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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
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Very windy today and this office must be engineered to sway in the wind because I can hear lots of creaking. It gives a tall-ships nautical feel to the workday. I think a dose of intra-office piracy would add a nice touch: the ransacking of other cubicles, the planting of flags, the absconding with small-potatoes booty such as boxes of staples. And, of course, eyelessness, missing limbs, grog, scurvy, sodomy. Since it is mostly chicks who are in positions of power in my office, I think I get to be head pirate, with a few co-pirates, and I am currently accepting applications for cabin boy, apply in person between 2 and 4 pm. (I was going to say something like "bring your own plank," just to sneak another pirate reference in there, but then I thought it might be misinterpreted as a sexual innuendo, which I did not mean it to be, but the more I look at that sentence the more I am starting to enjoy it, so hell. Bring your own plank.) (Now do you believe me when I say these entries are not edited?) I read somewhere that the best thing that can possibly happen to a small independent business is, paradoxically, to set up shop next door to a corporate chain behemoth.* A little bookstore next to a Borders, a tiny coffee shop next to a Starbucks. The reasoning is that people will patronize the independent much more vigorously, because they cannot in good conscience walk into the Starbucks when the alternative is staring them in the face, or because they are FASHION-REBELS and want to conspicuously be seen rejecting the chain place, or because they have loads of local pride, whatever, who cares, the ends justify the means. I saw this phenomenon in action recently, only this time the mountain came to Mohammed: the White Hen near my favorite baked-potato place recently moved across the street, right next door to a non-franchise, hole-in-the-wall, rather smelly bodega, where I always stop after acquiring the potato to get a bottle of water or container of soda, and I have seen a definite increase in traffic there. Go Smelly Bodega! We appreciate your smelliness! To us, it smells like adventure! *I was really hoping that was the first use of the word "behemoth" on this page, and then we could have a Big Fun Behemoth First-Mention Party, with behemoth games and behemoth favors and a behemoth cake and just all behemoth all the time, and we could all get drunk and end up out in the backyard screaming BEHEMOTH! at each other, but it looks like I have already used the word, in the context of feeling sorry for The Thing. All roads lead back to the Fantastic Four, yes they do. MORE BEHEMOTH Unintentionally funny black metal band named Behemoth. Oh, you are terrifying. Oh help. Oh oh oh. Sadly, this article titled "Building a Behemoth" includes no actual monster-assembly instructions.
"The sinews of his thighs are knit together." MAYBE YOU SHOULD TAKE IT EASY WITH THAT GIANT PEANUT
Whenever LT and I go grocery shopping, we LOVE to look for this in the cereal aisle:  Peanut butter squirrel! He is either deep in the grip of amphetamine psychosis or just about to go into total anaphylactic shock, as evidenced by his nearly-swollen-shut eye, and every time we see it we just stand there in the aisle giggling and making our best crazed-squirrel noises at each other (sort of a throaty "aaaaaaauuugggggahhhhhhck") until a suspicious stockboy draws near and it is time to move on.
I'D LIKE TO TEACH THE WORLD TO SHRIEK IN PERFECT AGONY Yesterday I made an attempt to purchase clothing, and the experience more or less made me want to kill myself, preferably in some angry violent theatrical way. You wouldn't think that trying on capri pants could cause such rage and loathing but TRUST ME. I had not been shopping in SO LONG and now I REMEMBER WHY. BECAUSE IT SUCKS. I decided to turn my loathing outward (much healthier), so on the train I fantasized about fashion-terrorist performance-art protest actions like FedExing a decomposing steak, studded all over with sequins, to Anna Wintour; or better yet, going back in time and somehow stopping fashion magazines and the entire ready-to-wear industry from ever getting off the ground; or even going WAY back in time, to when people were just starting to not be so hairy and starting to put on skins and pelts and loincloths and such, and using a large rock to bash in the skull of the first human to wear a slightly-more-form-fitting pelt or to decorate his loincloth somehow, because you know that is the guy who started us on this tortuous road toward thinking that clothing somehow matters. Why can't I live in the distant future where everyone wears the same lovely comfy jumpsuits in sensible sturdy fabrics and good colors? Or maybe by that time we will have discovered Pajama Planet and I can just go live there. Then I met up with S. for beer and we decided that having the body-image blues is dramatically worse for girls like me and her and, presumably, you, because we are all Bitch and Sassy and Janeane Garofolo and Beauty Myth and Kathleen Hanna, and it is so very Not Punk Rock to have the body-image blues, so then besides feeling like we are hideously deformed we also have to have this extra layer of guilt and shame and not-punk-rockness on top of everything. I am not saying that life is necessarily easier for the non-self-aware, not-so-terribly-cursed-with-a-sense-of-irony, vapid shallow fashion girls. Except that I think maybe I am. I suppose my consciousness is embodied whether I like it or not, so I will continue to wear clothing, take showers, practice yoga, receive lovin' in my oven, all that good stuff. But please, discover and colonize Pajama Planet already. What the hell is this? Have I been hacked? One more thing. I am aware that, when I make my next statement, I will sound either like Scarlett O'Hara (fiddle-dee-dee, war, war, war) or an elderly music snob (electronic self-mocking Haircut Rock needed to die back when Sigue Sigue Sputnik tried it, you art-school-dropout no-talent brats). Also, by saying it, I am probably forfeiting my rights as both a citizen of the globe and a reader of online music reviews. However, I could use just one freaking week without hearing about Iraq or Fischerspooner. Thanks. ---mimi smartypants takes some getting used to. back/forward |
