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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

2002-08-20 ... 2:42 p.m.

What do you call a guy with one arm nailed to a wall? Art.

Last night = Le Tigre show. Where I was definitely not the only girl in a shirt and tie. In fact, the Waif Fanciers Club, if there was such a thing, would have done well to attend the Le Tigre show as it was pretty much wall-to-wall cross-dressing bookish puny-armed geekgirls (like me, sadly---I would prefer to think that I could more strenuously resist stereotyping but I am afraid not in this case), girly-girls with kneesocks and sparkly barrettes, and adorable baby butches with lip rings, Bob Dylan pegleg jeans, and attitude. (Swoon.) Plus the usual smattering of emasculated sleepy-eyed hipsters, some of whom seemed a bit befuddled at the huge numbers of women surrounding them. Tables are turned, hmm Bedhead Boys? Not the usual math-rock sausage party, now is it?

Anyway, I had a very good time at the show. I shook my groove thing, admired Kathleen Hanna's cheerleader-flavored dance routines, and smiled really big the whole time. I don't think Le Tigre improves exponentially by being seen live, however. I enjoy those songs just as much when I am spazzing out all alone in my living room with my stereo turned up to neighbor-painful levels.

Is that the revolution, though? All of us spazzing out in our separate living rooms? No! I have an idea. It's a beautiful day here. Quick fast throw together a mix tape of your favorite screamy rock, put on your very strangest hat, and meet me at the park with your boom box. We'll make a spectacle of ourselves.

(Am I completely insane for seriously considering making Screamy Rock Strange Hat Outdoor Dance Party a regular thing? We could film it! Give that Chic-A-Go-Go a run for its money!)

I have been making so many queer little plastic digital videos lately with the queer little plastic digital video camera. I really wish I could post them here but Diaryland doesn't support movies. Maybe I need to get a faker domain solely for showcasing queer little plastic digital movie files. Not that these are Great Art or anything, but there are sincerely weird and maybe you need some more sincerely weird in your life. Maybe.


One of my brassieres, in fact my very favorite, has gone missing. Maybe it got sick of living with me and decided to branch out on its own. Maybe it is now in Tijuana hanging from a skeezy bar ceiling, or sneaking itself into someone else's laundry, or insinuating itself around a stranger's ribcage. It's very mysterious. I've looked everywhere, even in places where a bra is not supposed to be.

A long time ago, in the days before our own washer and dryer, LT went out to the laundromat to do laundry. He is very good at laundry. Laundry is his job the way that paying bills, straightening up the house, and lying on the floor drinking beer are mine. Anyway, when he got back this particular time, I was helping him put away the clean clothes and noticed that the mesh bag with all my brassieres in it was missing. "Where are all my bras?" I asked. They were not with the laundry, they were not left behind in the laundromat, and after a while we ascertained that my bras must have been stolen when LT stepped out of the laundromat to get some coffee.

Instead of saying, "Shit, I don't know what happened" or "Man, that sucks" or "What kind of sick fuck would steal a bag of bras?" or otherwise being sympathetic and indignant about the loss of my underthings, LT became defensive, saying it's not his fault and so on. Which pissed me off, because of course I didn't think you lost my bras ON PURPOSE, but you could at least be on my side about the craptastic-ness of stolen lingerie. And, because of his juvenile attitude and my anger at having to go out and buy all new boob-slings (not my favorite thing to do), we ended up having what was probably our Stupidest Fight Ever. Not that we have a lot to choose from, as I generally do not see the point in arguing about non-life-or-death issues. Most things just don't matter all that much.

(Ooooh, nihilistic Mimi! Nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name.)


1. Dead pigeon

2. pair of smiley face boxer shorts

3. obviously fake prescription for Dexedrine (a real [probably stolen] prescription pad: but the faker had written it for 100-mg capsules [a dosage Dexedrine doesn't even come in] three times a day [a level that would never be prescribed, not even for narcolepsy]. Sorry speed freak, no dice.)

4. empty pint of Bacardi rum

5. a lot of wet, discarded carpet (some people have a very optimistic view of what Chicago sanitation engineers will haul away)

---mimi smartypants tackled you at the 5-yard line.


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