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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

2002-10-24 ... 12:40 p.m.

Why we should value sincerity, particularly in art, is not always clear. In its absence, where is the insult? Call a piece "sincere" and the artist may rightfully pause since it is not a predicate with an unambiguous emotional train. So minimal an expectation is bound to seem almost off-color, if not irrelevant. Except at times in the history of art and literature when a cult of sincerity has raged—and even then what the artist sees in the concept is not what the moralist sees—the comment has usually smacked of understated compliment or overstated slight. Yet sincerity is often the star claim made on behalf of private writing, its moral raison d'ętre.

From an essay containing a few intriguing comments about journal writing.


Who is reading my site from the U.S. House of Representatives? It's okay to reveal yourself, even if you happen to be an elected official. Reading Mimi Smartypants on the job does not equal having anal sex with an intern, although the motivations for each act are similar. (I have no idea what I mean by that. I think I have a fever.)

And to the person Googling mimi smartypants in kneesocks: if you have some sort of super-specific fetish I don't mind informing you that I am wearing kneesocks RIGHT NOW. I raise the vodka tonic in my right hand and swear it's true. Are you some sort of psychic or do you have a secret spycam trained on my sock drawer?

Article/interview about/with Guided By Voices. Does anyone else besides me think it's funny that they got lectured by Cheap Trick about their drinking? Wouldn't that rock? I would love to be lectured by Cheap Trick about drinking. Next time I am ordering another at the Goldstar, starting to look around for arm-wrestling combatants, and thinking of dirty uses for Swedish Fish, I am going to imagine Cheap Trick appearing to me in a misty vision, like the ones that came to all those virgin Catholic saints when they fasted and prayed for a long time. In my vision, Cheap Trick says, "Mimi Smartypants, shouldn't you be getting home? Do you really need another beer?" YES CHEAP TRICK I DO.

Speaking of real or hallucinated celebrity sightings, I swear I saw Courtney Love making a pay phone call from the dingy pizza place in my neighborhood. Courtney, I hope you just popped in to use the phone because that place looks like a serious health hazard. I'm just saying.

Oh, remember that little fever I had up there? It has kind of been an all-day thing. For instance, about five times today I referred to myself as The Hamburglar. I don't steal hamburgers, and I am not dressed in horizontal black-and-white stripes. (Q: Was that supposed to signify a prison uniform? Did The Hamburglar get caught so often that he didn't bother to change out of the striped jumpsuit anymore? If so, he's a pretty crummy hamburglar. Also, why would you call yourself that if you wanted to stay at large? You wouldn't go around calling yourself The Carjacker or The Embezzler.) I am not wearing a Zorro mask or a vaguely gondolier-esque hat. I simply enjoy the way it sounds. "I am the Hamburglar. Goo goo ga joo."

I think I just like the idea of having a definite article in front of my name.

For years, I have considered myself a neat and orderly person. But today I was looking around and I realized: My office is a mess. Piles and piles of papers, manuscripts, reference books. I ran out of desk space and stacked some stuff on the floor. I have completely covered my office walls and cabinets with strange postcards, poems I like, and collages I have made. The classic cop-out "but I know where everything is" is no excuse for living like a lunatic. If this pack-rat compulsion continues, soon I will be saving string and muttering about protecting my sweet ass from the menace of international communism, and then you will get to read my obituary because I will be one of those people who dies when a pile of their stuff falls on them. (However, I think LT might get double the insurance if I die at work. There is a silver lining in everything.) What I really need to do is come in on a Saturday and do something about the gigantic stacks of paper everywhere. The thought of going to the office on a Saturday, though, sends me straight into the bathroom, and after I get done throwing up I find myself clutching a bottle of prescription tranquilizers and thinking about swallowing them all with a glass of bourbon. And there would be no insurance whatsoever for a suicide, so let's just stick with the original plan of having the stacks eventually topple over and crush me. (Or, you know, I could just clean up.)


I went to a department store food hall for lunch, because I had a craving for fancy salad, and on the way up the escalator I noticed these mannequins and I thought, "huh, they are all wearing the same high-heel shoes" and then I looked closer and noticed how very creepy the mannequins were. They were all white (why are we surprised) and they did not have on high-heel shoes: they had high-heel FEET. I guess it is easier just to mold mannequin feet that way than to get shoes on them, but it made me feel all funny inside. Barbie and her high-heel feet was ahead of her time.


All my dreams last night were in complete sentences, third-person-omniscient, with a male protagonist. I had just gotten him through some domestic kitchen dialogue scene and then there was some internally-narrated backstory about how he wished he had never divorced his first wife. So of course MY THEORY is that Cheever (from beyond the grave!) or Updike has taken over my brain and is using my REM cycle to write another one of these suburban male angst novels because why would I dream like this? This is not the most parsimonious theory but it WORKS FOR ME.

Also, I have too much saliva today. It's like when you stop smoking pot all the time (now remember, I am not a huge hemphead, but I did have my moments about ten years ago) and then you realize how badly the constant drymouth was affecting you.

See, I'm talking like a pack-rat string-saving paper-stacking shuffling drooling mind-control all-caps conspiracy theorist already! Who wants to help me write my manifesto?

---mimi smartypants, some restrictions apply.


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