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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

2002-01-02 ... 1:23 p.m.

Happy Palindrome Year. I think I'm mostly recovered now from playing hostess. Every year we throw a New Year's party I worry that it will be boring, or that we'll run out of liquor or food, or that my friends from separate sections of my life (work, college, other) won't mingle well, or that out of sheer nervousness I'll drink too much and do or say something frightful. But the party was raucous and lively; there were plenty of nibbles (including ever-so-genteel cucumber sandwiches on the shockingly thin bread) and I should have known that LT would never allow booze supplies to run low; it seemed to my untrained eye that there was plenty of socialization going on (it would be hard to avoid this, given the crowded conditions at the party's peak); and as for frightful words or deeds, well, there are some blank spots in my memory but hopefully no lasting damage was done. There were several disposable cameras floating around during the evening, but all were missing the next morning. Very suspicious. However, since I don't plan on running for Congress or anything any photographic evidence of me behaving badly with a bloodstream full of champagne should be relatively harmless. (I've come to rely on his honesty, so until he gives me a contrasting account I'm sticking with my story that the party went well and I didn't drunkenly renounce my citizenship or make a pass at a coworker or dump a bowl of vegetable dip on anyone's head. Still wish I could find that disposable camera, though.)

I stayed in my bathrobe the entire next day, drinking "breakfast beer" and talking with a couple of overnight guests about pornography and how to properly cook zoo animals and literature and Scrabble and hallucinogenic drugs and music theory and methods for escaping from packs of feral dogs. (OK, shut up about the breakfast beer. I know that's one of the CAGE questions. But breakfast beer takes the edge off so nicely, and it's not like I do this every day. So there.) The only serious hangover symptom was a sudden plunge into blackest despair at around 7:30 pm, the proverbial bell jar descending, the tiny dark rats gnawing at my nerve endings, making me feel like a bargain-basement Gustav Mahler. I tried to read myself out of it but nothing appealed, and I couldn't concentrate anyway, so I just stayed very still until it was time to go to bed. But of course late nights and alcohol are not so good for the biorhythms, so sleeping was difficult, and when I finally did manage it I had some very strange dreams: a few that are not mentionable here and something where I was writing ad copy that contained this phrase: "revive tired rectums." REVIVE TIRED RECTUMS! (which anagramizes to Detective Rum Rivers, which sounds to me like a character in some crap mystery novel from the 1980s. But I digress, as usual.)

Browsing during lunch in the used bookstore across the street I noticed this silly title: a 30-day astral projection program. So very American, to not have a lot of time to spend on our shamanic quests. I didn't flip through it at the bookstore, but the Powell's summary suggests that space is devoted to "astral sex," meaning that you astral project and someone else astral projects and your spirits meet and do the humpty hump, if you will, which begs the question of whether your own spirit, after levering out of your own body, could swoop down and mess around with said body: in essence, if you could have sex with yourself, which frankly would be one of the first things I would try during an out-of-body experience, because I am a kinky and narcissistic ho, I guess.

---mimi smartypants


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