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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04


2003-03-14 ... 2:50 p.m.

There are many reasons why I have trouble keeping myself informed about this upcoming war with Iraq. One of them is that I am so turned off by the commentary on both sides, the dumbing-down of everything into a black-or-white issue (are you "for" the war? are you "against" the war?), and the tired rhetoric that spills from the talking heads. So-called alternative news sources don't seem much better: they preach to the choir and every other weblog I run across seems to have at least one post where the author nearly falls over patting him- or herself on the back for having the courage to protest America's foreign policy. Yeah, that, uh, takes a lot of courage. Especially when everyone in your immediate virtual circle agrees with you and there are twenty-five or so "right on!" comments after your courageous post.

And although I think that Saddam Hussein is a filthy rotten dictator, I don’t enjoy the "let's kick some Iraqi ass" view either. Especially not if we are going to do it all alone, and certainly not if we are going to dither about afterwards and not get going on the ground to help install a better replacement government, and then be in there for the long haul with real, non-paternalistic support.

[/half-assed political commentary]

I am eating The Salad right now. The Salad has sun-dried tomatoes, spinach, and goat cheese and is from Nordstrom Café, and it is such a favorite of mine that even though I am eating it all alone in my office I just now exclaimed out loud "I WISH THE WHOLE WORLD COULD BE SUN-DRIED AND GOATY!" The Salad takes over your brain and all you can think about is how good The Salad is. My mom wants me to dress better so she gave me a Nordstrom gift card for Christmas, and she would kick my sun-dried ass if she goat cheesed that all I have purchased so far with the spinach card is salad and black tights. Maybe if Nordstrom had a sex-toy section. Or a bar.

SHAMROCK AND SHAMROLL

I think everyone knows by now how much I hate Saint Patrick's day---it is the one day of the year you would not be able to drag me to a bar for love or money. Or even booze. And if this war starts on Saint Patrick's day: hoo boy. Stay out of the bars or risk some flag-waving fuckface breathing Guinness on you. Saint Patrick himself sucks, anyway, because either he drove literal snakes out of Ireland (you and I know that this is bullshit, and that there are no snakes in Ireland owing to the simple fact that it was covered in polar ice for thousands of years), or he drove metaphorical snakes, in the form of Druids and other Pagans, out of Ireland (Druids used some serpent imagery in their rituals, such as the Snake of Wisdom), and either way I think Druids and snakes are cool, and thus I am not down with that Patrick guy.

WHAT KIND OF TREE DO YOU WANT TO BE IN FIVE YEARS?

Almost done interviewing. One more on Monday. I can do this. It is vaguely fascinating to note the different approaches that different people take to interviews. I tend to be a bit more chatty and information-based, asking general questions to try and get a sense of the person, rather than asking the standard interview stuff that is designed to demonstrate what a self-starter or team player or masturbator you are. Two interviews in a row today, and with one person the chatty information thing went splendidly, while the other person froze up and clearly panicked at being forced to drop the pre-written script he had in his head.

MAKE SOME NOISE

I don't usually do this but I am feeling kind of Friday and teenage and Diarylandy, so here is the playlist for today so far:

Green Grass of Tunnel---Mum
Nelson Mass---Joseph Haydn
You're My Disco---Waldorf
Mom's Drunk---The Amps
Fire Alarm---Sahara Hotnights
Gyroscope---Boards of Canada
Quintet, Op. 25, No. 6---Luigi Boccherini
Mbyae---Baaba Maal

EXCESSIVELY DETAILED AND VAGUELY CHRONOLOGICAL

Yesterday lunchtime I had a grilled cheese craving. We have a cafeteria here at work but it tends to poison people. I can name at least one coworker who has decided to keep Imodium at her desk for those occasions when she chances something from the cafeteria. Just in case. Not good.

Also I wanted my grilled cheese on rye, and my office cafeteria must get their bread from some generic ethnophobic bakery because what they call rye bread is Wonder Bread that just is sort of tan. Not a single caraway seed in evidence, not a crust in sight. So I hiked over to Mike's Rainbow Restaurant. The rather sparse description contained in that link says it is frequented by lots of cabdrivers; but that does not even begin to cover it: the entire clientele is cabdrivers. Besides the waitress, who called me "baby," "sweetie," and "honey" so many times that I think we may now be legally married in some progressive Scandinavian countries, I was the only female in the restaurant. It is a fantastic place for people-watching and eavesdropping, and for noticing how many people were eating MAJORLY STRANGE combinations of food. The guy across from me had some iceberg-lettuce salad, a Salisbury-steak-type thing, one eggroll, a glass of milk, and a single pancake on the side, and then his cab number got called over the intercom (yes, they do that) so he got the pancake to go. The elderly cabdrivers to my left shared a huge bowl of matzo-ball soup, and one had a side of hashbrowns and the other one a cup of chili. Maybe if you eat a the same diner every single day the classics like grilled cheese or an omelet start to lose their appeal.

Back at work the inevitable afternoon doldrums and post-grilled-cheese sleepiness was nicely interrupted by a phone call from LT. For reasons too dull and complex to explain here, he was standing by a duck pond and held out his cell phone so I could hear the ducks on my end. It made me laugh.

After work I was walking to a bar (shocking!) near the Chicago/Franklin El station. This is one of those weird El station that has its exit a block away from its entrance, so that there are stairs at Superior and Franklin that are only for exiting, and in fact, just so you don't get confused, there is a STOP! NO ENTRY! sticker on each stair riser. As I walk by I see this artsy-looking hipster dude come out of one of the galleries. I guess noticing your environment, including giant STOP! NO ENTRY! signs, is not part of the artsy hipster dude schtick, because he starts to head up those well-labeled stairs. Helpfully, and with a very pleasant tone, I say, "You can't go up that way," and immediately this guy, still climbing, yells down, "Go to hell." Go to hell? I should go to hell? Oh my goodness. This is rather a strong comment to make to someone who is merely trying to give you a time-saving hint. I finished crossing the street, so that I could have a full view of the stairs, and turned around and watched this guy get to the top, discover that indeed that turnstile only works one way, and start to walk back down the stairs. Then I waved and called out (still helpfully, still with a very pleasant tone), "Have a nice day!"

As I got off the train later some guy was handing out menus for some new Mexican restaurant. I took one because I love reading menus. Then it was like angels were singing and the heavens opened up and the Hand of God came down and started rubbing me in all my happiest private parts, because I realized that the entire Mexican restaurant menu, in order, could be sung to the tune of "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey! NO, SERIOUSLY. IT IS QUITE EERIE. It is like that Emily Dickinson/Gilligan's Island/Yellow Rose of Texas thing. For instance, take that "streetlight people, living just to find emotion" line and substitute "chicken flautas, beef and cheese chimichanga" and you will have just a tiny taste of the magic that I found.

CREEPY BABY

Here come the internet police, since I stole this image. Does it make it any better if I don't tell you where I found it?

This baby gives me chills.

LINKS

Man. My dad never made me a tank.

This is very useful if you have ever wondered how many *blanks* it would take to stretch to the moon.

Way to go, Brandon. Punching women in the face. Throwing urinals at cops. You're a winner.

---mimi smartypants once got busy in a Burger King bathroom.

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