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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


2000-10-11 ... 13:07:32

I love living in the city. I love public transit. I ask very little of public transit. I ask that men not masturbate or show me their packages (see earlier entries). I ask that if people absolutely feel that they must spit, they at least do so on the floor and not on the bus seats. But really, that’s about it.

This sounds like it’s shaping up to be another Mimi Smartypants rant, but joke’s on you! The point is that I love public transit so much I don’t even require it to get me places efficiently or quickly. Sometimes I just like to sit my ass down, look out the window, and observe. Yesterday, after my haircut (more on that later), I decided not to take the quick efficient El but rather get home via the Lincoln Avenue bus, which meanders all the way from Lincoln Park to Devon and Kedzie, and passes much interesting urban scenery. I saw a great place of business, The National Dinette Company, which advertises “Custom Nooks.” (That just sounds so dirty! Oh baby, customize my nook!) I saw many many laundromats. Laundromats are great. They have signs with words like “Wascomat” and “Speed Queen” in the window. And I saw some bowling alleys, which have signs with words like “Brunswick” in the window. I love Lincoln Avenue, I love public transit, and I love words.

I’ve always wanted to start at one end of a street and just walk its length, ideally drinkng in bars along the way. Lincoln Avenue might be good for that, although there would be a few long ugly stretches with no bars to save you. It has a lot of bar/package store combos: where the serious drinkers go. They open at 7 am, close at 2 am, and you can pick up a six-pack to tide you over for those 5 hours in between.

Ah. The haircut. Nothing drastic, actually. I had gone in for a trim of my all-one-length brown crowning glory (um, whatever) and the Lincoln Park-Trixie stylist talked me into cutting in some long layers. Layers! I screamed. I came of age in the 80s, so the word “layers” always brings back frightening memories of Farrah Fawcett and “feathering” ones hair. (Which, miraculously, I managed to grow up without ever doing. Although I did have that dreadful asymmetric shaved-on-one-side haircut at one point, as well as that “mushroom head” look with the shaved neck and the chopped off line in the back.) Anyway, after multiple promises that the layers would not result in some sort of Charlie’s Angels nightmare, I said okay. And you know what? It’s not bad. I think the best part is that my hair looks decent now even when it’s messed up, which is impossible with the all-one-length thing.

Good god. Now I’m blathering about hair. This journal’s IQ rating just plummeted, while it’s score on the “Self-Involved-O-Meter” went way up. My apologies. I’ll try not to talk about my hair anymore, unless I set it on fire or something. That would be worth reporting.

---mimi “can I be the 4th Powerpuff Girl?” smartypants

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