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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

2003-02-20 ... 9:14 p.m.


by mimi the eavesdropper

1. "She had a couple of gallery shows here, and now I think she's either in Texas or Iran."

2. [into cell phone] "Fuck that. Fuck that. No fucking way. That motherfucker. He can go fuck himself. [pause] Hey, let me call you back."

3. "Whose chicken is this?"

4. [also into cell phone] "I think he may have an drug problem. Huh? [pause] I don't know. I mean, he goes to class high every day. Is that a problem? [pause] Mom! Shut up! He's not like a bum or anything."

5. "The girls on there are sluts! Slut slut slutty slut sluts! Sending total strangers naked pictures of yourself is not the way to make quality friendships! 'Slut' is a mean thing to say but I donít know what else to call it!"


I have already complained once about this today but it needs to be shared with the wider world. This Is A Public Service Message---Please don't fuck with people in the morning when they are majorly blood-sugar-crashing and need food. I get to work, work for a while, then realize I am starving to death, and start to heat up some water for instant oatmeal. Then I get an e-mail with the subject line: "Come to my office for birthday treats!" Hooray! I think. I am saved! Since I am seriously shaky and mumbly and lightheaded, oatmeal would be the more stable and level-headed nutritional choice, but who can resist the spike in goofiness that would accompany eating a gooey brownie or icing-covered donut with a cup of tea? Certainly not me. So I open the e-mail to get the full story. It says, and I quote: "I brought treats for my birthday! Fruit leather and apple scones. Come on by!" Uh. Sure. Be right there. Not that I am totally anti-scone, but fruit leather seriously stretches the definition of "treat," and since I had irrationally gotten my blood-sugar hopes up I was crabby and wanted to reply BITCH MAKE WITH THE CHOCOLATEY GOODNESS BEFORE I BUST A CAP IN YOUR BIRTHDAY-GIRL ASS. But I refrained.

When it was almost time to go home I went to open an envelope and managed to slice the edge deep into my cuticle. Paper-related injuries are not uncommon in my line of work, but this was rather spectacular, like a vampire movie in my office. I bled through two band-aids and had to hit up my boss for a third, I left bloody kleenexes in my trash can for the cleaning staff to wonder about, and as I was flailing around trying to get the first soaked band-aid off I managed to get blood on both wrists and on my keyboard, but luckily none on my clothes, so I do not have to spend this evening testing the pre-treating power of Tide or anything. The finger is now relatively stable, but I still have the band-aid on just in case, which makes typing a little weird. The injured finger is responsible for j, u, h, n, y, and m. *a*be I s*o*ld tr* *ot to *se t*ose letters. No, I need all the letters. I will suck it up and play through the pain.

Then a crazy fat man sat next to me on the bus and muttered a lot. I wondered about the etiquette of asking him to be quiet. I did not. His muttering topics seemed to be mostly about sin and whores and Babylon, so I tried to think a lot of lusty, sinful thoughts just in case he could telepathically pick up on them, because I think everyone should have their world-view validated once in a while, even the delusional.


Have you seen the posters for this depressing-looking kangaroo movie? Am I nuts or does the kangaroo totally look like Joe Camel? Warner Brothers/RJ Reynolds connection or just a brown-mammal-with-pronounced-proboscis coincidence?

Mentioned because I find it amusing: LT and I budget for cases of good wine. Even though we are vaguely trying to be thrifty lately. Having wine around is non-negotiable. Last night LT went downstairs to our apartment's storage room (aka fake makeshift wine cellar, also where suitcases, dangerous tools, and other detritus are kept) to fetch some wine for me, and came back upstairs a bit ashen and shook up with the report that we only have a few bottles left of our favorites. So today he is ordering a case. Whew.

I have lived in Chicago long enough to remember tokens instead of farecards. Actually I remember them from New York visits too---did they switch to farecards in 1999? Somewhere around there. What did cities do with all the old tokens? Are there boxes and boxes of tiny tokens sitting in a CTA warehouse somewhere? Can I have them? (I love anything small in multiples---one of my favorite toys as a child was a box of poker chips.) If I could have all the old tokens, you and I could make token mosaics. We could glue the tokens together in stacks to make a child-sized version of that "punch someone with a roll of quarters in your fist" makeshift weapon. We could illegally climb up a fire escape on a Saturday night, somewhere around the DePaul-area Asshole Ground Zero (the intersection where Lincoln, Fullerton, and Halsted come together) and throw tokens at the GapClone guys and the girls with fancy haircuts.* Huh, CTA? Please tell me you did not throw away the old tokens or recycle them for scrap.

*Similar to Hipster Ground Zero (Milwaukee/North/Damen), which is the exact same thing on Saturday nights only with dozens of guys in identical facial hair and thrift-store corduroys and girls with fancy haircuts. MIMI SMARTYPANTS IS AN EQUAL-OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYER WHEN IT COMES TO PISSING ALL OVER THE CONCEPT OF FASHION FASCISM. Thank you.


1. The more I read about China, the more I think that there could not possibly be another country on this planet as ready for punk rock to explode. Widening gap between rich and poor, sweeping economic reforms that shatter the older generation's way of life while leaving the younger generation flailing around for something to do, massive unemployment---superficially, it all sounds a lot like Great Britain in the 1970s. Chinese punk rock is going to get huge. Thus I spake.

2. Chinese, perhaps apocryphally, has a saying that age forty is when a person finally "stops being bewildered." I have quite a ways to go before I can stop being bewildered, but doesn't that sound lovely?


The Extremely Sexually Charged World of Richie Rich comics.

---mimi smartypants toils in the fields.


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