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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Friday, October 31, 2003
Well, unlike half of my readership, I don't have mono and I don't plan on getting it, so I'm going out tonight dressed as an artist's rendering of famous terrorist. Is this a bad idea? Am I asking for trouble? I'll have a package, tied up with string and addressed to a Computer Science professor at MIT, and at some point I will have to ride the subway. There will be a huggamajillion police officers on the street tonight, and they're at some kind of ultra-twitchy Department of Homeland Security MegaVigilant Supersaturated 100% Magenta Alert level. I don't want to trigger some kind of automatic wanted-poster-related target practice reflex in one of those ephedrine-popping third shifters.
The problem with cops? No sense of humor. They have other problems, but you can trace them all to the humor thing. It would be fun, on Halloween, to pretend that every cop you see is just a dude dressed up as a cop. You know, you grab his gun and say "freeze, pig! You have the right to eat a bowl of dick!" and then fire a couple of shots in the air. Ha! I think you could get away with it, too. Just explain to the judge that it was an honest mistake: "the guy was waaay too fat to have passed a police physical and waaaaaay too stupid to have passed a written test -- or at least it seemed that way when I heard him screaming racist epithets at the gay dude he was beating to death." And when you address the judge, say "your honor" with little finger quotes, as if you think he's just in costume too. And you should keep looking around the courtroom with a smirk, checking under tables and such, and let it be known that you believe the whole proceeding is just part of a hidden camera reality show. Then, when you're in jail, you can try the same thing with the guards and Big Sam, your affectionate roommate: "you better keep your big mitts off me, Sam, or I'm'a shank you in the yard tomorrow! With a shiv I made! Right here in 'the joint!' No, you shut up! Ha ha!" Then you can mock the coroner's long white "dress!" Um... sorry. I'm gonna wait til I get to the party to put on the costume, maybe. Have fun, kids. And check out the pix page for a new mustache theory pic. Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Halloween combines so many terrible fears into one night that I'm amazed people leave the house. First of all, there are kids everywhere, which if you've seen any kids recently you know they are scarier than ebola ice cream with hanta sprinkles. Second, your costume must pass some nebulous muster, the arbiters of which are invisible but omnipresent; if you just paint on a fake beauty mark and call yourself Madonna, you're practically begging for a razor apple to the head, which kids today actually carry around to hurl at lamely costumed twentysomethings. Third, candy makes you fat, and you are legally obliged to consume at least 300 mini peanut butter cups before the November 5 premiere of Matrix Unreconstructed. Fatty.
Gregor is pissed about missing the parties this year and wants us to tell him they sucked. Well, guess what? They will. What could possibly make them good? I'll tell you what: the patented UD Neoprene Morphine Harness, which would suspend each partygoer from the ceiling in a state of mumbling, drooling, and non-chafing euphoria. It would look like that scene from Coma, but with slightly less brain death and a lot less Tom Selleck. And another thing. You know that boilerplate "Halloween Safety Tips" list that gets republished in every crappy family newspaper and mag every year? The warning that creeps me the fuck out is: "Wear light clothing so that you will be visible to cars." Well there's something wrong with that warning. Because Halloween is not the only time kids cross the stupid street. It shouldn't be more likely that kids would get hit on H'ween. So maybe demonically possessed drivers are actually trying harder to hit kids on H'ween, and the light clothing actually makes them easier targets. So if you really want to be safe, dress completely in black, tape stilettos to your hands, and run serpentine through your shitty little neighborhood as fast as you can. Do not collect candy, do not TP the yards of your Mr. Wilsons. If anyone asks what your costume is, say "your unsolved murderer," and stab them in the tummy. Then run, children! Run into the traffic! Monday, October 27, 2003
Well, I can exhale for the first time in weeks -- though it may cause the death of nearby vegetation -- because HTR and I have found a new roommate to replace the redoubtable Pussy Willow. This lifted weight feels like a fat nephew who I'd been carrying on my scoliotic shoulders has been plucked away by a slavering raptor and carried flailingly (but cinematically) into the sunset.
The new roommate, who has yet to move in and therefore has no blog-appropriate moniker, was by far the coolest of the contestants. Everybody wins. Please watch this space for updates, as I settle back into my normal stress-free thought patterns, which produce the drooling rants that keep you coming back here like whipped puppies begging forgiveness for things they never did wrong. Thank you all for you support, even though in the end it added up to exactly nothing. Thanks for nothing! Friday, October 24, 2003
<downtrodden>Hi, again, everyone</downtrodden>
I'm back again for my biennial posting, tail between my consumptive legs. I tend to equate temp jobs with abject suffering, and today -- my one-day return to the temping world for the first time in a month -- is no exception, as I am simultaneously dying from TB and wondering if I like the new direction my life is taking me, as it keeps me away from the reassuring glow of the monitor's screen. I've actually been doing fairly steady film production jobs for the past month, and have lied my way into another one next weekend, working as chief camera-person alongside my competitive boyfriend and resenting the fact that I am missing Halloween in order to film non-holiday freaks. Can this possibly be worth it? The b/f seems to think it is, especially since we -- as he puts it -- "have spent the last 6 months partying!", and are thus not in need of spooky fun. I keep hoping that this will suddenly turn into a Charlie Brown-style cartoon, wherein even though it seems like we are going to have a lonely, morose Halloween away from our loving friends and family, suddenly they all take heart at the last moment and show up in costume at the Econolodge in Godforsaken, NJ, and some bands start playing, and we all have the best Halloween ever, and then Gael Garcia Bernal is there and he starts hitting on me, and the b/f says "it would make me happy to see you have sex with Gael Garcia Bernal," and then I win a million dollars and am a world-famous writer and director and all my dead relatives come back to life and don't even go after my brains. Unfortunately, this is probably not going to happen. What will happen, I am aware, is that I will pass out after filming, and wake up the next morning depressed. So could everybody do me a favor? Can everybody just tell me Halloween sucked the worst ass possible this year, and then promise me you are telling the truth when I don't believe you? Can you come up with all the dull, painful, or cataclysmic details that I need to believe I'm really glad I wasn't there? Can you say everybody's costume sucked? Please? I don't want to miss Halloween. I am sad, and I have consumption. Thursday, October 23, 2003
My shoulder muscles feel like frightened cats, and no amount of rubbing or attention seems to calm them down. How many stressors can be stacked on one hapless fucktard? My Job-like existence would have crushed a lesser man, but happily I am a greater man, so I just feel like a wind-up toy with his feet taped down. Here is the short list of my woes:
• I am growing a beard for my Halloween costume (the Unabomber police sketch, which really only requires a mustache), and it is itchy as fuck. • I hate eating, and yet here is some stupid food in front of my goddamn face, just like every day. • I must find somebody to live in my apartment, but soon. • Why does Gregor love blowing hobos so much? Does he have a problem? Is it intervention time? • lo told me yesterday that my planned Halloween costume has been done, done, by somebody in a satellite peer group that it would be impolitic (or at least frightfully unhip) to emulate, or to even be perceived of as imitating. • Which is weird because my regular Halloween costume is deliberately unoriginal specifically so as to avoid the problem of appearing like I believe I'm original in any way, which I don't. Usually I dress as a bee, because it's one of the few costumes that is improved by the presence of other people wearing the same costume. Why am I fucking with a good thing? This protobeard itches like fuck! • I have to go to NJ for the weekend but all kinds of wrenches are being introduced into the geartrain by potential roommate interviews. I'm tired! • Does my hair look okay? No, really. LOOK AT ME. • When am I going to find my calling, the special thing I was destined to do? Because I'm pretty sure that, whatever you wanna call the stuff I'm doing now, THIS AIN'T IT. • Who let the dogs out? • Is the new Matrix sequel going to kick enough ass? Because I swear, if Morpheus takes even one more step with his hands folded smugly behind his stupid back like that, I am going to jump into the matrix and ninja those fucking pince-nez down his smirky throat. • Damn those Yankees, couldn't they have lost in the last round so I wouldn't have to watch any stupid fucking baseball in October? I have BETTER THINGS to do. LIKE TYPING IN ALL CAPS. • Am I actually prepared for a zombie attack? I know I talk a good game, and I give advice to everybody else about it, but could I really blow J.Ro's face off with a fucking shotgun if she came at me, undead, rotting, and baying for brains? Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Not that you care, you cold-hearted selfish pleasure-seekers, but I am In The Shit. After a week and a half of assiduous searching for a roommate to fill Pussy Willow's soon-to-be-vacant room, our plans, which seemed so solid, have crumpled like rotting flesh off a zombie's face. People, it seems, can be flaky. Maybe my mistake was only posting the listing on craigslist, on the assumption that it would attract like-minded people. Heh. I guess it worked, because in general the applicants seem to be lazy, bored, and attention-deficient. Fate has a sense of humor. Fuck.
First of all, we ignored all inquiries from men, because as I have stated before, I don't like men at all (the exceptions being of course any men who read this site -- you are obviously chicks at heart; deal with it). Living with all boys is a situation that has historically made me uncomfortable, to the extent that in college I moved out of my all-male quad and into the room next door, where I shared a twin bed with a sympathetic girl for the duration of the semester. Girls rock. Without a girl in the house, the hormone balance just gets fucked up. So anyway, we interviewed several women who seemed, from their emails, less than completely insane. This severe winnowing process meant we saw about four people total, because there were serveral no-shows. Fuck shit! But last night we offered the place to a perfectly nice girl who really wanted to live with us. I know this because she said so, repeatedly, in emails and phone calls. She was therefore glad to hear that the place was hers if she wanted it. Yay. All sewn up. Time for a beer, or whatever. But no, no, wait! Because two hours later she calls with a story about a furious sometime-S.O. who wanted them to live together, and so blah blah, you know, no go. And blah blah shut up come on now i mean COME ON NOW PEOPLE. What does a man have to do? Sacrifice live goats? Bribe the Maître d'? Ask for help? I am not ready for another week of this uncertainty and stress. Send someone tolerable my way. Friday, October 17, 2003
The window in my office looks out into the middle of the city block, which like all New York City blocks has a lot of odd negative space, different rooftop arrangements with clots of HVAC apparatus, back doors, and fire escapes. The building directly opposite mine has a series of 4' x 5' balcony things that jut from each floor, connecting the flammable part of the building to the fire staircase. Each tiny platform is naturally, then, choked with shivering blue-shirted smokers at all times. It's a testament to our boredom that we derive great enjoyment from staring at these losers.
Usually it's a fun game to guess which of the blue-shirted asshats across the way is going to date-rape the receptionist this weekend, but today afforded a purer joy. I just saw a shoe tumbling through the air! It was a retarded-looking green suede Hush Puppy, and it spiraled pleasingly down like a soft-soled bomb. I looked up and saw the chumpy owner staring miserably down from the top floor, barking into his cell phone, which I kinda hoped would get torn from his greasy ear by a strong gust, but no such luck. Heh. Double heh. Simple pleasures. Thursday, October 16, 2003
I have a feeling that weather-talk is a vestige of the days that weather killed people more often than it does now. Like today if somebody says "looks like a storm comin' in" you might make a mental note to remember your umbrella, whereas in older days you might have made a mental note to SHIT YOUR PANTS, because the wind already up'n took two of yer kin last week and hurled 'em over yonder crick, and there ain't 'nuff rope in Texas to tie ALL yer cousins to a big rock. You know? But so now that we in the first world have mastered the mysteries of reinforced concrete, ain't so much pants-shitting necessary. SO WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME ABOUT THE WEATHER? I HAVE A RADIO TOO. ALSO A TV. ALSO THIS NEWSPAPER RIGHT HERE UNDER MY ARM. Gllllaaaarrrgle!
Well, it's related to a revelation I had about sports last night. (I often have revelations that are simplistic but profound, like when you figure out that Santa isn't real -- I don't expect you to be impressed, but I do expect you to read attentively, because I'm going to pepper my writing with a lot of made-up dirty words, like "slunt" and "bohunksucker.") So anyway I was accosted this morning, as always, by the concierge of the office building, who wanted to chat about the heartbreak of the Cubbies. The "Cubbies." Which is fine, okay. He also wanted to know whether I was excited for tonight's game, which the answer is yes, but in a very nervous, cramping-and-reflux kind of way. It reminded me of last night, where a bunch of waiters at the steakhouse were crowded around a five-inch b&w TV to watch the Yankees implode in game six. And I was gladdened, friends, because score updates kept filtering through the restaurant like an informational bucket brigade. No, no... like a case of the clap in a circle of friends. Of slunts. No jolly irony here: I was actually glad. And sometime overnight I realized the true function of sports: to give idiots something to talk to ME about so that I don't have to listen to their fucktarded political notions or their take on the Post's cover story. I'm not interested, dude, that you think Iraq should be turned into a plane of molten glass by our righteous "low-yielt" nukes, and I'm not even going to bother to explain how you're wrong about everything you say, because some ignorances are so fucking cellular that they define their owners, as in your case: you are He Who Don't Know Shit about Shit and Ain't Never Gonna. Unless, of course, that shit is sports-related. In which case you are Steve Hawking, but with slightly less drool. I can listen to some bohunksucker's theories about Joe Torre's pitching changes because I do not feel a strong desire to correct, argue with, or kill people who only expound on sports. I just don't care! At least you sound like you know what you're talking about, though you're just parroting a mélange of ideas from the announcers of last night's game. But if you say one more word about terrorists, I am seriously going to fuck your throat with this umbrella, and then I'm going to open it, which is bad luck for you. Tuesday, October 14, 2003
And then there's this article from the ever-intriguing MSN "Dating & Personals" Section, which hotmail is always throwing in my face: "Gentlemen prefer... brains?" Unfortunately, the article doesn't mention zombies even once. It's "about" how "guys" prefer "smart" girls to "pretty" girls. This dubiously pat conclusion was reached through a highly scientific experiment where they asked e-dating men whether they would prefer beauty or brains in the "perfect long-term partner."
Wha? How exactly is that kind of "poll" conducted? Maybe they showed them two jars -- one containing a boob and one containing a brain -- and they were like "pick one of these jars to weigh down your stack of pornos," and then hit the men in the nuts with a hammer until they made a choice? Are men who use online dating services really America's best source for generalized info about male behavior? How 'bout we interview America's comic-book store clerks and ask them if they prefer women with psychic powers or women who can fly? Fake-ass binary methodology aside, and ignoring the fact that it's all stupid fucktardation, I'm just not sure at whom this article is targeted. Who is suprised by the "results," and who is supposed to be heartened by it? Let's examine the possibilities: Smart, Pretty girls (SP), if they're smart and pretty enough, are not reading dating columns -- they're reading Universal Donor. Maybe this article is meant to discourage SPs from hiding their brains. Of course, the best way to do this is to saw off the top of their skulls. Smart, Ugly girls (SU) are probably the main target of the article, and are going to be frustrated by the trite and condescending oversimplification of the act of attraction. Then they will look in the mirror, mumbling their SAT scores out loud while making the sultriest faces they can muster. Then they will read books in which muscular hunks rape (and eventually fall in love with) smart ugly women. Dumb, Pretty girls (DP) don't need dating services, and probably can't use the internet because they can't see through the film of semen coating their eyeballs. Dumb, Ugly girls (DU) can only feel terrible when they read the article (just as they feel terrible when they read women's magazines, or watch TV, or when they step outside the house), because in MSN's view they have nothing to offer the world. Take heart, DUs! You are not useless! Our cities need crack whores, and our meat processing plants need people who can sort hog knuckles! And please don't forget that even though you are repulsive to every living thing, Jesus still loves you. Yay Jesus! He'll fuck anybody, once they get to heaven! Pray hard! Yay! Yay! Yay!
Guess who's in charge of policing Iraq? Well judging by this picture from the cover story of yesterday's NY Times, it's laid-off dot-commers. Look at that guy! Aside from the Kalashnikov, he's totally in internet boom uniform: khaki pants, blue shirt, and some access/ID tags on shoelaces around his neck. I wondered where those smug motherfuckers went. Turns out they're Iraqi po-po! Baghdad 5-0!
Thursday, October 09, 2003
What I don't understand is why do so many of these spam subject lines say things like "$mash PUssy Walls With your m0nstrous Johns0n!"? First of all, I think the phrase "pussy walls" is a little odd, but mostly it's the demolition aspect that tweaks me. Whatever ever happened to making sweet love down by the fire? Or in a trailer down by the river? Or in a trailer on fire down by the glue factory?
I can't remember the last time I saw a pretty girl and wanted to smash any part of her with anything -- let alone my j0hns0n -- but I suspect that's what separates me from your average, red-blooded, red-bloodying American. Yet another humiliating example of why I will never fit into mainstream society. But I will give it a shot, if you want me to, America. "Oh mercy! That girl two rows ahead of me at this art lecture is simply scrumptious! Those Marc Jacobs spectacles! The delicate snood 'round that casual bun in her hair, further adorned with ebony chopsticks! Her questions for Mr Rauschenberg were so insightful, and on top of all that she appears to be reading my favorite book! I wonder if she would let me destroy her 'vagina walls' with my throbbing cockhammer? I shall ask her over by the hors d'oeuvres." Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Oh and I guess I forgot to mention that the San Francisco video shoot for the Land of Nod song What's Your Name?, the reason for my whole trip, was fabulous. It was a guerilla-style, shoestring operation with a skeleton crew and grapefruit rinds for shoes, or whatever, but it was fun to get kicked out of several locations by navy-blazered security drones. The video will feature a giant robot costume, a pan-Asian dance corps, and a guitar solo scene where I make ridiculous "rock faces," according to the cameraman Bourgie T. Here is a picture of the core crew at our farewell breakfast. Notice that the director B.Perks has even longer monkey arms than I do, which allows him to take wide-angle self-portraits. As soon as I see a rough cut, you will too.
ANYWAY back to complaining about Los Angeles: I decided to start walking like Captain Jack Sparrow on Melrose, because being around Californians always makes me acutely aware of my comparative sobriety. Can I say again that everyone in Los Angeles is stoned all the fucking time? Seriously, there were seven people in Raekool's living room on Sunday, and the six people who weren't me each had a cute little "you put your weed in it" box -- one utilitarian film canister, two twee cameo snuffbox deals, a triumphantly emptied lip balm canister, and two of those long-dead dotcom souvenir giveaway circular mint tins that snap when you close them and potheads can't get enough of them, oh my fucking god. But so, on that rare pedestrian expedition, I tried to stumble around like Johnny Depp's POTC:TCOTBP Keith Richards impression, with my hair mussed and sunglasses askew, with my fag-hand help foppishly aloft at shoulder height so it was easier to take frequent drags and blow tuburcular gusts of smoke at girls with yoga mats. What's the point, man? Nobody notices anybody in California because everyone is already trying so hard to be so lookit-me-I'm-fucking-crazy-put-me-in-your-movie, and anyway, Angelenos can only see through automotive glass, so I was invisible. Yes, invisible. Me. So I upped the ante a little, buggering random dogs and homeless people with those serrated things that fall off palm trees, and I was nominated for Governor. But as sketchy as I was trying to be, I was hopelessly outsketched at 2am in the parking lot of Wendy's Donuts (Ashley: "Dude, I don't know what a place has to do to only get a 'C' rating from the health inspectors. Are you sure about this?" -- apparently on the California letter-grading cleanliness system, a "D" means 90% rat turd content -- but it's donuts, brah, I have no illusion of health here) by a Nolte-looking dude with the dirtiest white pants I'd ever seen who mumbled something so unnervingly incoherent at our car that I had to drop the Pirate impression and put on my NYC don't-fuck-wit-me face, which sadly required the removal of the giant purple sunglasses. Damn! Hate the game, not the playa! Can a nigga get a table dance? There were a few signs of life during my visit. Zorgot and I honked encouragingly at three high school girls who were walking through Marina del Rey with handmade don't-vote-for-Arnold placards, one of which had an amusing diagram of a swastika with a line through it -- a bold anti-swastika stance, blondie, and kudos for that. Go high school, it's ya berfday! Also, I had a revelation that I must pass on to you readers: if you are at a party and somebody says that you look sexy, you must kiss them immediately, without saying a word, and then walk away. Do not grope, do not fuck, do not collect $200, but remember that the more people you kiss, the sexier you look, so the trick is iterative: the more you kiss, the more you kiss, and kissing is good karma. The Buddha loved a good tonsil-washing. Report your successes to Maggie -- she loves that shit. Friday, October 03, 2003
Apropos of nothing, I gotta say that if John Kerry doesn't stop spamming my ass more than the dick enlargers, I'm gonna bring the hammer down -- Kilmer-style.
Anyway, I have a good story and a bad story from Los Angeles, which is kinda perfect for this stupid town, where I saw a guy earlier riding a skateboard in flip-flops. See what I mean? Ridiculous. Bad Story: Yesterday I was eating breakfast in Venice with J.Ro at a restaurant on Electric Avenue (yes, the very same) called The Brick House, which provides an al fresco dining area where legislatively disenfranchised smokers like us can indulge our addiction as we enjoy our omelettes. The outdoor tables are on a raised wooden platform with a railing, further sheltered from the street by some lush ficus plants or something. Our food hadn't come yet, but my coffee was soaking in, revving up my synapses, when a guy walked up to the fenced-in area, snaked his hand under the railing, took my cell phone, and bolted down the street. Then I was chasing him, though I don't know how that happened. I was sprinting as best I could, and I think I shouted something at him like DROP THE FUCKING PHONE YOU FUCKING FUCK, but I haven't sprinted for more than 40 seconds since like eighth grade, so as the cracky thief pulled away, I had to make a choice between continuing to run or continuing to breathe. I stopped in the middle of Brooks Street, heaving like ship in a storm, and Speedy McCrackhead dodged around a corner, disappearing down the rabbithole into the Venice ghetto. Some nice lady in a jeep who saw the chase gave me a lift back to the Brick, which was good because I was done. People were all kinds of freaked out, trying to figure out whether they should've called 911, but sensing that a snatched cell didn't qualify as an emergency in this universe. The waitress asked "was he black?" which is too bad, because she seemed nice otherwise. A fat guy told me to quick cancel my service, and J.Ro dialed my number on her cell and handed it to me. There was no answer. I wasn't too aggrieved by the situation, feeling that the dude certainly earned the phone with that sneaky behind-the-ficus move and the ensuing dash. Kudos, Snatchy McCrackerson. I looked up the nearest Sprint store, savoring the appropriateness of the company's name, and rode a stupid red one-speed bicycle along the beach to Wilshire to unsever my link to the world. I lost all the stored numbers, but I got more exercise than I have in years. My thighs are on fire. Woo! Good Story: This evening, walking with Morgan back to his car from a successful mission to the bookstore, two twentysomething girls walk up to me. One of them gets my attention. GIRL: Excuse me.... UD: Yeah? GIRL: Are you single? UD: Um... yes? GIRL: Okay. I just wanted to tell you that you're really cute. UD: Oh. Thanks! (pause) Wait -- would I have be less cute if I weren't single? GIRL: (walking away) No. But now I can think about you later. Hee. Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Working backwards from right now:
ITEM! I'm in Venice, CA again, only this time there is megadecibel shouting at the television courtesy of Raekool, who is angry at an obviously pro-Sox umpire who keeps calling Oakland-flung strikes balls. "OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT THE FUCK!" is the sensible response to such atrocities, bellowed at Bud-fueled, glass-shattering volume. It's good to be back. Out on Lincoln Boulevard (my favorite flavor of thoroughfare) there was a sign that said STEEL PLATES ON ROADWAY and it occurred to me that the residents of Los Angeles have never seen a RAISE PLOW sign, which accompanies plate warnings in more temperate climes. These freaks would flip their shit if they saw one, because, dude, what's a plow, brah? ITEM! The $40 SF to LA shuttle bus service bus had only seven passengers, including me and J.Ro, which says to me that they are operating at a significant loss, which is too bad because the craigslist rideshare scheme was a total flop, the only responders being a reticent gender-inspecific "Shelly" who kept flaketuating on the travel date and a timewarp hippie chick who apologized in advance for the state of her "shibby" van. So no thanks, kids. The bus was fine because I got the triple back seat by the lav, which gave me leg-stretching space and a chance to watch the same dude use the facilities six times, the last of which I wanted to be like "dude either you've got some serious intestinal distress or a seriously intense drug habit, and if it's the former I'm sorry but if it's the latter, dude, why don't you spread it around?" Heh. Or vice versa. But when I snuck a cigarette in the terlet, I detected a tangy odor from the sloshing fecal slurry that bespoke the presence of nasty GI parasites or something. Otherwise, the featureless scrub plains of midCalifornia slid by like hot butter in a skillet. ITEM! San Francisco has a lot of dirty crazy people who do not want music videos to be shot without extemporaneous editorials and unsolicited advice. Hey Toothless: there are artists at work here. Howbout you quit asking the robot questions and get out of the fucking shot? No, it is not a real robot. Yes, there is really a person in there. No, you should not punch the robot to make sure. NO WE DO NOT HAVE A SPARE CINCUENTA CENTAVOS FOR YOUR "BART TICKET," AND YOUR FORTIFIED-WINE HALLUCINATIONS OF RAPID TRANSIT ARE NOT THE SAME AS AN ACTUAL TRAIN RIDE. God DAMN. |
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" |
