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 
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Monday, September 29, 2003
It is a strange experience for me to write on a laptop, particularly while located in a public park. I feel the compulsion to write about exactly what I am feeling at the moment, which is dissatisfaction with my sandwich.
Ok, here's the given: when your order an egg sandwich with cheese on a bagel, the sandwich vendors must grill the bagel. No excuses. I sort of understand when it is not a specialized deli, and they forget to grill the bagel; there is a deli near me whose employee consistently forgets, and then upon my bagel-grilling request acts as if I have just asked for the head of his firstborn. Nonetheless, the job gets done. But I figure I don't have to be as attentive at an actual bagel place, right? They should just figure "Egg sandwich. Grill the bagel." Right? Right? So why the fuck do I have this dry bagel in my mouth right this second, as we speak? Somebody fucked up their post, apparently. Also, Pedro, I would appreciate it if, when I ask if you put salt and pepper on it, you didn't mutter "si" and walk off, particularly if you didn't. "No" is a good thing to answer in the situation, or even "no se," but an affirmative "si" should NOT accompany an unsalted and peppered bagel, particularly when it hasn't been grilled. Get away from me, pigeon. I don't like you. Thursday, September 25, 2003
All right, you suckbutts. I'm going to California for ten days. I will try to update you as the trip progresses, but just in case, um... Gregor? Post.
Drunk Girl Story Part 2,
or: NuckTales, Woo-oo! (continued from Tuesday) I'm relieved that I don't have to play babysitter for the facelicking freak anymore, because it allows me to bask in the praise and attention of the folks outside. I saved the girl, I saved the show, I saved rock and roll. Of course, the adulation is tempered by the laid-back hipster imperative, so it's fairly muted, and mostly communicated with eyebrows. I came here to see a band, didn't I? Well, fuck, they're setting up now. Shouldering my way to the back, I can see TV on the Radio, an ever-expanding collection of boys, boxes, and wires, gathered in the corner of the restaurant that serves as a stage, plugging and unplugging, testing and twanging, extending the typical pre-gig foreplay into a marathon of procrastination. One of the singers has a strong aroma of sweaty sex, which inclines the audience even further towards drooling, slavish acceptance of whatever will follow. Everyone has been waiting for weeks to hear these guys; they could vomit into a bag and receive a standing o. But wait, now. Maybe it isn't Kyp's underarms that smell so sexy. Because looky here, on the vinyl bench along the wall, Therésè appears to be... straddling somebody, but with a real earnestness that bespeaks more than casual frottage. Pinned underneath her is -- hey! -- her Jewish friend! He's shorter than she, about 5'4", and he looks more than a little startled. I look around for corroboration of what my eyes are telling me, and it's fully circular eyesockets and lips, the rondure of disbelief, on all faces. Also smiles and "only in Noo Yawk" head-shakes, which is stupid, but there you go. It's hard not to stare, mostly because she seems completely oblivious to the fact that THERE ARE ABOUT 500 PEOPLE IN THE ROOM, and also because the pinioned jewboy is distinctly NOT oblivious to this fact, looking nervously at, well, everybody, trying to figure out if he should be proud or ashamed. The smell of drunken Canadian snatch is thick in the air, a kind of sour maple musk, and Therésè keeps plunging her hands into their mingled groin area, under her ample denim skirt, possibly arranging ornery underpant parts, possibly to encourage her paramour, who could be suffering from some perefctly understandable performance-anxiety-related detumescense. Was the music good? I remember it being very good, as the giddy glee of public sex can only enhance a rock show. The crowd danced jerkily from toe to toe like a bunch of juice-filled kindergarteners doing the peepee dance. With all the wires plugged into their appropriate holes, the music was hot, and sex was in everyone's nose. God bless America, or whatever! Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Saturday night at an East Village restaurant called Star Foods, it looks like a tanker full of hip has run aground on 1st Ave, a greasy slick of skinny music lovers burbling outside, fouling the visual landscape and damaging the habitat of the local fauna. It's, you know, whatever, a show, and I'm going to see some friends play music, as soon as I finish smoking these ten cigarettes out on the curb. (Because you can save up nicotine like that, di'n'tcha know? You won't feel as jittery indoors if you pre-smoke, and in fact if you smoke an entire pack in the morning, you won't need to smoke all day!)
J.Ro is in attendance, and is my witness to what follows. The opening band was playing some appealing, dirgey, Nouvellevet Underground kinda shit, and I noticed a girl at the front of the crowd trying to, like, interact with the band, mostly by putting her flattened palm a few inches from the guitarists' faces in that white-gloved traffic cop signal for Stop Now. They didn't stop, but after they finished their song she had words with the bass player. From where I was standing, I saw him shrug all noncommittal and give her a buck-passing head-jerk towards the singer, who looked like a resurrected David Lochary from Pink Flamingos, and was wearing a blue and white striped suit jacket with no shirt. DRUNK GIRL: Hey, you suck. LEAD SINGER: What? Go Away. DG: But you suck. Stop playing this crappy heroin music. LS: Siddown, you're drunk. DG: (Eyes widen insanely) We should have a poetry reading. LS: Go. Away. DG: No one wants to hear this crappy music! CROWD: Yes we do. Sit down, drunk bitch. Go away. Get the fuck out of here. You suck. DG: No! The band sucks! (plops down on a bench and rolls eyes at ceiling) At this point, people are flinging so many eye-daggers at her that you can almost hear a whizzing noise. Especially angry are several girls who I peg as the band's girlfriends. They want blood, but they don't really want to touch the drunk girl because she has so little style that even looking at her makes them feel less hip by virtue of proximity -- she's wearing a long denim skirt, a sleeveless mall-top, and her hairdo is a butch-clueless-Canadian disaster with red streaks. Plus don't even get me started on her shoes (snap!). I need a cigarette, and I think it's time somebody steps in before this freaky twist starts biting people. The way she's lolling her head around makes me think she's tripping, or at least on some antisocial MDMA variant, and she only strengthens my suspicion when, in response to my concerned "Hey hey are you all right?" she says "who is that girl with you? The one with the enormous eyes? She's an angel." Yeah. Time to get this floozy some air. * * * ...Not that it's easy to remove a drunk and possibly tripping girl from a rock show-in-progress, especially because the crowd is forming hate-walls to prevent her passage anywhere near the performers, and also now there are whizzy eye-daggers being tentatively hurled at me because it looks like I know the fool. Which I do not. "I'm taking her out of here," I plead, "lemme through!" Grudgingly the Rad Sea parts, and I manage to push her out the door. She's got two jackets in her hand, one of which she says belongs to her "Jewish friend." I assume aloud that she's not talking about me, and she says "You're not Jewish. Jewish boys hate me." I can only light cigarette #11 in response. Some folks loitering on a car hood recognize and hail her, but a quick poll of these sub-hip scenesters (they have kind of Jersey air about them, though they're probably just NYU students from the Midwest) reveals that they just met her tonight, and her name is Therésè (see, I knew she looked Canadian). They don't know if she's on anything, but they don't think so, and yeah, her pupils are normal. But she seems so... freaky. Wooden, wide-eyed, semicoherent, oblivious to the fact that she pissed off a lot of skinny revelers with extremely dangerous shoes. I'd hate to see her get Blahniked to death or whatever. After enduring a twenty-minute volley of questions about her chemical intake, Therésè decides it's time to get back to the show, it being Saturday night and all. J.Ro. (who followed us out because she loves to watch a quality train wreck) and I grab a bicep apiece just as she's about to slip past the girl at the door -- who has a stamp pad and lip gloss but lacks a clue -- and pull her curbwards for a chat. Don't be a freak, we beg, secretly wishing that she will be a freak, of course. But I'm feeling a little responsible now that I've removed her, because people are starting to call me a hero, which is of course true. I am a hero who needed a cigarette and can smell a potential post in the offing. "Maybe you don't want to let her back in," J.Ro suggests to StampGirl, waggling her eyebrows meaningfully in Therésè's direction as I try to distract her with shiny objects. "Oh, no, she's cool, she paid already!" chirps Stamper, still not getting it. After several more unsuccessful hints, J.Ro and I agree silently that Our Work Is Done Here, and furthermore that We Tried To Warn Them. "Just be cool, hokay?" I say, employing the intense eye-contact prescribed for admonishing ten-year-olds who make armpit fart-noises at funerals. She warmly agrees to behave, and leans forward to lick... my... cheek. I release her arm with a hot-stove jerk. Shudder. Light cigarette #16. (Story concludes tomorrow...) Monday, September 22, 2003
I have a fun story from Saturday, but first I have to complain about the fact that Dictionary.com is a collection of fucking asshats. I want definitions and I want them for free. I don't want to get a message that says "log in for the definition of twitterpated at Webster's Millennium™ Dictionary of English, available only to Dictionary.com Premium Members" (emphases all theirs).
The fuck is this shit? Who is the poobah of definition hierarchy that decides whether a word is cool enough that people will pay money rather than continue living without its meaning? Fuck. This happens to me all the time. I looked it up somewhere else. Harumph. Thursday, September 18, 2003
So I'm a little dizzy when I get back to the physical therapy office after changing into my normal clothes, both from all the exercise and from the fact that I just saw an upscale business-type dude blowdrying his asscrack in the locker room. Oh yes, vigorously he dried his crack, with the deft wrist-flicks that bespeak years of practice. And he stared intently into the mirror as he did so, and lo he was hairy as hell, and the dopplering whoosh whoosh whoosh of the dryer almost made the stream of air seem solid, like an invisible lightsaber. Please, stop. Seriously, stop it, mister. Ugh. I need to sit down. Rich people are so fucking weird.
The girls behind the PT reception desk have a question for me. "How do you know what the book is about?" asks the cute Asian girl, pointing to my copy of Vineland, which I'd left on a massage table. Sure enough the book has no writing at all on the back cover, and furthermore no reviews or synopses or whatever on the inside either. And I'm like "I never read the blurbs anyway," with a dismissive fling of my arm, which instead of looking nonchalant makes me seem like some kind of explosive spastic. The receptionists trade glances, and the more typical Queens receptionist girl (seriously, is there some DOL receptionist-breeding incentive program in Queens? Because 90% of all receptionists, EVERYWHERE, are from Queens) insists: "but then how do you know what it's ABOUT," like I'm pulling her leg. And I just want to scream at her "THERE IS A MAN BLOWDRYING HIS ASSCRACK IN THE LOCKER ROOM. HIS ASS. CRACK." But instead I go off on some endorphin-muddled tangent about Gravity's Rainbow and Play-Doh and half-sour pickles and the pluralization of latin words like scapula. As I stagger out of the Equinox gym that envelops the PT place, I giddily entertain the delusion that I am the hippest person ever to have set foot inside it. (This happens to me all the time.) Then two skinny greasy indie rockers slouch past me on the street and I get pissed, because they see me wearing a button-down shirt, and in the instantaneous sidewalk game of Fashion Stratego, they outrank my stupid ass by at least three. No wait, rockers! I'm usually dirty and slouchy too! Ah fuck it. They obviously don't have jobs. They probably eat cereal for every meal -- if that -- and their pointy-shoed girlfriends have to pay for their stupid Budweisers. Damn. I hate my shoes. I need new sneakers. Tuesday, September 16, 2003
You can talk to me in the morning if you must, but please do not expect me to remember anything. I may look humanoid, but pre-coffee I am strictly on autopilot, driven around like a Japanese robot suit by tiny microorganisms called "midichlorians." I can't see you. I can't hear you. I can respond to stimuli, but only reflexively.
There was this girl once, on the F. She got my attention from across the aisle (because no one but no one gives up a seat on the F train for a conversation) and was like "did you go to W____?" (W____ being the name of my elementary school.) To which the reflex robots replied "yee-eess?" with what they thought was a sly, inquisitive smirk, but actually looked like a spasmic rictus of agony caused by scrotal tattooing. "Me too," she chirped, with the kind of energy usually reserved for the afternoon, "are you Jeremy?" The flexbots didn't try anything funny here: "Yes." They closed my book (which I don't read in the mornings, it's just a prop to make me look smart and keep me from dozing, because dozing leads to slack-jawed drooling, and that doesn't look smart at all), as this was obviously going to be a polysyllabic, polysentence communication. The chipper schoolmate said "my name is ______." And here is the problem, see? I have NO IDEA what her name is. Zero. Reflexbots do not take good notes. Nor do they take pictures, because I have NO IDEA WHAT SHE LOOKS LIKE, EITHER. Arrggh! We had a nice long chat, too. About schools and jobs and books and rainbows and ponies. Always ponies. But after that? Poof. File not found, dude. Four-oh-fucking-four. This wouldn't be a problem for some people, but I am a sensitive soul, and I can't help thinking that she is staring at me expectantly every morning, just for a grunt or eyebrow-wiggle of acknowledgement, and I stare blankly back at her, like the coldest brush-off artist fuckwad ever; staring into her eyes and pretending she's not there, eroding years of shored-up self-confidence (I imagine that she is short), making her smile muscles dance in confusion as they oscillate between hopeful grin and desperate frown. I couldn't have known. But I'm not too cool for school, I swear it. Just nearsighted and sleepy. So don't talk to me before the coffee. You're not talking to me. I will not honor any promises made by the robots in my body during the morning commute. Your coupon is no longer valid. You can't get there from here. Try me in the evening. I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sorry. Thursday, September 11, 2003
Happy September 11th everybody!!!
Is everybody doing something fun tonight? I know there's not all that much going on compared to LAST September 11th, which was a real blast. Chamber orchestras playing in every city park, large commemorative speeches, children's choirs, free movies at a lot of local theaters, many, many performances and readings, and even a visit from the President of the United States! Zinky! So we couldn't really live up to the madness of LAST September 11th, which -- despite the help of Joan Osborne and President George Bush -- couldn't really outdo the September 11th previous to itself, in which 3000 people were killed in a blazing inferno approximately 1 mile from where I now sit. Some people tried to argue that the September 11th 30 years ago today, in which the CIA assassinated Chilean leader Salvador Allende in order to put Pinochet in place, thus kicking the Chilean civil war into full gear, was the best September 11th ever, but I think they're just mad because EVERYBODY pays attention the one that happened 2 years ago. I guess our President has given up on trying to make it that good, because he barely even seems to remember what exactly happened, even though he talks about it all the time; sort of like those people who talk about Woodstock all the time, even though when you hear about it later, they weren't even THERE. HE'S started calling it PATRIOT day, when it's totally September 11th. I mean, when you think about it, patriots don't even have anything to do with it! He crazy. Donald Rumsfeld certainly remembers the one 2 years ago, because I saw him on TV yesterday sensitively mentioning that the Sultan of Oman told him 9/11/2001 was a "blessing in disguise," because it galvanized the world to action, and maybe by having a 9/11 where 3,000 people died, we prevented one from happening where 30,000 die. Of course, I think Rumsfeld might have been holding back in order not to disappoint us; surely he must expect that he's been all but GUARANTEEING a future September 11th where at LEAST 30,000 people die, but I think he wants us to be surprised. I just know we've got a bigger and better September 11th coming up. But in the meantime, Happy September 11th everybody! Next year in Jerusalem! Wednesday, September 10, 2003
No post tomorrow, because my bosses gave us the day off for September 11. This is yet another aspect of why my job is cool. It's funny -- one of the bosses tried to justify the day off as a security concern, saying "I'm not worried about terrorists per se. Real ones. I'm more worried about our homegrown crazies. Because we're so close to Grand Central, and who knows what kind of weirdo is just gonna flip his lid on the anniversary and do something stupid, and I don't want us in the office if something like that happens, not that I think anything will happen, but just in case, I'd just rather y'all were safe at home, and not here, at the office, so close to so many potential targets. You know? It's the homegrown crazies you gotta worry about," and so on for about fifteen minutes. He repeated the term "homegrown crazies" so many times, it was like he was rehearsing something, or like maybe that thing happened where a word sounds wrong when you say it too much (Michelob. Michelob. Michelob. Michelob. Mickle-oab. Mickel-oab. Michelob. Mick-a-lobe. Mikka-lobe? Mickle-lowba. Macka-lacka. Mams mams mamsa!).
But really, you see, he was trying to find a way to justify wanting a day off work for emotional reasons -- without copping to his emotions. (Oh yeah, he's the lawyer in the office.) Like he can't just say "We should have a day off because something horrible happened here two years ago and it's traditional to observe such anniversaries with solemnity, reflection, and without working," because even that is too emo for his ass! Dudes, I love going to work. If I had to stay home all day and make music, or write, or get paid to create beautiful things, I would inflate to Jabba-size and die of frantic apathy within a year. I looove work like Robin, Claudia, Claire, [insert everyone else in world's name here, separated by commas] and Maggie hate it. And I am not going to work tomorrow. Even if I didn't have the day off, I wouldn't come in. And the fact that I hate what is being done in the name of nanalala only amplifies the tragedy, while cheapening it at the same time. Tomorrow is my day to be sad, my one day of the year. If you feel like it, I'll be having a picnic with some friends by the picnic house in Prospect Park tomorrow, noon, nanalala. Tuesday, September 09, 2003
I don't know how long this link will remain live, but for the moment I will use Alyssa Milano to illustrate everything I hate about Los Angeles. Don't worry, if the link goes dead, it will only take me a few picoseconds to locate another illustration.
Yes, look at her, seen here in a film still from Dickie Whatever Blah Child Whatever. Whateverr. Tan, thin, disproportionate boobs, irritatingly clichéd tattoo on her wrist, and a FUCKING COWBOY HAT. I can't see her hoop earrings, but I can guarantee they're close by, probably in that giant circular suitcase -- her giant hoop earring suitcase, right? This is Milano as Sheryl Crow, by which I mean one facet of the L.A. Woman trichotomy: Sheryl, Marilyn, and... oh, I don't know. Maybe David Geffen. There are only Maidens and Mothers, because no Crones are allowed, but Sheryl Crow(ne) is the closest you get: leathery, world-weary, hungover, and STILL gonna fall for every drunken scumbag with a pair of shades and a car. WHICH IS EVERYBODY. There are only two things L.A. has over, oh let's say New York: 1) sweat evaporates faster, and 2) In 'N' Out Burger. That's it. Therefore, everyone in L.A. is an idiot. Actors are stupid! Stupid and ignorant! Oh! Viz last night we caught this new show called The Joe Schmo Show which is fucking genius squared, especially if you're a fan of Survivor, which, yes, shut up, but I am. Shut it. TJSS is fake, and all for the benefit of this one guy, and even though the fake "contestants" are supposed to represent these diverse reality show types from all over America (schemer, asshole, bitch), they are all still Los Angeles fucktards. Talking earnestly about how hard it is to fool an idiot all the time. Talking about their "craft!" Not kidding! Glaaargle Fuck! Take your craft and wrap it around Hollywood's fat johnson, you airbrushed nincompoops! Thalia and Melpomene are not skin-care products! Why doesn't anyone ever acknowledge that "hummer" is slang for a blowjob? Everyone knows this! AAARGH. ALSO: Will somebody please send me a pithy quote about the unbridgeable gulf between ideation and execution? Because this post, like every other one, existed in my head as a coherent, Swiftian romp, and then look what happened:a fetid puddle of rambling, ADDlebrained garbage. Monday, September 08, 2003
I am a failure at dreaming. I don't have nightmares, which is okay with me on the surface, but I understand that it means I'm denied part of the rich variety of sleep experience, and it's another sign of my emotional dwarfism. But my real failure is more terrible than your foulest goo-dripping polyheaded bogeyman, and the more I think about it, the more worried I get.
Shouldn't my conscience stay out of my dreams? Shouldn't my superego go on a temporary vacation when I drift off? Shouldn't my dreams differ, in some appreciable way, from my real life? Because they don't. Hardly at all. The ONLY thing I can recall from last night's dream was a bit where I put down a water bottle with too much force, splashing some drops onto a Yamaha synthesizer. I immediately got up and unplugged the keyboard to prevent a short circuit that could have damaged the machine. WHAT THE FUCK? Can my brain just allow me to be reckless or irresponsible for one hot minute? I swear that I have had numerous dreams which might have ended up as the wet variety, except for the fact that I refused to have sex with some dream woman because I didn't have any dream condoms. Oh yes. That's right. I have also abstained from numerous dream antics because a) they involved the destruction of property or b) I had to get up early for work the next day. Say what? Unbe-fucking-lieveable. You see the problem here. My dream life is essentially indistinguishable from my real life, and perhaps even more dull. Sure, there are rich scenes in fantastic, physics-defying locales, but what's the point if I can't fuck a mermaid now and then? Or if I stop flying up and down staircases to take an antihistamine? This is why I'm insomniac -- I've got nothing to look forward to. (Well, I'm fairly sure that my back doesn't hurt in my dreams, but then again, I also seem to remember spending some dreamtime doing stretches.) What does it say about me that I live by a strict moral code in the one place where I'm expected not to? Yes, okay. Say it along with anthrochica: Control Freak. I am a stupid, awful, unrelenting control freak. Please dream about me, my solemn dogs, and tell me about all the adventures I have in your dreams, because mine are shite. ZP shared a wonderful dream about me -- I can't recall the details, but I think I was a Sex Pirate. Now we're talking. Tell me more, friends. More. Thursday, September 04, 2003
As noted previously, my back is fucked. My scoliosis wasn't detected in high school because Stuyvesant had a relaxed attitude towards gym class. Well, I had a relaxed attitude toward gym class, anyway. I was either sick, cutting, or out with a forged doctor's note on the days they were supposed to test us for spinal twistery. So my curvature progressed apace, uncorrected by any futuristic Fakir Mustapha-style bondage brace. We've been over this, haven't we? So let's skip ahead.
The pain just got worse over the years, no matter how much time I spent avoiding any kind of physical labor, exertion, or movement; no matter how many cigarettes I smoked and movies I watched; no matter how many bacon egg & cheese sandwiches I consumed. I am a poster boy for un-health (and here's the poster), but all my friends are viable candidates for the Slothful Feckless Fuck of the Year award, too. It's not just that we don't exercise, or eat right, or exhibit any symptoms of self-preservation. It's that we actively despise anybody who does. We would never be seen in public in sweatclothes. Owning ANY kind of fitness equipment is an unforgivable transgression against taste, and even an ironic late-night telepurchase of a ThighMaster would fall outside the protective umbrella of Camp. Jogging? It's not even worth the effort to disdain. With a peer group like that, I was doomed from the start, right? I asked my mom about this recently: UD: I don't get it. You and Dad are both fairly healthy, active people. Why'd I turn out like this? I need to exercise. Mom: Hey -- are you feeling okay? UD: Well, obviously not. Mom: No, I said "are you feeling okay" because you said "I need to exercise." You know, like: "who are you, and what have you done with my son." UD: Oh, right. Heh. But seriously, if my friends had been more healthy when I was younger, maybe I wouldn't have turned out so fucked. Mom: But you never liked healthy people. It's not like you were kidnapped by slobs and forced to adopt their habits. UD: Well, couldn't you have guided me towards healthier kids? Or like forbade me to hang with the sickly ones? [pause] Mom: You're kidding, right? How would that have gone, exactly? "Dear adolescent son, please clean your room, do your homework, and select a peer group of higher quality to ensure your future health?" UD: Yeah, ok. But maybe before I was an adolescent? Mom: We sent you to that afterschool sports program. Do you remember? UD: Oh. Mom: Do you remember what that was like? [pause] UD: Oh GOD! I do! It was absolute torture. They hated me. Always put me in waaay right field for baseball, and picked me last for everything. Punched and kicked me! Fuck! That's it! It was trauma! I'm unhealthy because of those protojock fuckheads and their abusive alpha cocksuckery! Mom: Oh whatever. Quit blowing smoke in my face. UD: Do you think they maybe molested me on the bus and I've suppressed the memory? Those raping monsters! Mom: Please give me a small break for once. Puh-lease. UD: [muttering under breath] Those bastards. Mom: How's physical therapy? UD: It is awful. Awful awful awful. Mom: Good. Proud of you.
Well, it's a stopgap solution, peeps, but until my sworn enemy Hossein Sharifi fixes his truculent server, you can read UD doppelposts at my LiveJournal, where you can leave comments, and if you have pictures the comments are all pretty and shit. Unless, of course, you are ugly.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
As most long-term readers know, I have two official roommates. If I'm RM1, RM2 is Pussy Willow, who used to write on this very blog before she decided to devote her full attention to the oral satisfaction of freight-hopping vagabonds. RM3 has only been referred to here as Heroic Third Roommate for last summer's triumph over vermin, realized with only a rolled up issue of Wired and balls of brass. Then there's RM4, the one who's made of AOL promo CDs. I guess you could count the upstairs neighbors ("the Pirates") as spiritual RMs; we certainly live with them every day. (Ask me sometime about The Pirates. It's sad when an entire family is cursed to wear peglegs, dance jigs, and move trunks full of treasure around their apartment 24 HOURS A DAY.)
Well, I have a new roommate. It pays no rent, because it is a monster. Not like your down-on-his-luck cousin who's been aromafying your couch for a week, no. Like a terrible, flapping, fluttering, scuttling thing. I don't know what it is, but I hate it. I first saw it Saturday night, hurtling out of my room along the floor and under one of the living room couches. Acting on pure instinct -- Wham! -- I flung my shoe under the couch like Byung-hyun Kim. I then stood on one shoe, stupidly, horrified. Whatever that thing was, I had just given it my shoe. Fuck. Pure instinct can suck a fat cock. Monster: 1, UD: 0. The rest of the night I danced around that couch like it was leaking radioactive poo, and found a stick (yes, a stick!) with which I could retrieve my sneaker. The monster was hibernating, I suppose, or resting after a hearty meal of children's eyeballs. At first I thought it was a giant cockroach, the stars of my personal nightmare theater. But it moved too fast. A mouse? Maybe. A man can dream, can't he? I can handle the vermin that share my phylum. I was sleepy before I saw that sumbitch, but he woke me like a stack of white crosses chased with Mountain Dew. As I awoke the next morning from uneasy dreams I found myself transformed in my bed into a giant backache. The stress of living with an unidentified, unslaughtered monster ratchets my spinal muscles into elevator cables. Mostly Sunday was uneventful. Maybe the monster left us for the pungent week-old trashpile just out the window, in the "courtyard"? Ha! Ha to the word "courtyard" and ha to the idea of monster exodus. At 2am, weak, half-nakies, and woefully unshod, I peripherally spied the transit of a brown something in the kitchen. A flutter from the dishrack to the teapot on the stove. Oh god. A flutter. I mean come on. Too fast for a crawler, but too weird for a flying cockroach. Too... cartwheely for a stupid mouse. I swear, it tumbled like a piece of windblown debris, like a crumpled negative caught in a gust. Rattle tumble. And in an instant: poof. As gone as Keyser Soze. Somebody help me. I think they are breeding in the stove. Oh sweet holy mother of fuck, I can hear them breeding! |
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" |
