UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu  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 TV on the Radio: Dear Science Walkmen: You & Me Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes Ratatat: LP3 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 fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2008 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 
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Saturday, August 31, 2002
I'm sitting on my couch when I hear a bell ringing on the street outside. It sounds like a railroad crossing bell, so I stick my head out to see what it is. And what do ya know? It's the knife-sharpening truck! I'm serious. DeLuca Grinding. This guy drives up and down the street in his box truck (which as far as I can tell is made completely of plate steel and rust), ringing his bell and hoping people run out with dull knives, swords, or lawnmower blades they urgently need sharpened on this breezy Saturday afternoon. But hey, as it happens, my haircutting scissors are dull, rusty, and loose -- almost unusably so -- and they're really nice haircutting scissors, and my family's had them for so long they're approaching heirloom status, and so what the hell, why not get them fixed by Mr. Didn't-Get-The-Memo-That-It's-Not-The-1890s-Anymore? I grab the scissors and run outside, but he's already crawled most of the way up the block. I wave, hoping he'll see me spastically flapping in his rear-view, but no dice. I am left with no other choice than to disobey the most important unspoken Commandment of human history -- I have to Run With Scissors. At which point I must end my story, because the nurse just walked in and says that "internet time" will have to wait until the next transfusion is complete. Every moment is a precious gift!
Thursday, August 29, 2002
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
I've noticed lately that not only do the tasteless outnumber those with taste by a five-to-one ratio, but they also seem to be recruiting at a rapid -- if not alarming -- rate. The number of times each day my eyes are assaulted by women who haven't missed any meals nor any opportunity to squeeze into jeans so tight I can see the outlines of their cesarean scars and cut so short I can very nearly see what they had for breakfast is too numerous, and painful, to recall. Men -- full grown men -- wearing pants so large they seem as if they might gobble up the wearer? Check. We've got plenty of those on the shelves and more in the stockroom. Morons who paste pictures of Calvin (of "and Hobbes" fame) pissing on the word "USAMA" or "NO FEAR" stickers on their car windows? These are idiots who have somehow made it past the borders of their villages. They are the same types who believe gold necklaces never go out of style and schools were specifically set up to make guys like them feel stupid. How did so many people develop the same kinds of bad taste? From what common lineage spring those with fur-covered wet bars in their homes, pictures of themselves with their backlit faces depicted as if floating in brandy snifters, and plastic lining their carpets so they can quickly and easily clean up the droplets of Tab, Coors and amniotic fluid they frequently spill? These people, ironically, don't realize their use of the word "classy" in reference to anything instantly ensures that it is not and neither are they. If it were up to me, I'd send them all off to their own little island where they could not read and not understand complex sentences to their hearts' content without bothering the rest of us.
The other day, The Heat told me I was obnoxious for thowing my pennies into the storm sewer grating. Why? I just hate pennies, and you should too. They're useless, heavy, ugly, useless, and stupid; only nostalgia keeps them in circulation. So I do my part to take them OUT of circulation by putting them in the sewer, where maybe the rats can melt them into a giant copper cannon and take over the city. You know, something useful.
Remember when there was a huge penny shortage a couple of years ago? Banks were paying 55 cents for a roll of pennies. WHAT THE FUCKITTY FUCK? All of the sudden the value of a penny was variable? Our economy should have crumbled! If I hadn't been so nervous about y2k, I would have made a fucking fortune. Free money! "Hi, can I have this $100 changed into pennies? Thanks. Great. Now, here, I'd like to take advantage of your generous offer to pay 110% on the face value of pennies. Here's $100 dollars in pennies. Please give me $110. Awesome. Now, let's do that again. Mmm-hmm. Or, you can just give me the hundred dollars without the stupid penny transaction. Ok, and since I could theoretically do that forever, why don't you just put $10 million in my account and we'll call it a day. Thanks! Here's a roll of pennies for your trouble -- its value is infinite! Go buy yourself a big fat house, you big fat moron!" Monday, August 26, 2002
I'm switching webhosts because I'm sick of seeing error pages instead of my blog. I'm switching to one that is cheaper and has better services. I also hope that the goddamn site will load when you visit it. Please bear with me through technical errors. Or else I will send somebody to eat your brains.
Friday, August 23, 2002
A hipster couple got on my F train this morning. The girl was cute: a straw-haired blond with lazy posture and pale, sickly skin -- my favorite. She looked like she might have had TB or something, which is totally sexy. But from the second they stepped into the car at Carroll Street, the boyfriend was acting all weird. He was shorter than the girl, a slim asian hipster dude with ironically thick-framed glasses. So maybe he's got some kinda complex about his girl being too cute for him, because he had to touch her waist or envelop her in his arms the whole ride. I cannot stand dudes who feel the need to Stake Their Claim for the whole freaking world to see, like THIS IS MY GIRLFRIEND LOOK BUT DON'T TOUCH, AND ACTUALLY DON'T LOOK EITHER! SHE'S MINE! Jeez, insecure much? Look, for some reason she decided to sleep with your lame ass; the least you can do is not embarrass her on the train by pawing her like a dog with a gravy bone.
So of course I made a point of giving her sexing looks until the dude got off the train, holding eye contact with her until her wimpy boychild felt the need to position his midgety body between us. It was pathetic. When he got off the train, she walked over and took the empty seat next to mine, rubbing her bare upper arm against mine until 42nd Street. Thursday, August 22, 2002
Last night at 2am I made a NO THONGS t-shirt. It says "thongs" in one of those red no smoking circle/line things. People on the street are staring at me like I'm from Mars. Guys seem perplexed, some girls seem amused, but some girls actually sneer with revulsion. They are usually wearing thongs.
The concierge in my office building asked me what my problem with thongs is. It's simple: I am wary of any girl who is so concerned about a damn PANTY LINE that she's willing to put floss in her ass. Is this so hard to understand? I am always amazed at the things women put themselves through for the sake of fashion, but I am even more amazed by the way otherwise intelligent girls can justify these freakish modifications. "Oh, high heels aren't that uncomfortable once you get used to them." WHATEVER. "I like shaving my bikini line." SHUT UP. SHUT UP! Wednesday, August 21, 2002
Have you ever noticed that it's impossible to find a comfortable and stylish pair of sneakers? It's always one or the other.
Have you ever noticed that Kitty Pryde (aka Shadowcat) of the X-Men never got older? She's probably still fifteen years old. Have you ever noticed how fucking sexy I am? How when I walk into a room, my presence attracts attention like a carrier group attracts kamikaze pilots? How even the music seems to change its tempo? Can you hear the underclothes dampening? Because I can. Have you ever noticed that sludge that leaks out of fast-food dumpsters? Dude. It's totally gross. Have you ever noticed that Alpha Flight, one of Marvel Comics' superhero teams from the 80's, not only included a midget and a paraplegic, but were from Canada? As if. Have you ever noticed the way zombies will climb any number of stairs to get to fresh brains? So the roof is not a safe place to run to. (Unless you have a jetpack, which you don't, because anyone with half a rat's brain can see that a jetpack would fry your damn legs off.) I recommend a fast vehicle instead; it is easy to outrun zombies in a car. But watch out when you stop to get gas, because they may be waiting behind the pump. Have you ever noticed how left-handed people are always crying about how it's a rightie's world and nothing is made for them? Have you ever wanted to slap them across the face with an open pair of left-handed scissors? Because if you have, you should get some serious psychiatric help -- that's a pretty violent urge, there, buddy. Why don't you just chill the fuck out? Tuesday, August 20, 2002
I spent the weekend in Perry, Maine. While riding around with a 21-year-old family friend in a van that smelled like salad dressing, I learned the true meaning of the suburbs. Apparently, bored high-school girls will sleep with any stranger who rolls into town. Just for the novelty, you know? He also said that the girls at his high school got all tarted-up when SAILORS CAME INTO THE PORT. Jeeeesus.
The high-school sluts of America need a little variety, a little DANGER in their lives! Can I let this need go unfilled? It would be unpatriotic to ignore their plight. So I think I'll rent a motorcycle, throw out my razors, strap on some leathers and an electric guitar, go cruise the high-school parking lots of the nation, searching for that perfect platter of jailbait pie. Anybody know a good place to start? Wednesday, August 14, 2002
Hey, did you notice there are two names at the top of this page? It's a little misleading, because it might give you the impression that MORE THAN ONE PERSON SHOULD BE POSTING TO THIS DAMN SITE. I've been on a two-week cat-feeding/air-conditioning mission that has taken me away from my apartment, so I haven't been able to personally jab Pussy Willow with sharp things to encourage her to post more often than BI-MONTHLY. But come on. Did she get abducted, or fall down that well? Did she hit the road with an ethnically diverse group of girlfriends for a life-affirming cross-country voyage of discovery? Or is she laid out on an M.E.'s slab somewhere, cold eyes staring upwards but seeing nothing, just another done Jane Doe in a city of knife-wielding Johns? Is she licking Lance Bass's butthole in outer space? WHERE ARE YOU, P.Dub?
My way is better. This is my new motto, and it's important that everybody understands it. It doesn't mean that your way is necessarily wrong; for example, if your way is the same as mine, then you are just as right as me! Isn't that a relief? I was thinking of starting an advice column on the site, but my crappy free hotmail account couldn't handle the staggering volume of questions I'd receive from the universe of helpless retards out there (that means you). So until I get a better email account, you must continue to toil in the fetid ignorance that is your lot. Sorry.
Tuesday, August 13, 2002
I don't know what the hell I did to my alarm clock last night, but I blame the combination of Ambien and tequila forcefully ladled down my throat by J. Ro. Anyway so I wake up after a night of awesome dreams (as usual) and the fucking clock says 12:36. Which means I overslept SO HARD that I missed my doctor's appointment and am going to be a hard-to-explain 3 hours late to work. Damn I must have been tired, that was 10+ hours of sleep. But at least I feel rested, refreshed. I fly out of bed and into some clothes, and notice how gray it looks outside -- no wonder I didn't wake up with all these damn clouds, I need sun, brotha! Anyway, whatever, every other clock in the joint tells the right time, which is 6:38am. Which means the world is asleep, and I'm not late for anything. And that I got seriously funky with the alarm last night. Set the time 6 hours ahead, like some kind of Venusian Daylight Savings Time. Shit. So I went back to sleep, where I, too, am a Viking.
Thursday, August 08, 2002
At Amazon.com -- which I normally love -- there is a little icon at the upper right of my browser that says "Jeremy's Gold Box." My Gold Box is very shiny and seems to promise great deals hand-picked for me, but instead it is filled with Golden Crap I Would Never Buy. Like the Kuhn Rikon LaPatisserie Cookie Press and Decorating Set and the HoMedics PAR-270 ParaSpa Elite Paraffin Bath and I swear, the Delta 50-868K 3-Speed Ambient Air Cleaner with Remote Control and Timer includes Electrostatic Filter a $49.99 Value. The fuck?
Alicia Silverstone was great in Clueless, but she does not seem to have significantly expanded her acting skills since then. Brittany Murphy, on the other hand, could take a Golden Crap in a DVD box and I would rent it. Women should not shave their armpits. Nor anything else. Stop shaving. Oh I'm sorry -- have I said this before? Because you are obviously not listening! Also, what exactly is it that makes zombies start rising from the grave? Is it localized, like a rainstorm or a viral outbreak? Or is it a worldwide Event that simultaneously occurs everywhere? Movies usually focus on a single community, so it's hard to tell. In Dawn of the Dead the outbreak appears to be at least nationwide, but there's that weird thing at the end of Zombie where we see zombies crossing the Brooklyn Bridge as if they are invading Manhattan. And since the whole movie deals with zombies on some Caribbean isle, it's like: how did the zombies get to New York? Unless they were there to begin with? WHICH THEY WEREN'T, because at the beginning there's a boat with a zombie on it in the Hudson River, and the New Yorkers who find it are all "what the fuck" like they've never seen a zombie before. See? Trust an Italian director to go with the dramatic image in favor of the TRUTH. Wednesday, August 07, 2002
OK, I know it's totally gay to hype my accountant, but I am so fucking jazzed that I can't help it. Three years ago I worked for the most irresponsible businessman in the universe. Well, obviously that's not true, but what I mean is that he never sent me a W-2, so after all this time I still hadn't filed my 1999 Income Tax Return. I know, you mongoloids probably can't even spell "tax," much less file a return, but these things are important. So blah blah blah eventuallycakes I got the info I needed. This morning, I faxed the info to my accountant, and three hours later, my completed returns arrived by messenger, needing only my signature and some stamps before I can collect my totally unexpected $700 refund. Shit. That's a vacation to Copenhagen right there. Are you still filing your own returns? GET WITH THE PROGRAM. What's the matter, don't you like money?
I've gotten assloads of emails about this, because my army is everywhere. Today's New York Post has a one-word, four-inch headline on its front page: ZOMBIE. Unfortunately, the story is retarded; it's about a kid whose mom freaked out when his school put him on Ritalin for his ADHD. Now, I'm glad that there are no flesh-eaters walking the streets, and I'm glad this kid wasn't a real zombie. But I think the editors of the Post are maybe a bit sensationalist. Maybe just a little eensy bit.
But it's still interesting because I take Ritalin everyday. My ADD is bad enough that I can't focus on my boring job without medication, and Ritalin has the added benefit of keeping me alert enough to respond to a zombie invasion. Who would have thought they'd put Ritalin and zombies on the same cover? But that's not all. The cover also features a threatening picture of a Godzilla-sized prescription pill bottle whose label shows it was filled in Kennebunk, ME. Considering that the story took place in Millbrook, NY, that doesn't make any sense. But it DOES make sense if you consider that several very good friends of mine, including an ex-girlfriend, were born and raised in Kennebunk. In fact, Danr is coming to stay with me tomorrow. What the hell? Obviously the Post is trying to send me a message. I just can't figure out what the message is. Three things specifically geared to grab my attention on the front page is just too creepy. Any ideas? Tuesday, August 06, 2002
Eskimos have a lot of words for snow, right? This "factoid" is trotted out in conversation more often than the charming but useless tidbit that "it's not the heat, it's the humidity." In movies, when a character tells us about Eskimos and their CRAZY vocabulary, it's a signal that we're observing a real sage, and the other characters widen their eyes and shake they're heads as if to say "whoa -- it shure is a an amazing wurld we live in."
Bullshit. We've got tons of words for snow, too, and a pantload for rain. Snow, slush, sleet, powder, pack, flurry, and blizzard are just a few. Steven Pinker gets into popular language misconceptions in his book The Language Instinct, and I'm amazed by how pervasive these things are. People also harbor the most startling misconceptions about zombies. For example, many people STILL think that you can kill a zombie with a shotgun blast to the chest. Whereas every child should be taught from the cradle that only severe damage the the brain will halt a zombie's undead existence. Unlike the snow misconception, this one can cost lives. What the hell are they teaching in the public schools these days? Apparently all kids learn is how to increase the size of their goddamn pants. Friday, August 02, 2002
I woke up this morning to that Vanessa Carlton song, the one where she rides around the highway while having sex with her piano. (Something about the song is insidiously appealing, so even though she "writes her own music," I bet it was produced by Swedes.) Now, I love melodic pop like zombies love hot brains, but this vocoder trend is getting out of hand.
In case you don't know, the vocoder is the device Cher used in that song "Believe" that made her sound all robotic. Producers use it to nudge vocals into place when the singer is off-key. And now I can hear it in almost every song on the Top 40. Obviously, Vanessa Carlton ruined her voice by sucking too many record executives' cocks, because the whole song sounds like that voice on my iMac that says "Ah-lert! You have been disconneck-ted" -- which is fine, aesthetically! I love talking robots, singing robots, whatever. I love robots. But if we keep broadcasting radio waves into space that make it sound like earth is wholly populated by cute, cum-guzzling robot girls, it's only going to attract the worst kind of evil alien robot invaders. Before record execs give contracts to singers, they should at least make them HUM A FEW BARS to see if they can SING, instead of just trolling the bus stations for hot runaways, mumbling "we'll take care of it in the mix!" under their breath. Thursday, August 01, 2002
It happens all the time. Whenever my hair gets long enough that I want to cut it, the girls start telling me how nice it looks. Seriously, I'm, like, reaching for the clippers, and some pretty slut bats her lashes and says "ooh, your hair looks great." Last night, as I was thinking of cutting my hair, the WenCh said my hair was looking "sexy." And I said "Really?" and she widened her eyes and regarded me soberly: "Oh yeah. Very sexy."
HOW THE FUCK AM I EVER SUPPOSED TO CUT MY HAIR? Women of the World: This is tyranny, plain and simple, and I will NOT bend to your smirking whims. It's a trick, right? You think my hair looks ridiculous, and you want me to walk around like a fool! Or else you're trying to shape me into one of those indie-rock stickboys with a greasy ironic half-mullet or fauxhawk. Well, I'm not your Barbie doll, you harpies. If you like my hair so much, you can lick it off my bathroom floor. |
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" |