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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

2002-03-28 ... 1:29 p.m.

My mouth is getting progressively younger. Or something. Because all I want to eat lately is oatmeal with brown sugar (I like it thick and sticky, oh yeah baby), macaroni and cheese, and bananas (the most infantile of fruits). And I'm in a brief musical rut as well: I only want to listen to the OK Computer album or beepy gleepy songs by DAT Politics. And I'm becoming re-obsessed with playing Scrabble on my handheld (must! beat! the computer!), John Ashbery, and imagining a packed dance floor with this guy cutting a rug. He looks so ready for a rave. Go walrus! Go walrus! Get busy!

I am also becoming progressively more colorless, as I am all in black for the third day in a row, even down to the underwear level. Not something you needed to know, but we live in an Information Age.

Everyone knows The Scream, but there is other Munch stuff to look at, you know. I wonder if Edvard would be flattered or freaked out by The Scream's pop-culture popularity. I suspect the latter.

Checks. I think they're trying to be funny and ironic but I am somehow disturbed. It reminds me of Dilbert cartoons and the whole "ha ha we acknowledge how every single day we are sodomized by the economic system!" brand of humor. Maybe I should just lighten up and go back to eating oatmeal.

No, fuck oatmeal. I shall continue with the crankiness. Cintra Wilson has elegantly summed up everything that is gross about competitive gymnastics:

The gymnastics aesthetic looks like it was created by a bunch of dangerously repressed old Quakers: the unlistenable, frantically upbeat, German orchestral power music, the bad leotards, and the strange choreography, whose roots are nowhere to be found in the world of dance----all of this has developed into an absurd display of heroic suffering and contortionism and a mockery of teen femininity. It's something like a neo-Christian peep show, with hardcore ambition being the pornographic element...[T]here is some unwritten law in the universe that says that only virgins can be acceptable gymnastic hopefuls, because once the women start to look more adult and sexualized, the impish scampering and bent-wrist coquettishness starts to look like the over-the-top beckonings of a palsied crack hooker.

I find figure-skating similarly reprehensible, although it's not quite as bad because the women are a bit older (usually) and you can sometimes see a tiny scrap of pleasure on their faces after a routine. In contrast, the stick-figure children who compete seriously in gymnastics are joyless robots: all is grim, grim, grim, and the fake smile fades instantly after sticking the landing, and even the nasty brittle little hugs they give each other after coming off the floor freak me out.

From a 1944 diet book I thrifted recently:

What do the Glamour Girls have that you don't?


"Glamour" is a weird word. And all is weirdness with its etymology!

Here are some more fun etymology pages, although I wish they'd cite their sources. One of these mentions the bar bar bar thing I was struggling with a while back, but again, no citation! That is not helpful! Damn you, OED online subscription, for being so fucking expensive! I just can't justify it.

Dukes of Hazard cave painting.

Elliptical search strategies: I already knew about this song (in fact sometimes in a hyperactive mood I rap the first part, incessantly, until LT begs me to stop), but my continuing obsession with Dr Bunsen Honeydew led me right back to it. Oh it truly is a web, mark my words.


---mimi smartypants is wearing her nuclear boots and her drip-dry gloves.


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