UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
Like making blog out of nothing at all  feed it up!
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You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION Ratatat: LP3 Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes Band of Horses: Cease to Begin Krauss & Plant: Raising Sand Death Cab for Cutie: Narrow Stairs Beach House: Devotion BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan hospitality on parade OMG WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2007 Jeremy Broomfield 
Hosted by: HostRocket.Com Comments by: YACCS PRAISE & REVIEWS "[UD] is a genius." --Christian Oates "[Claudia] is fucking awesome, and [UD] is a genius. And vice versa. You should all buy Fear Not." --Tricia Howey MOTTO egeo huic vigorum MY WRESTLING NAME Titan Gently MY PUNK NAME Razor Ection 
WHO LINKS TO UD? • from Technorati • from Google • from Yahoo and here's something weird: my place in Humor 3-space |
Monday, April 29, 2002
You kids who love vampires just freak me out. You're reading about and dressing like vampires, fine. But filing your teeth to fang-points? Sleeping in coffins? Look, if you're just trying to shock your parents or your stuffy suburban classmates, that's perfectly understandable. But why do you insist on romanticizing the vampire "lifestyle?" These are creatures that drink blood to survive. HORRIBLE BLOOD-SUCKING UNDEAD MONSTERS. I can't say I blame actual vampires for their behavior, but why would anyone aspire to their state? Vampires retain free will-- and since they must kill or die, their lives are a daily choice between murder and suicide. Maybe it's this delicious conundrum that attracts teens who feel trapped in their traitorous bodies. Or maybe vampire-love is a rejection of moral belief systems which require blind adherence to arbitrary rule systems? Ugh. I just don't feel it, yo. At least zombies have no ego, and therefore no choice. They never think "should I eat brains?" No! It's just "eat brains! Eat brains! BRAINS!"
Saturday, April 27, 2002
Universal Donor and I are going mano a mano with the old timey, high kickin', bleed-from-your-eyes-and-show-'em- your-ass, tell-the-audience-you-love-'em, don't-leave-the-stage-until-you've-got-'em-cryin'-in-the-aisles-and-pleadin'-for-more, show-stopping vocalists that used to please radio audiences and war-weary troops back in the day. Ah, yes. These were the last of the real entertainers. The last of the true music makers. The end all, be all amongst those who would sing you a song, make your their best friend and rat you out to the House Un-American Activities Committee to save their own hides. They just don't make 'em like that anymore. All cowardly and shit.
Watching the sun come up is supposed to be romantic, right? People put "watch the sun rise" on their vacation itineraries, as if you can just schedule profundity with your spouse. Didn't your mother tell you not to stare directly at the sun? Well, I hate the sunrise. That sickly blue light bleeding up from the horizon just indicates that I've added to my mile-long tally of ill-spent nights. Or else it means that my insomnia has gone from bad to worse to debilitating to deadly. Stay down, sun! Hit "snooze" and pull your blanket tight around your exposed shoulders! Ten more goddamn minutes!
Thursday, April 25, 2002
People, you don't get food poisoning from undercooked meat or eggs. Salmonella can only be found on like 1 in 10,000 eggs, and if cooked even a little it's not likely to make you ill. No, you get "food poisoning" when some restaurant worker doesn't wash his hands after going to the bathroom and swirling his fingers around his sweaty asscrack. He could char your burger to carbon molecules, but when he picks up the bun or tomato to assemble your sandwich, he garnishes it with a little smear of E. Coli. So go ahead -- order your eggs runny, and have that burger rare! It doesn't matter! If the cook has shitfingers, you're headed to Barf City anyway. Roll the fucking dice! Live a little!
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
If you're reading this site you've probably noticed that one of the two of us posts much more often than the other. I won't say which one, but it's either me or him and -- here's where it gets tricky -- it isn't me. That's all about to change. Forget everything you know about this blog. Or remember everything, or else you won't notice the change.
I have designed a zombie video game. You, the player, are a zombie wandering around in a lush 3-D suburban environment that extends infintely in all directions. Instead of the usual confusing array of "health," "ammo," or "magic" meters, you only have one meter: pain. The higher your pain level, the louder you moan. You cannot turn down the volume. When the game starts, your pain meter is almost completely full. The only way to reduce your pain is to eat live brains. That means you have to find people, grab them before they can get away, and eat, eat, eat their brains. This is not as easy as it sounds, because people don't like having their brains eaten and they will tend to run away from a moaning, stumbling zombie. Eating one brain will only slightly reduce the amount of pain you are in. And remember -- killing someone means that they too will become a zombie, wandering the same landscape and competing with you for the limited resources. There are no levels, no bosses, no cutscenes, and no finale. The game goes on forever.
Tuesday, April 23, 2002
It's official: that girl from Au Bon Pain just gave me two stamps on my get-a-free-coffee card instead of one. It's Crushtown, and I'm the fucking Mayor.
When that video by the The Hives premiered, PW's panties exploded. We got it on TiVo (the video, not the pantysplosion) and I don't think an hour goes by that she doesn't watch it. She is ga-ga for the lead singer, an underfed, hypercaffeinated Swede named "Pelle" who looks suspiciously like me. . . . In fact, I think he's biting my style a little too hard for my taste. It's really quite pathetic. Get your own look, you nordic pansy.
Prediction: whenever it seems like the public is losing faith in the Bush administration's foreign policy, you will hear the phrase "dirty bomb" from the White House Press Office like an incantation to ward off evil spirits. We're supposed to shit our pants and agree that they must continue whatever oil-hoarding, nation-smashing nonsense they're perpetrating, wherever. Fuck it.
Monday, April 22, 2002
I love working in old office buildings because of the crazy super-reverberant acoustics in the marble bathrooms. Singing or humming the right note makes the whole room quake like a church during a Bach fugue. I can never remember to bring my electric tuner to work to test the actual pitch, but there are several harmonics that work in diffrerent octaves. Has anybody studied this? Are the notes the same in all marble office bathrooms? I'm going to bring 29 friends to my office building one day -- that's one boy and one girl for each floor -- and when we have occupied every bathroom, we'll hum the most devastating chord you have ever heard, rolling from the ground floor upwards, a shivering spinal column of window-shattering vibration, causing nosebleeds and seizures through the bathroom walls of commerce! The machine of economy will grind to a halt on that day, as our soul-rending paroxysm of musical truth renders all else meaningless! Or maybe it will just sound really pretty!
Friday, April 19, 2002
I have spent another day half awake, scuttling about the house wearing what easily and conveniently passes for pajamas inside but can only be considered bargain basement fashion anywhere else, scouring the Internet (it's the whole world at your fingertips, you know(!)) for jobs. Can you picture the total boredom of unemployment? No, you cannot picture that or much else, because you are unimaginative, and it is precisely for this reason that you are able to clock in and clock out, in eight hour cycles, of your own personal hell every day. Not that I think you are boring, necessarily. I don't listen to what other people say about you, and as such, I'm not likely to go around repeating it.
Here is something else you should know: you're wasting your talents. You may choose to pretend that I am not directly addressing you here based on the fact that I don't know you, how could I when you only found this blog accidentally, we've never been so close that you could pull the scrunchy from my hair and inhale the sour, lingering odor of the city, blah, blah, bleaaach. You MAY choose to pretend, but really, you know I'm as right as all those people who are going around calling you boring. The least you can do to redeem yourself is get me a cushy job in your air-conditioned office, college boy. And not in the mailroom.
My ex-roommate Mike and I were, as usual, talking about Transformers. I suggested that it would have been cool if they had been completely modular, so that you could've attached any TF to any other TF, even to the point of combining them all into one HUGE SuperMegaBot. Which we agreed would have led to immediate, full-scale Human/Robot warfare. Then Mike predicted that humans would win that war because we have -- get this -- heart. Unbelievable. So I'm just wondering: in the battle of Human Heart vs. GIANT ROBOT LASER DEATH HAMMERS, where do you lay your bets?
One of the girls who works at Au Bon Pain downstairs likes me, I think. Maybe it's just because I'm closer to her age than most of the midtown officeworkers who scowl their way through every transaction, but she's always very flirty. It must be torture to work there. In order to pulp the souls of their employees, I suppose, the corporation makes them listen to the same goddamn CD every day, all day. She says they change it every month, but at christmas time I must have heard "The Little Drummer Boy" every time I set foot in there-- and not the marginally cool David Bowie version, either. Gah. I think I would rather eat drywall for a living.
Thursday, April 18, 2002
I'll admit it. Survivor has gone downhill this season. It's mostly because the players are the most shockingly uninteresting retards since Big Brother disgraced the airwaves. Where's the intrigue? Where's the suspense? Where's my Colleen? I'll tell you where: she's sleeping under the Santa Monica Pier with her junkie/guitarist boyfriend Chad, calling her agent from the pay phone over at Hot Dog On A Stick to see if she's got any auditions. Funny-- her agent never seems to be in the office when she calls....
Wednesday, April 17, 2002
I develop crushes on girls who have web pages. This is harmless enough, though dangerously geeky. But just when my fantasies of meeting, dating and settling down with some witty weblass reach their peak, the girl turns out to own at least one -- and usually more -- cats. Now, I love cats, really, but I am miserably allergic to them. Cats know this the instant they see me, and they rub as much of their hair on me or my belongings as they can. So I can't really stay over at any place where the cats own the bed -- which is any place cats live. Oh misery! Where is my hypoallergenic honey?
Tuesday, April 16, 2002
Is it just me, or did Andrew W.K. come out of absolutely nowhere? It's like some scientists in the Island Records Genetics Project got drunk one night, set the machine to "WWF + MTV" and hit the "Generate" button. Why is he famous already? Who put him on SNL? and why can't I take my eyes off his monkey antics?
Also, somebody told me that Winona Ryder is notorious for being an incorrigible slut. Sunday, April 14, 2002
You lie to your dentist, and she knows it. She asks if you floss, and you say "yeah." And when she tells you that you should really be flossing every day, you're like: "I know, I know... I will." You're lying. Your dentist doesn't want to hear your empty promises -- it doesn't do her any good. You're only hurting yourself. One of the main reasons you don't floss is that dental floss sucks. It separates into its component strands, which snap and fling tooth gunk onto the mirror. Well, check it: Glide dental tape is the best shit in the world. It's made by the same people who make Gore-Tex. It feels like you're flossing with teflon, all buttery and space-age.
Standing in a group of 5 people at the party last night, I realized that I was the only one who isn't in a band. One of those band's music sounds like cats being hit with hammers, but at least they're out there, improving, having fun. I've got an assload of songs that friends are starting to demand that I perform in a public.
Problem 1: I don't want collaborators, just musicians who will play what I tell them to. Problem 2: I don't have the temperament to be the prancing, bossy, bandleader type. Problem 3: Any project that requires more than like 10 minutes of my attention has a very slim chance of occurring. Friday, April 12, 2002
Spring is officially over. The drug dealers have convened their annual summer session in front of our building, and so, inevitably, have the underage wannabe hoodrats, trying their best to make a favorable impression. Apparently this is accomplished by making a lot of goofy noises. Ah, but pretty soon we'll be hearing the warped-tape "chimes" of the ice cream truck (aka the Drug Truck) trundling up the street, bringing joy to parents and children alike. Always makes me smile.
They let us leave work early today, again. We get a 1:30 call from the boss, telling us we can leave at 2:00. I hate it when this happens, because I don't want to go home in the middle of the day. I got a job specifically so I wouldn't have to find ways to entertain myself in the bleak light of day. I never record music on weekdays-- and god knows I surf so much at work that I can barely even look at the pleistocene-era iMac in my room. If I go home early I will just twitch from couch to chair to bed, flitting from one momentary distraction to the next until the soothing blanket of dusk covers my cold shoulders, rendering me (relatively) functional again. I'll just stay here until normal quitting time. I'm stupid.
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OTHER REVIEWS: John from Cincinnati Menomena LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) or go to The UD Store 
MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" |
