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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

2002-09-11 ... 7:19 p.m.


Ramen museum.

Yesterday I had a haircut, with a new person at a new haircut place. Louis was very quiet and understated, which I liked since I was not feeling particularly chatty. It was a nice contrast to my last TWO haircut guys, both of whom were extremely chatty and huge Madonna freaks. I am not all that good at small talk anyway, and I especially am not good at small talk about Madonna, because what the fuck is there to say?


She Just Won't Go Away.

She's From Detroit And Now She Suddenly Thinks She's British.

The Subject Of Entirely Too Many Essays By Grad-School Wankers About Stereotype Transgression And Sexual Politics, Which Quite Conveniently End Up Parroting Exactly The Things That Madonna's Marketing People Want You To Think.

Not So Much A Gender Outlaw As A Carefully Marketed Singing Fuckdoll.

Thus, a haircut with the taciturn Louis was a relief. He got briefly animated when somehow the subject of home décor came up, so we talked about replacing fixtures and bathroom tile for a little bit, then he suddenly got all serious again and admonished me, "With hair like yours, you should leave it at this length. Too much longer or shorter and we have problems." I want to be considered a good, agreeable client so I just nodded, although I was and am kind of curious about what "hair like mine" is and what sort of "problems" "we" might have with a different length. Big problems? Life-threatening problems?

I was all mopey briefly today. I felt pointless, like a film about the making of a film, playing on a muted television in an empty room. And then I got majorly cheered up by a power nap, some applesauce, and checking this site's stats. Excellent referrals today.

How not to masturbate. Now there's a switch. (I think the searcher means "how to keep from masturbating," but it amuses me to think he or she means "ways in which not to masturbate." Don't masturbate with an eggbeater, don't masturbate with the vacuum cleaner, don't masturbate at the throttle of a speeding locomotive.

Mimi Smartypants Catholic schoolgirl. Aww. You twisted little monkey-spanker, you.

How I currently use my time. You make Google searches! Just like me!

Accumulation of feces. I'm not even going to try and comment on this one.


Good calendar for experimental noisy concerts.

The Chicago Plumbing Code is a weblog all about plumbing.

Today I had an appointment in Evanston, and although I will admit to being somewhat snobbish about Chicago vs. the surrounding areas, there is something kind of neat about Evanston. There are restaurants and bookstores and lots of public transit so you don't need a car. A lot of it looks like a less-trendy Wicker Park, even. The houses have a lot of character. There is a huge library. There is a lot of greenspace.* There are even bad neighborhoods. If Evanston would just do something about their stupid draconian liquor laws, I think I could hack living there, if someone put a gun to my head and said "Choose a suburb, now!"

*A lot of greenspace but a curious lack of hanging out. I was early for my appointment and there was a park right down the street so I grabbed a bench and read my book on it for a while, and felt kind of conspicuous and weird doing it. In contrast, Chicago is lacking in greenspace (there's parks all up and down the lake, but there is a lot more city than just the lakefront) and yet hanging out is like our municipal sport, 24-7 in nice weather.

Apparently this was forwarded all over the place but I had never seen it before. I feel like I have been allowed a peek into the clean bright empty wasteland of a Lincoln Park Trixie's inner life, and folks, it isn't pretty. I need to go wash my hands now.


I edited an article recently about eye injuries caused by air bags, and one of the things discussed was that the Transportation Safety Board might eventually recommend some sort of "protective eyewear" for use while driving. Goggles! For driving! Can I go totally Jazz Age and get a leather helmet, too? And a long silk scarf, for perfecting the Isadora Duncan thing.

For soothing, monotonous, bleepy background, I recommend I Am Robot and Proud.

What? A Dave Barry column that's actually funny? Somebody alert the media. (Oh wait, somebody has.)

I liked Homo Zapiens, the new Pelevin novel, but not everyone did. (He's right about the fact that there are no women in the book, but that somehow seems more allowable in hallucinatory speculative fables like this one.)


Oh wait. I'm not doing it right. I think there is supposed to be a poignant essay here about the 9/11 anniversary. My workplace had a huge remembrance ceremony outside but I don't "Remember and Reflect," or whatever the soundbite-friendly phrase-of-the-minute is, in a group setting, thanks anyway. I hate to sound like a cranky old leftist but the media frenzy over (and build-up to---it started like two weeks ago) this anniversary is really nauseating. As if we couldn't remember such a horrible event without it being packaged and sloganed and spun to within an inch of its life. I'd like to invite all the fuckwitted network executives who manufactured all this slick nonsense to a dinner party at my house, whereupon I will serve a Casserole of Dignity, and encourage them all to try a bite.

---mimi smartypants called your house but hung up before you answered.


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