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 
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Thursday, May 29, 2003
Robin from Groovy Decay came to town last weekend and you can see a picture of us here, in which she is a member of the Baader-Meinhof gang and I am a Civil War reënacter three months pregnant with our child, who will grow to lead the human race to victory over the sentient robots. My point, people, is that if you come to New York, you too can have your picture taken with me, and use it to prove your worth to potential employers. I will take you to bars and watch you drink, leaning coolly back and waiting like a fat unshaven man at the fence of a playground. There is room to sleep under my bed if you don't feel like crashing at the flophouse-cum-hostel that got trace amounts of cocaine on Robin's toiletries. You can eat anything that falls through the space between my bed and the wall. Phone lines are open.
Wednesday, May 28, 2003
Hanging out the other night in Williamsburg, V. asked me if I had heard about the Williamsburg Slasher. Naturally, I assumed she was joking. "No, I'm serious," she said, "Some guy has been slashing white hipster boys at night, right around here." She named the location of the most recent attack, two blocks from where we were. "Mostly late at night," she reassured me. I looked at my cell phone: 11:20pm. Awesome.
Now, I don't believe that New York is dangerous, and I refuse to walk around assuming that I will be the victim of a crime. Of course, that's easy for me to say, being 6'1" and as mean-looking as Robert Shaw when somebody hides his whiskey. But I've never been mugged, and whether you ascribe that to street smarts, bad breath, the glittering stilettos duct-taped to my hands, or the fact that there is always at least one slow-moving zombie close on my heels, it's true. But should I be worried about the Wimsbrah Slasher? I know I'm not really a hipster, but will he know that? How good is his HipDar? I guess I look like a hipster: tight brown polyester pants, beat-up navy blue Saucony sneakers, a too-small leather jacket with a grimy fur collar, Buddy Holly glasses, the outfit topped off with a trucker hat that says "Loose Slots and Blowjob Bots." But I live in Park Slope, and that ain't hip! It's, like, post-hip, or unhip, I dunno. I'm all for the slashing of hipsters! This guy is a vigilante in the mold of Son of Sam, who tried to rescue us from all those evil making-out couples. Go slasher! Bring the rents back down! Uncool the sidewalks! Symmetrize the haircuts and bring back shampoo! Slash! Slash! Slash! (NOTE: All of the above is invalidated if the slasher a) actually exists AND b) has hurt somebody I know. Fucking bastard.) Meanwhile, as I'm being hacked up for the irony quotient of my clothes, let me ask you a lexical question: before reading this blog, did you ever, EVER, hear or read the word "fucktard?" Because I have a suspicion, my friends, that I coined it. And now I just saw a brand-new blog called originalfucktard.com. As if. Thursday, May 22, 2003
When I think of all the places I've masturbated, I cannot believe that I've never gotten caught in the act. Yes, I take suitable precautions to prevent detection, but shouldn't the odds have caught up with me by now? Nobody's ever walked in on me having sex, either. What's up with that? Seriously, I used to jerk off everywhere, and a straw poll of my peers shows that while most 18-25 year old boys are vigorous practitioners of the "sticky science," I was above average in the field of wanking, as well as everything else. What an obnoxious overachiever. High SATs; a staggering vocabulary; the ability to ace tests without taking ANY NOTES AT ALL, EVER; perfect pitch; regional Set champion; unparalleled production and release of semen. How's that for an extracurricular?
[The following sentence should be read aloud in a Lucky Charms-type Irish accent] Ah, but I remember 'twas in college that I really polished my technique -- and me shillelagh! I had a rule about not having sex with people until I'd known them for three weeks (I know, I know, shut up), and accordingly I felt an undue pressure in my, um, ballsack. You know? So basically, if I was left alone for five minutes, it was Hammer Time (you can touch this!). Ha ha! That was funny: I just said "Hammer Time" as a euphemism for masturbation! Whee! I assure you, until today I have never associated MC Hammer with sexual gratification. Seriously. ANYWAY. So if you were my friend freshman year, I jerked off in your room. I christened the bathrooms of every new building I entered. Also the library. Also several quads (the large grassy areas inside a ring of buildings usually filled with hackysacking fucktards) and a number of quads (dorm rooms with four people in them who were stupid enough to leave me unattended). My emissions were received often by a favorite janitorial closet with a utility sink in it, although now I feel bad for the janitor. Oh, but I always felt bad for the janitor. Because I jerked off all over his wife's ass. Kidding! And yes, people witnessed some of these events, but it wasn't "getting caught" in those days, because I didn't give a fuck. What I'm saying is that since then, I've loosed my seed in some pretty inappropriate places. Friends, think of where I have been. Have you ever left me alone in a room? Next time you do, check the trash cans for sullied Kleenex. Just so I can see the serious, scolding look on your face as you shake a sopping jizzrag in my face! Wah ha ha! Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Music stores are filled with equipment that makes you salivate, but they are also filled with people that make you want to vomit, shit, or seize. For reasons I don't really comprehend, I've been drawn back to the 48th Street gear geek district four times in the last two weeks -- always for stupid shit like for patch cords, some adapters, a boom microphone stand, monitor headphones, and a giant humming musical dildo that plays "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" at such a low frequency that it can be used as a non-chemical abortifacient. Who among you is not helpless before gear?
Music Gear Geeks are not as snobby as Independent Video/Music Store Geeks, but they are sadder, because there's not a real intellectual armature on which to hang their geekdom, and anyway, you just know that the music they are going to make with their shiny new boxes is terrible, like really really awful, soul-crushingly dull, over-distorted and reverbed-to-hell, and rife with the bile-churningly predictable lyrical content that rhymes "fire" with "desire" and "in my brain" with "drivin' me insane." Oh god. The customers and the staff are almost indistinguishable, except that the staff have slightly higher status because of their instant access to all the gear the customers could ever want; for example, they could go down to the storeroom and rub their dicks on a giant mixing board if they felt like it, but the customers would have to pay for the pleasure. I often think about how many geek dicks have been rubbed on the merchandise I purchase -- don't you? It's scary. Anyway, I don't know what I'm getting at, except that somehow these greaseheaded bugs, wearing free promo Peavey or Zildjian t-shirts, still try to make me feel small for buying a cheap pile of nothing. Look, sparky, people need guitar picks. Don't sneer at me -- I don't need a knob-studded crate to make my music sound good. Because I am a genius. BUT WHO CARES? I don't need you to like, respect, or flatter me. I don't even need you to make eye contact. You have no power over me, retail fucktard. NONE! ZERO! Now ring up that three-dollar guitar strap. I'm in a hurry, biotch. Friday, May 16, 2003
I agonize over this blog every day. I have to much respect for you, dear reader, to just post any old stream-of-consciousness blather, even though my blather is ten gazillion times better than anything else you'll ever read. The empty space on the days I don't post indicates hours of struggling with, and finally rejecting, an unmanageable entry.
In order that you might have a little fucking appreciation of the amount of effort I expend for your enjoyment, here is a list of first sentences from rejected entries -- and I'm not kidding either, these are all real, aborted starts: * Sometimes I use my psychic powers for selfish reasons. * This week, we had a new server installed at work, which is about as exciting as being turd-raped by a gang of apemen, by which I mean: very exciting. * Dude, our government is like a parody of a bad government in a movie. * If the idea of sitting at a table with all of your exes makes you break out in bowel-loosening panic-attack sweat, you either have terrible taste in lovers, or you are a bad boyfriend or girlfriend. * Don't you hate it when people mispronounce or misuse yiddish words? * It is my duty as a friend to inform you when you're being stupid, and guess what? You're being stupid. * Whatever made me funny is broken. * Goddamn but I am horny. * Those asymmetrical tops that girls think look great? Boys hate them. * I haven't had a nightmare in over 5 years now. * If you see me in public, you'll notice that I look like a slack-jawed doofus, a hollow and witless moron. * Why is it okay to eat candy bars? * Straight boys: if you have a girlfriend, for god's sake let her dress you. * I don't yell. I don't freak out. I have loud thoughts, and I type in uppercase sometimes, but I'm generally very even-tempered. Most of my friends can't remember me ever getting mad, about anything, EVER. So what the fuck is it with these bugs? * Hey-- do you think of the word "feces" as plural? As in: "hey, look at all those feces!"? * I'm going to build myself a better roommate out of promotional AOL CDs, because my current roommates SUCK AN ASS COCK. So, having spared you from all those posts and the horrifying places they were headed, I deserve a prize. I know -- what have I done for you lately, right? Shut your fat mouth. You're fired. That's my prize. Tuesday, May 13, 2003
As I sit down on the crowded train this morning, so fucking tired that my eyelashes have begun to crust together in ecstatic anticipation of my 15-minute subway nap, this bitch-ass lady makes this "tsk" noise because my foot brushes hers. Like she's the goddamn Caribbean Queen of the F train. Oh! I'm sooo sorry my incredibly awesome suede and mesh Pumas exist in the same hemisphere as your stupid Payless flats. I must be more considerate! Perhaps I should douse myself in gasoline and teach myself a lesson about respect? Got a match? Tsk indeed. How am I supposed to steal my meager winks while I've got to worry about not letting any part of my body touch yours during FUCKING RUSH HOUR? I'm six foot two, you midget! Why don't you curl up under the seats and stay out of my way? Glaargle! Eat a dick!
To make matters worse, my Hotmail start page showed me a link to remind me that I don't sleep enough, and what sleep I do get is of a poor quality. Thank you, MSN, for caring enough about me to recycle the same non-news boilerplate from two months ago. Could you tell me again which wedding songs will really put a damper on the festivites? Tell me something useful for once, you fucksuck bastards! How many bowls of cock do I need to eat in order to completely kill myself forever? If I'm in a high-rise office building when a zombie attack begins, should I run downstairs to the street, or upstairs to the roof, where maybe I can cold-cock some security dudes and jack a chopper? I suspect that the sleep I got on the subway was of a very poor quality. My brain aches like I spent the night breathing nitrous oxide, except without the laughing. I am tired. I will understand when nobody feels like leaving a comment, because this post has lulled you to sleep more effectively than an ether-drenched mallet to the face. Maybe you will all lose your jobs for dampening important documents with sleep-drool. If you get canned, show up at my doorstep with a duffel bag and a change of clothes, and if you put up with being insulted for three days by the super and the worthless drug-slinging hoods on the stoop, you can join my army of slumbery fucktards. Private J.Ro! Fluff up my futon! Thursday, May 08, 2003
Why would I go to my ten-year high school reunion? Jackie went to my high school and college, and we still hang out a lot. I play in her band. She's supposedly a good friend. So why is she trying to get me to go to what EVERYONE KNOWS is the most unpleasant event in the world? I would rather suck on cream-filled turdsicles than go to some awful Wall Street bar and talk to a bunch of blue-shirted gel-hairs who practice phantom golf swings while describing "B-school." Which is what I heard the five-year was all about. I didn't go to that, either, because I chose to spend the night licking the musky balls of the homeless at the shelter near my house.
If there's anybody I still want to talk to from HS, I'm still in contact, ok? Jackie says "It'll be fun! Just like Romy and Michele!" I mean come on now. I think you have to have a seriously stunted imagination not to be able to predict the carnival of torment a reunion engenders. It's on the Big List of Uncomfortable Situation Clichés, right up there with The Blind Date with Fat Smelly Dude; Getting Dumped by Person You Don't Even Like; Caught Sucking the Wife's Dad's Cock Again; Ran to the Basement When the Zombies Came and Their Screams Are Getting Louder and There's No Way Out NO WAY OUT OH MY GOD; the Job Interview Where You Don't Notice the Semen Stains All Over Your Clothes Until it's Too Late; and the Whoops I Didn't Know That Gun Was Loaded But Hey, Where Did My Little Brother's Face Go? It's a sitcom plot. It's a setup for a joke told by a molesty uncle. It's prototypically un-fun. I can't even visualize myself attending the thing. Am I slouched in a chair, trying to look like I don't give a fuck, but being unable to muster even the vaguest semblance of aloofness? Am I turned facing a corner like that dude at the end of Blair Witch? Am I throwing forks at people's heads? No. I am none of the above. I can't go. In fact, my inability to go to my ten year reunion kind of defines me: I Am He Who Is Not At The Reunion. So go ahead, Jackie. Try to not feel like a worthless fool as your explain your life to some idiot bitch whose monthly makeup budget is higher than our combined gross incomes. Try not to care about the opinions of people you always despised but still hope you can impress, somehow. Try to spend less than five hours obsessing over your outfit before leaving the house. Try to drink enough plastic-bottle vodka from the open bar to blot out the atavistic fight-or-flight agony of reawakened popularity contest fucktardation. Or we can just hang out at my house, shoot pure Turkish heroin into our eyeballs, and join all our classmates at the big reunion in hell. Tuesday, May 06, 2003
I may not be an actual angel, but if I see a woman with a baby carriage approaching a flight of stairs, I will swoop down all nonchalant and suave, grab that little plastic footrest, and glide up the steps like Fred Astaire with my bedraggled, sputum-sodden Ginger. Except that I have a bad back. Those of you who have seen me flop on the floor in spasmodic agony (after just seeing something heavy on TV (like a cartoon safe, or your mother) or hearing a word that rhymes with "weight") can see where this ugly tale is headed. But politeness is bred in my brittle bones, my darlings, and I can't turn it on and off like the ringer of your cell phone.
Because it makes me red-faced angry to see files of able-bodied men hustle past the stroller moms like they've got blinders on. (And I never get angry, even when J.Ro thinks I should be required by law to do so. When somebody does me "wrong," I don't get mad -- I get witty. Luckily, J.Ro is often milling drunkenly around, and she will perform the requisite broken-bottle castrations and face lacerations on people who are mean to me.) Obviously, your Sterno-huffing parents were too busy raping your sister to teach you even the most rudimentary subway etiquette, like giving your seat to pregnant ladies and not smearing your shitty asscrack on the pole. I am broken -- I'm not supposed to lift anything "bigger than a phone book," according to my favorite doctor, who I wish I had known when I was forging notes for gym teachers -- but I look like a healthy young man, and so when I take a seat on the subway from a pregnant lady after rubbing my butt on the pole, I have to make all sorts of ouchy faces to convey the fact that I'm in pain. ANYWAY what I'm getting at is that I shouldn't be helping stroller ladies, but if nobody else is around, I must. And that's when bad things happen. Because the lady wasn't ready. And when I grabbed, the stroller tipped. And the baby almost fell out, a little bit. (Really, the kid looked old enough to walk, but he was a lazy piece of fuck, trying to make me look bad.) So I had to dramatically flop on the platform to show that I only dropped the thing because my back was grievously injured by my altruism. Also I might have implied that I had Gulf War Sydrome. Friday, May 02, 2003
Spring makes me stupid. I've already started walking around for the hell of it, half-believing that I'm gonna start exercising on a regular basis, which I can already hear some of you falling out of your Aeron Chairs with helpless mirth. Exercise and me are like compassion and conservatism: fundamentally incompatible. But when the weather gets nice, my appetite disappears as my body tries frantically to shed my winter coat of fat, which must be some atavistic mating season preparation, right? Gotta slim down and make babies, fat little babies! Fuck. So even though I'm eating less, I feel a twitchy drive to stroll, and I get the itsiest little endorphin rush after dodging midtown lunchtime fuckwads for an hour, but I CANNOT EXERCISE. That's not excercise, says the bitch in the back with the Crunch membership card crumbling from disuse in her Kate Spade bag. Well, fuck you too, hooker, and go blow a frat boy. I don't want to sweat any more than necessary, because I hate having to shower more than once a week, and no amount of Matrix sequels will make me change my mind about that. I only like sex sweat and crystal meth overdose sweat.
Spring makes me look in the mirror too much. Why do I have huge raccoony eye luggage? I got plenty of sleep this entire week (5 hours a night interrupted by frequent cigarette breaks is normal, right?), I ate a vegetable or two, and I even convinced an Irish dude that I was an angel. Though to be fair, the Irish guy was drunk and didn't take much convincing. I gave him a cigarette, which must have been the nicest thing anybody's ever done for the poor bloke, but I think he was hypnotized by my suit, which stood out in Williamsburg like a neon vagina in Utah. A weird Catholic response to the trappings of authority, maybe? He was old enough to know better, but he kept staring all googly-eyed, asking over and over again "but whar did ye coom froom?" And no matter what I said, he was convinced that I had said "heaven." If that's what being a cult leader feels like, I'm not sure I can hack it. Get lost, all of you. |
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" |
