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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


2002-07-31 ... 1:57 p.m.

I think I update this thing too often. I know some people profess to like that about me (me meaning the online me, in this case), but still, I think it's too often. With all this updating, this page might start to lose its specialness. For instance, you love carrot cake and you love oral sex. "Oh," you exclaim. "I wish I could have carrot cake and oral sex every single day!" And then let's say a genie or a shooting star (or any wish-granting avatar of your choice) appeared and bingo,* you wish is granted and you have carrot cake and oral sex every day. You'd like it for a while. But then you'd start to bitch and moan. "Can't I just have one day without carrot cake, with its delicious cream-cheese frosting? Can't I just have one day without oral sex? (There's not normally frosting involved with that, but if things are different in your house, hey, go for it.) See? That's why I think I update too often, all wrapped up in one convenient carrot cake/oral sex Explanatory Package and tied with a ribbon.

*Bullshit bingo! Finally, an excuse to yell out obscenities during interminable meetings! (Uh, Mimi, you do that anyway.) (Right. I forgot.) (And you really have to lay off these imaginary dialogues with imaginary critics.) (Okay.)

I had one of those interminable meetings just yesterday. Part of it was about how to motivate employees. (WITH A LOADED GUN TO THEIR SOFT LITTLE SKULLS! Oh, sorry. Another inappropriate outburst.) Personally, I am often motivated by alcohol. So right after this meeting, with employee motivation fresh on my mind, one of my crew dropped off a difficult project for my review, ahead of schedule and expertly done, and via e-mail I said that I would go out at lunch and buy her a 40-oz of Miller High Life as a reward. She wrote back that she found that to be a charming idea, although I am sure that she assumed I was joking. I'm a woman of my word, so at lunchtime I visited several little bodegas (it is surprisingly difficult to find large single-serving bottles of cheap beer in the River North area. I know it is more or less a tourist mecca but we still have porn stores and transient hotels, so this came as a bit of a shock). Then I attractively packaged the 40 for giving, in a brown paper bag, naturally, and included a gift note that said "If you drink this at work I will have to fire you. But the minute you leave, that cap should come off." And that is why I am the Bestest Boss In The Whole World. At least according to her overjoyed thank-you e-mail.

SCENES FROM DEVON AVENUE

1. You really haven't lived until you've seen an elderly woman in a sari rollerblading. Her granddaughters were on either side of her holding her up, and there was lots of hysterical giggling and yelling in Hindi. It was adorable. Go grandma go!

2. Every morning in the summer there is at least one guy sleeping on a bench. These guys are obviously not homeless. Is it just too darn hot in their apartments? I guess the US doesn't have a grand tradition of sleeping on the roof like in Yemen or parts of India, so maybe the bench is an acceptable alternative.

3. Two stores across the street from each other have been having Sari Wars for a while now: one store advertised ten saris for $100, then the other one countered with ten saris for $90. The first store then changed its sign to read TEN BEAUTIFUL SARIS FOR $100. So they didn't change the price but they did add beauty. A triumph of aesthetics over capitalist competition.

4. It's official: This woman who rides my bus has now been reading Silence Of The Lambs for six months. I first took note of her on January 31, because I am a nosy bitch when it comes to what my fellow commuters are reading. It is not a book that takes six months to read. Amazon tells me that the mass-market paperback version that she is reading is 367 pages. Even assuming she only reads 10 pages a day, she still should have finished it in a little over a month. But no, day in and day out she boards the bus with copy in hand. I can only hope it's some sort of sick obsession and she's reading it over and over and over again.

I'LL HAVE WHAT HE'S HAVING

Baudelaire on wine (here he is imagining that the wine itself is speaking to him):

I will drop into your chest like a vegetal ambrosia. I will be the grain that regenerates the cruelly plowed furrow. Poetry will be born of our intimate union. A god we shall create together, and we shall soar heavenward like sunbeams, perfumes, butterflies, birds, and all winged things.

Baudelaire on hashish:

At other times, music recites you infinite poems, or places you within frightening or fantastic dramas. Harmony and melody become inextricably linked with the objects around you. Paintings upon the ceiling, even the most mediocre or dismal, take on a startling life of their own. A limpid, enchanting river winds through a field of trembling flowers. Nymphs with gleaming skin gaze at you with immense eyes clearer than water or sky...All philosophical problems are resolved. All of the secrets about which theologians have grappled and which have been the despair of human understanding, now appear transparent and clear.

He's down on hashish in general, though, because it makes you lazy. I think I could handle a little laziness if all philosophical problems were resolved and nymphs with gleaming skin were around.

NEAR-TRAGEDY

The other day I was almost squished by a bus. A #147 decided to run a red light right in front of the library,* nearly squishing me. I had to scramble back to the safety of the curb because he was not stopping. This would have been tragic for three reasons: (1) no more me; (2) no more web journal/blog/whatever this is (although didn't I just say I was going to update less frequently? How about a LOT less frequently?); and (3) the #147 is not the bus I want to be squished by, if I indeed have to be squished by a bus. I had always pictured getting squished by the #11 Lincoln Avenue bus. It's a prime number (the primes being a sort of ineffable thing akin to passing into the next world) and then there's the Lincoln association (The Great Emancipator, emancipating me from life itself!) Anyway, I'm glad I wasn't squished by a bus.

*I found so! many! books! I nearly broke my little puny spaghetti arms trying to get them all home. I am such a library dork and I'm there so often that I even have people I know on staff (a few librarians, one security guard). Maybe I'll cajole them into providing a book-delivery service, for us word-greedy weaklings who want to read everything.

PS: Don't steal from the library.

---mimi smartypants glows like eggshell under a lamp.

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