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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

2003-09-15 ... 2:57 p.m.

There is just something special about tiny art.

I am trying to squeeze in an entry, no matter how puny and anemic (eat your Wheaties, Entry!), between meetings and phone calls and LEAVING AS SOON AS SMARTYPANTS POSSIBLE to go meet my comrade for beers at Secret Polish Bar. I have not been to this bar in a while, and I think it might miss me. I know I miss it, and the old men falling off their barstools, and the construction crowd with their union stickers on their hardhats and their inexplicable fondness for Budweiser,* and the cracked linoleum, and the too-loud jukebox, and the poster of Kathy Ireland** in a green bikini that screams SAINT PATRICK'S DAY 2001.

*Two different associations I have with Budweiser, my cheap-beer nemesis (so, so yucky): (a) LT's father, who is not racist, exactly, but who will occasionally come up with some weird statement, once said that Budweiser was a "black people's beer." (b) My most NASCAR friend---a tattooed motorcyclist/psychology honors student/tool salesman/chain-smoker of Marlboros---once used his wonderful Missouri accent to proclaim that "Bud Is The Beer Of Intellectuals." I really doubt that either one of these opinions is valid, although it would thrill me to combine them and see Cornel West or William Julius Wilson do a Budweiser ad. And I really wouldn't put it past West.

**Is this chick really Irish or did she just get pressed into service as the St. Patrick's Bikini Babe because of her last name? I could find out for myself through the magic of Google, but I am too fatigued to think about supermodels right now.


McSweeney's #11. Just when I had decided that the quality of this quarterly endeavor was spotty at best, clever formats notwithstanding, Eggers and company had to go and do something like this. I read every piece except the Denis Johnson play, which failed to interest me, and found something to like in each one. Thanks for destroying my worldview, you McSweeney's jerks, by being really good all of a sudden. I may have to resubscribe.

For Weeks Above the Umbrella. A splurge at our local comic book/zine store and worth it. However, I wish this volume was at least perfect-bound, because it deserves to be with my books and not with my zines/comic books, although I am not sure why I make all these genre distinctions in the first place (is it simply the limitations of furniture, form/function, the fact that standard bookcases are not good at accomodating smaller formats? The secret highbrow/lowbrow hegemony of furniture designers? Hey, free graduate thesis for all you literate antique freaks!)

A Hundred Little Hitlers. Like the Voice, I was a bit confused by this book’s agenda, and the ending kind of unraveled. Like real life, I guess. Still worth a read.

Yesterday LT turned on the tap in the kitchen and the water came out orange. Not a rusty orange, but a serious orange, a bright orange, a glass of it looked like a glass of unfizzy Orange Crush. I smelled it to make sure that our tap was not simply suddenly dispensing Orange Crush instead of water, but no dice. It was water. Scary orange water. We called the City of Chicago non-emergency number, and true to their title they treated this like a complete non-emergency and did nothing. The really weird thing is that the bathroom taps were fine, the hot water was fine, and if you ran the cold for a while the orange went away. Probably related to the sewer project going on outside our house, but how?


We have just about finished setting up Nora's room, and got creative with the changing table:

Not just international adoption: intergalactic adoption! Or maybe we can make our own "Alien Autopsy" video. LT discovered that a fifth of bourbon fit perfectly into a compartment on the side of the table, and insists that this was its intended purpose. The compartment was probably meant for wipes or some other diaper accessory, but on the other hand it is entirely possible LT might need a belt of hooch before going in for a changing. Plus if the proof is high enough, the stuff could double as an antiseptic. ("Why does the baby smell like whiskey?")


I dreamed I was riding a horse, and I kept barging in and out of people's houses. On the horse. Don't ask me how we got through doorways and stuff. It was like trick or treating, except that I went inside their kitchens and took the food I wanted, still on horseback, and then we galloped away. Maybe it was less like trick or treating and more like looting.

I dreamed that the United States elected a president with a full beard. There were lots of commentaries in newspapers and online about this, with the general consensus being that a president with a beard would help in the fight against terrorism. Sort of like, "Hey, fundamentalists? You have beards? Check it out, we have beards! Two can play at this beard game!"

I dreamed that inside my uterus was a constant game of Pong. In the dream I thought this was hilarious, and wonderful, and I kept making appointments for ultrasounds so I could see which side was winning.


The 2003 Chicago Bears. Watching this season is going to require bowls of Vicodin out on the coffee table, rather than chips and dip or vegetarian mini-corn-dogs.

---mimi smartypants is a peculiar sort.


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