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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


2002-09-17 ... 5:48 a.m.

EXCUSES, EXCUSES

I have trouble with a lot of things at the beginning of the week. I have trouble with gross motor coordination, with simple addition, with remembering why it's at all important that I get to work on time, and with trying not to feel all mopey like a sad neglected muffin growing stale on the bakery shelf. (The title of my mopey muffin memoir: I Am Lemon Poppyseed by Mimi Smartypants.) The easy way out is to talk about my weekend, but I'm so goddamn boring that there's not much to talk about. Friday I went out for "a few" (by which I mean many) drinks with Kat, and we ruled the jukebox with all our semi-ironic nostalgia tunes. Topics of conversation included the somewhat irrational hatred we feel for Mr. Michael Jackson (this, while unrelentingly clever and true, only scratches the surface of Mr. Jackson's craziness. I am looking forward to his death so we all can get a twisted morbid thrill as we find out exactly how much of his body is fake [okay let the hate mail begin]); how difficult it is to find genuine unmediated spiritual experiences; how the only song that we really want to strip to onstage is "Back in Black"; irritating pseudo-feminism; and group dynamics (the more people you get together in a room, the less likely it is that anything will actually get done, and working for a living is a rather strange way to discover this lingering hierarchical attitude inside you [eg, I like to rock like I am an egalitarian but on the other hand I want the stupid people to just shut up.) Then we went to a different bar, had more drinks, and I lost a few more arm-wrestling matches.* See? I AM SO PREDICTABLE. I think I need a hobby. Either that or I need not to think so much, and to learn how to be satisfied with the world. I am thinking things and yet I have not much desire to communicate them.

*Why are there so few female arm-wrestling combatants? Come on, ladies! Look at me and my muppetlike spaghetti arms! I can do you no harm!

Sunday I went to see Mates of State at the Fireside Bowl, and that was pretty gentle and pleasant. I like the fact that they keep their songs short, because we all know how easy it is to meander all over the place when you are playing something as cool and improvisation-worthy as an organ (American Analog Set, I'm looking in your direction. Although word on the street is you've changed your ways.)

EXTRANEOUS AMERICAN FOOTBALL COMMENT

I would just like to say that although prevention of injuries is a lofty goal, the NFL needs to lighten up with this "personal foul" bullshit. There are way too many of these calls, and half of these guys are getting penalized for simply playing football. And "taunting"? Not even a little taunting? There's a limit to how much sportsmanlike conduct I can take.

IN WHICH I MAKE A TRULY EXTRANEOUS OBSERVATION SOLEY TO GIVE A NEW FIGURE OF SPEECH A WHIRL

Have you ever had a dark chocolate orange? They are pretty tasty, I tell you what.

This weekend has been one for the classic anxiety dreams. This shit is so cliché and textbook Freud and boring. Like the "no pants math class" dream.

ANXIETY DREAM #1: I have a baby. I wasn't expecting it, it just showed up at my house one day. A girl, around crawling age, in nothing but a t-shirt and diaper. I don't have anything: no baby furniture, no toys, no formula. I put the baby in a cardboard box to sleep, and to entertain her I sit her on a cookie sheet and drag the cookie sheet around the room. I keep forgetting I have this baby and I run out to do errands and leave her alone in the house, and then I feel terrible. One time I come back to find she has escaped the cardboard box and is eating tortilla chip crumbs off the floor.

ANXIETY DREAM #2: I am at that conference that I am trying to organize, and I keep missing sessions and forgetting when I'm supposed to speak. They won't let me register without six forms of photo ID. I get to my hotel room and there is a complimentary fruit basket and I am very suspicious of it and insist it be moved outside. LT is with me and he is wearing Spongebob Squarepants sunglasses.

MORE ANXIETY BUT IN AN ILL-DEFINED WAY: I am much more disturbed than I should be by the Subway commercial for a nasty-sounding "Mediterranean" chicken sandwich. The one where the guy turns into some sort of Greek dancing man. His outfit is really more Turkish than Greek but I guess the Subway people are not interested in getting too specific. That's not precisely what bothers me, though. I can't put my finger on it but I get a bad feeling in the back of my throat when I see it, even just on TiVo's fast forward, and sometimes in my dreams I see a glimpse of this commercial and get scared for no reason.

PROBABLY NOT ANXIETY AT ALL: A not-very-well-remembered dream that is pretty much exactly like Little Women, except with lots of helicopters. Also one in which I am buying beer and notice that Jim Beam is now making their own brand of diarrhea medicine. What the hell?

LINKS

The festival of one-person bands and solo noise acts sounds like a lovely idea. Includes a human beatbox contest and a brunch featuring loud grating sounds.

Rock paper scissors propaganda posters. Beautiful. Compelling.

A Fairly Simple Way To Get Rid Of A Roommate (Not Personally Tested By Me)

Pee everywhere. Everywhere. Get yourself some giant Big Gulps of Mountain Dew and pee all over the apartment floor. Make sure you hit every corner. Your roommate will come home and say, "What the fuck, why does the apartment reek of urine?" Say, "Oh, that was me. I peed everywhere. Sorry dude, I'll clean it up." Clean it up. Never mention it again. Your roommate will be very freaked out and will most likely move at the first opportunity.

WAYS IN WHICH I AM LIKE EITHER AN ELDERLY PERSON OR A TINY CHILD

1. Sometimes, when I am hanging out reading or watching television, I will have my hand down my pants. I'm not doing anything, mind you. It just feels right.

2. I take naps. In fact, I NEED to take a nap on Sundays or I start to get cranky and whiny.

3. I get in food ruts: for days at a time I will only want to eat candy or oatmeal or tofu hot dogs or grapes or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or oshinko maki.

4. Sometimes people don't understand what I say. I don't know if I slur my words, have an actual speech impediment, or just talk fast.

5. I almost always use two hands when drinking hot beverages.

6. I repeatedly implore my friends to go play bingo with me. (So far, no takers.) Doesn't that sound like fun? BINGO! Coffee and doughnuts! Fabulous prizes! So much better than that lame-o karaoke all the kids are into nowdays.

WAYS IN WHICH I AM LIKE A BRUSSELS SPROUT

1. I am green.

2. I am an acquired taste.

3. I am closely related to broccoli and cauliflower.

4. I am susceptible to mineral deficiencies.

5. I am good with lemon.

6. I am tightly closed, but will open yieldingly with a little gentle steaming.

---mimi smartypants is a fast machine and also keeps her motor clean.

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