as you walk by, they erroneously assume you are afraid of the dog and say in a condescending voice, “don’t worry – he won’t bite” – no shit, bitch – dogs like me and so do babies
– perhaps it’s the regular rhythm of walking, but I find myself singing stupid songs on my walks
– tonight’s irritation of choice was Zippadeedodah (no, I don’t know how to spell it, but that’s okay ’cause there’s a bluebird on my shoulder) – that’s what I get for watching Fletch Lives last night
My friend Robert is on his way over. When we made plans for the evening, we decided that “8-ish” was a good time to meet. While showering tonight, I started thinking about what the “ish” means as far as time goes. I think “ish” covers 10 minutes before the time and up to 30 minutes after. “Ish” is a nice, loose appointment, but you don’t want to arrive too early or too late because it throws the whole system off.
For the record, he should be arriving just before 8:30 (he called while on his way). If he were to get here after 8:30, that would have required renaming the time to “8:30-ish.” Although, since he’s bringing a bottle of Glenlivet with him, he can pretty much get here whenever he wants. Ish.
XM radio sure has opened my eyes to music I’ve never heard before and probably wouldn’t hear in any other circumstance. For instance, on my way to work this morning, I was treated to P.W.A. by Fifth Ward Boyz. Guess they be some H-town ballers. Anyway, evidently p = pussy, w = weed and a = alcohol. The chorus was, literally, “pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy.” I suppose the band should get some credit for staying on message. I won’t go into what the rest of the song was about. It’s too early to talk about that sort of thing. I can’t even pronounce “lubricant” before noon.
What would you do if you were really hungry and only had one tortilla to eat and as you’re about to chomp down on it you see the face of someone famous in the tortilla? Not famous like Jesus – famous like Walter Matthau. Would you save it or eat it?
“Dog the Bounty Hunter” is on right now (see previous entry). If this is the regular time, that means Tuesdays at 8 central on A&E. This particular episode features the return of “Baby Lisa,” one of Dog’s, like, eight or nine children returning home for a visit after 11 years. He has also been having trouble with his vacuum at the office.
Oooohhh, he just decided to use Baby Lisa (which is what he still calls her, even though she already has a child of her own) as a ploy to get a bail jumper out of the house. Rich. Perhaps the inevitable prayer before they go will protect Baby Lisa from whatever jackass they’re going after.
Oh no! They didn’t pray first. She’s doomed.
I can’t look away. It’s oddly mesmerizing.
Okay, the show “Dog the Bounty Hunter” (it’s on cable, I have no idea what channel) is worth checking out. I don’t dig on reality shows since they aren’t really a representation of reality, considering the fact that people know they’re being filmed and the shows are edited to create story lines, but this show is the exception. I’m pretty sure these people always act just like they do on the show.
If you haven’t seen it, the show features a man named “Dog” who is a bounty hunter in Hawaii. He is overly tanned, wears sleeveless leather outfits, has a long blonde mullet, works out too much and prays to Jesus a lot. He has a titty-dancer-gone-to-seed looking wife, a trenchcoat mafia looking son and a “he’s not really my brother but I call him that” sidekick, all of whom help him get the bad guys.
When getting said bad guys, Dog likes to talk to each of them about Jesus, how they should lay off the crack, that their mothers love them, that if they want to turn their lives around there’s a man up there (God, I guess) who will help them out. I don’t know if it’s because he’s so big or because the cameras are there or because he’s like some zen redneck, but the bad guys really seem to think they’re going to take him up on his advice and make some big changes. I seriously doubt any of them are, but it’s nice to think for a moment they might.
I’ve only caught this show twice, but I’m going to actively look for it this week. There’s something there – I’m just not sure what it is. The apocalypse, maybe? And I didn’t know the show was set in Hawaii until I looked it up on the internet. I’d assumed LA somewhere. Who knew you could be white trash but still afford to live in paradise?
People dressed in furry costumes bother me. Though I hear there’s a whole underground “furry” scene, I’m referring specifically to team mascots. I never really put my finger on why they are so bothersome until this weekend, when I was confronted with one. It gave me the opportunity to think about my almost-phobia while staring it in the face. Kind of.
The face is the first part of the problem. I don’t like not being able to see someone’s eyes. And with a mascot, the head of the person is usually somewhere around the neck of the costume. Yet they nod the furry head and move it around as if it is occupied with something other than air. That ain’t right.
Second part – it’s hot as hell in there. You know it must be really stinky, and it must carry the stink of however many people have worn that costume over the years. There’s no scotch-guarding for that. In the case of the mascot I saw this weekend, that guy or girl (there’s another issue) probably is the lone wearer and is therefore only inhaling his/her own stink, but it’s still nasty.
Third – I don’t understand how a mascot is at all motivating to either the team it is supporting or the fans in the stands. If anything, I’m rooting for that furred monstrosity to fall on the ground and the fake head to fall off, revealing the much smaller real head barely poking out of the neck hole. When that asshole baseball player hit the sausage at the Brewers game a year or two ago, that was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. It didn’t really hurt the woman inside the costume (again, because the real head was feet below the mascot head) (as if sausage has a head), and I think it summed up how many of us feel about this issue.
So, I was at the MFAH opening of the baseball exhibit this weekend, and the Astros mascot was walking around. It’s a RABBIT train engineer. Hmmm, I know when I think of baseball I think of rabbits and trains. Anyway, as if sensing my strong vibes but misreading them, the mascot (Junction Jack – get it – Jack, as in Jack Rabbit? Ha ha ha ha ha) came up behind me and put his/her arm around my shoulder. The group I was with seemed to get a real kick out of the look I gave, which I can approximate as being bulgy eyed, nervous laughter and inward shrinking. It might not have been so horrible if I’d seen the thing coming, but it took me totally by surprise. Freaking furry.
And don’t get me started on clowns…
The only amphetamine I do is coffee. I tend to experience life with a bit of impatience, and I think if I were any more amped up, I would be intolerable. Or, more intolerable. As it is now, I have to hold back in the morning when behind some lumbering jackass who can’t figure out how to drive up a parking garage.
“Is that a space? I think I’ll pull in. Oh, wait, it says RESERVED. Hmm. Maybe this isn’t the spot for me. I’m going to sit here, half in and half out of the space while I think about it. I guess I should probably back up and find another place to park. I don’t want my car to get towed while I’m at work and then have to go to one of those places where they put towed cars. There’s usually a scary looking fat man with a beard working at places like that. I don’t like facial hair. My uncle Bob had facial hair and he was kind of a jerk. Wait, why is that woman getting out of her Miata carrying a bat? Oh my god, I think she’s going to …[dead air].”
I’m trying to become more zen the older I get. You know, put it all in perspective, realize that life is just not that fucking serious and it’s the journey, not the destination and all that. I guess I just don’t like traveling to my destination surrounded by morons.