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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

2003-03-11 ... 5:43 a.m.

I sort of can't stop listening to Cocteau Twins. It is high school all over again in my office. Cocteau Twins make me want to ingest odd combinations of nonprescription drugs: their brand of shoop-snick-swirly swirliness is an auditory Robitussin high. Or maybe this urge is mentally connected to the high-school vibe. And of course "Pitch the Baby" is a major makeout song, so here I am, sitting in my grown-up office, regressing with every track of the CD.

Schizophrenic weather here in Chicago. Well, actually, that's a metaphorically lazy way of saying that the weather is very changeable: nice on Saturday afternoon, freezing Saturday night, Super Super Freezing today but the weather wonks are predicting Super Super Nice (in the Fahrenheit forties) by the weekend. Maybe it is not so metaphorically lazy of me after all, come to think of it. Most schizophrenia symptoms boil down to an absence of organization (of thoughts, of speech, of behavior, of emotions), and Chicago's crazy weather is certainly not progressing through 2003 in an orderly fashion. Maybe what I should do is stop overanalyzing everything I say for flaws and inaccuracies. Maybe I'll just hum a little tune and stare out the window for a while.



Friday night LT and I had people over for yet another round of Homemade Pizza With The Good Stuff. This is becoming a cliché with us, but it is such a fun way to entertain and so delicious that we just can't stop ourselves. Saturday I took my mom out for her birthday. She wanted to go to a Polish restaurant for pierogi, which is not really a problem in Chicago (more Polish-speaking people here than any place on earth except Warsaw, and that is a fact). My usual pierogi stop, Andrezj Grill, didn't seem quite appropriate for a birthday-having mom; it's good but dingy, and the owners have a strange habit of closing up shop for no reason so it's always a risk to go down there, even if you do call first, so we took a chance on Angelica's and OH MAN. Aorta-cloggingly good. I had to take a huge nap afterwards, and I dreamed something about giant balloons shaped like zoo animals. I was trying to package these up and FedEx them somewhere and it wasn't working too well.


Saturday night R. threw herself a birthday party at Lincoln Tap Room. This is not a bar I normally go to but it is more or less okay, except that (a) it is only half a block away from Delilah's, and the love in my heart for Delilah's is so strong that I felt like a traitor being so close and yet not visiting; (b) it is kind of weirdly expensive in some ways ($2.50 Goose Island, okay, that works, but $2.25 for PABST? Dude. Try again); and (c) although the crowd was not too intolerably Lincoln Park, there still was a healthy contingent of ass-panted girls with tiny purses and pointy shoes, and a distinct whiff of testosterone and desperation from the men in the room. The only irritant of the male persuasion, however, turned out to be this skinny British guy carrying around a huge artificial banana tree leaf. On the way to the bathroom I decided to ask him what the hell was up with his big leaf, and he started feeding me some line of bullshit about how "eventually you will come around to the Way of the Leaf" and "the Leaf is all about peace and love," and remember when you were in high school and you and your dork friends would invent some fake cult or make matching buttons and then write cutesy weird-for-the-sake-of-weird manifestos about it? BUT YOU OUTGREW IT.



Some Goldstar action last night with Kat. I was careful to load way up on water and popcorn as well as beer, because I have to interview someone today. In fact I have to interview people all week, and it does not do to have your first impression of your future boss be that she seems to have tried to outparty Robert Downey Jr. in the recent past. While I waited for Kat at the bar, reading this occasionally-groovy, occasionally-puzzling book about what makes a thing a thing, some pool-playing guys inquired of the bartender what the "DOES NOT WORK 100% EXACTLY" sign meant on the jukebox. "Well, it sometimes skips every third song," he said, "and sometimes it won't play anything but that first Pretenders album." They wisely decided not to risk their quarters.

At a reasonable hour I hailed a taxi and headed home to eat a frozen burrito (well, I microwaved it first) and watch some program on spree killers with LT. Spreeeeeee! Killing! It is always a spree. Never a murder romp or a killing jaunt. Fitful sleep where I mostly dreamed about the war. My dream was narrated by the Frontline guy. It seemed like the war was mostly being fought in the US, out behind the nation's malls. At one point I got trapped on the battlefield, in front of a fast-moving tank, and I remember being all impressed with how big it was and how fast it could move. When the action got heavy I would go inside the mall, which was still open for business and had all these soldiers also chilling out from the battlefield and dressing their wounds, which included lots of missing fingers. I stop to watch some television news at an electronics store and NBC has some anchor I don't recognize, but in the background is Tom Brokaw tied up in skintight PVC and a ball gag.


---mimi smartypants' Liege went to the Crusades and alle she got was this lousy Tunic.


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