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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

2002-09-08 ... 8:59 p.m.


Statistically average band names.

Fake author weblogs. Martin Amis is sick of being British.

Article about melody and repetition in the oeuvre of Queen. When I lived in Bahrain I drove a tiny little Toyota with a tape deck and, for a while, only one tape. That tape was some cheesy compilation of all this 1970s arena rock, and Bohemian Rhapsody was on there, and LT and I would go for long drives in the desert (because there wasn't much else to do) and that tape would play over and over and over again. We always said "we should get another tape" but after a while it seemed totally normal, as if Bohemian Rhapsody was just a noise that the car made.

Not terribly surprising:

take the death quiz.

If you went to a small liberal arts college, I am certain that you know at least one or two hasbians.

I am mostly set up with my new computer and desk. (Well, it's not really a new computer, more like one that LT pulled from the Stack Of Old Computers that he is steadily building in the office.) I need a lamp though. It's pretty dark in my little corner and I am slowly going blind anyway, which is not surprising considering how I read all the way to work, I read all day for my job, I read all the way home, and I read in the evenings for fun. Pa? Are you there Pa? (Perhaps Mary Ingalls references, no matter how much they may crack me up, are too subtle for online diaries.) (Perhaps I will continue to wreck any textual authority my stupid diary may possibly have had by continuing to call attention to my failed narrative strategies.) (Yes, but perhaps a desperate chain-smoking graduate student will someday write a thesis on my self-sabotage of authorial intent.) (Perhaps. But not bloody likely.)

Also, my new mouse has a scrolling button! I have never used one before (shut up, I'm behind the times but we already knew that) and now I am totally in love with the scrolling button. Whee! Scrolling! I scroll with the punches! Rock and scroll! Everybody line up for scroll call! Scroll your own, dude!

Sorry. See, this is your brain on drugs. Leave the green tea alone, kids. It's dangerous stuff.

Last night LT and I went out to Carol's Pub. LT was in a self-described "Hank Williams mood," which I took to mean that he was in a mood to down a fifth of whiskey and several shots of morphine and then have a massive coronary in the backseat of a 1952 Cadillac on his way to a gig in Ohio. Instead, though, we just had way too much Old Style and enjoyed the live band until the wee hours. The waitresses at Carol's are frighteningly swift and attentive with the table service, which means it's somewhat difficult to judge your consumption except during bathroom breaks or attempts to two-step to some Patsy Cline.

Other points in last night's favor:

1. The bar is open until 5 am on Saturdays. Sweet! What a boon for us drunken insomniacs!

2. You will see some truly amazing people, like a guy with THE WORST HAIR I had ever seen in my entire life. Okay. It's going to take some effort and some marshalling of my powers of description to do written justice to this hair, but I'm going to try. Think completely bald on top except for some wispy bits way in the back. Add the saddest littlest scraped-together scraggly ponytail you ever saw, gathered together and hanging there like a wet bunch of parsley. Add the following attributes: gray, greasy, and dandruffy. How are you doing? Because we are not done. Oh no. Now, think about the sides of this man's hair, and mentally shave some LIGHTNING BOLTS into the skull.

[I can't go on. It's just too horrible.]

I can only hope that this man was abducted by aliens who gave him that horrible hairstyle, or that he had serious gambling debts and instead of breaking his kneecaps with a tire iron the Mafia just decided to make him look like a fucking idiot. Please don't let it have happened on purpose.

3. The most inexplicable decoration in the bar, which was a huge painting of Poppin' Fresh except with a black hat. I have never seen Poppin' Fresh wear a black hat before. What's with the black hat, Poppin'? Can I call you Poppin'? Are you some kind of anarchist now?

Today I was a bit shaky at first but recovered more or less fully during brunch at the Chicago Diner (mmm, tofu scramble) and a lot of serious lying on the couch watching my Bears win. (Reason number a million why I love TiVo: football games only take an hour or so without all the commercials and halftime garbage.) Unfortunately I have developed a new verbal tic relating to football-watching, though: every time I hear the name "R.W. McQuarters" I have to add "loved by children everywhere," because doesn't his name sound like that of some wacky cuddly cartoon character? R.W. McQuarters and H.R. Puffinstuff, checking in at the Gigglesnort Hotel for a wild and well-lubricated night of wacky cuddly cartoon freaky love action. Oh wait, that's a different scenario entirely. (RW, please don't sue me. You are a very talented cornerback who would never have sex with a cartoon character. You know how I get when I'm on the green tea, I didn't mean anything by it. Thanks.)

---mimi smartypants, yes indeed.


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