UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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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, January 29, 2004
And now I'm reading Raymond Chandler, so:
The train platform is emptier when you're late to work, and you meet a better class of people. People who can roll into work at 11am look healthier, happier, and richer. The earlybirds on the 8am train are packed in like pencils in a blind man's cup, and it's a good thing because they couldn't stand erect without each other's downtrodden bodies to keep from falling down. My train pulls in nice and easy, and even the motorman looks like he ate a canary. Nice day, isn't it? Pleased to meetcha. Don't mind if I do. I get a seat with empties on either side, enough room for me to do my odalisque impression, but I'm not feeling quite that daffy. I just stick out my legs to let the melting slush drain off my boots into the creek of filth that runs down the middle of the car. This dame gets on at Jay Street wearing a parka that's trying to look dirty but can't quite keep a stright face about it, and besides she's walking like a supermodel in sneakers that cost more than the life of the man who made them. Every dame on the F train is a supermodel. Me? I work for a living. Well, that's not exactly true. But I do sit a desk with lots of work in front of me for a living. I've got a pile of papers that want attention, but I have a system where I put the newest, most important documents on the top of the pile, and the deeper they get, the more I forget what I'm supposed to do with them. Every day I take something from the bottom of the stack, stare at it with a serious look on my face for about five minutes, go to the fire staircase and have a cigarette, come back and throw out the piece of paper, and then fuck around on the internet for and hour or two. Then it's time for lunch. Tuesday, January 27, 2004
I used to love diners, really adore them, to the point of a cute high school obsession during which I made a zine about them. But then they passed a law about smoking in restaurants in New York, and I realized that what I really loved was smoking. So now I only go to the diner once a week or so, and I only stay as long as it takes to funnel my food down my gullet and run out for a smoke. In college I went to the diner every day for breakfast, which I realize now was kinda stupid or lazy, but Ohio allowed smoking in hospital beds and gas stations, so I just ate my eggs and smoked and drank coffee until acid gushed from my esophagus like a flesh-eating Old Faithful.
A couple of months ago I was at a diner with lo and I ordered some french toast, for dinner. It arrived tasting funny and I found some onion chunks on the plate. I called the bored waitress over, pointed out the onions, apologized for being picky, and she said she'd get me a new order. Then I hear her at the kitchen window, shouting "gimme another order of french toast -- hold the onions!" Hee. Last night we ate at Cozy Soup & Burger, which had been hideously remodeled from its classic greasy I-don't-give-a-fuck decor into something that looked like a spaceship lounge imagined by Erté, or something. Here is my big beef with CS&B: the bathroom was tiny, like a closet with a toilet shoved in the end. It was too small for a very fat man to use, which considering their 9oz burgers seemed a little disingenuous. Nor was there room to fill a normal-sized man with rocks. But what I hated the most is that there was a dryer instead of hand towels, and the doorknob was so fucking recalcitrant that I had to wrestle with it for a good two hours in order to escape the shitcloset. Which means that restaurant employees (unless they have a sink in the kitchen, which we'll assume they don't because otherwise my post is semi-invalidated) have to manhandle the bathroom doorknob with extra special vigor before returning to mold my burgers into tasty 9oz bacterial death-patties. THAT'S what I don't like. But I did like the crazy lady at the counter, who I overheard in snippets badgering another customer with her awesome tale of insanity: "Yeah. I tol' the police. I called 'em. Cuz the people, they kidnap my dog. Two days my dog missing, then I get her back, woooo-EEE, what a wonderful day! I file a missing persons? It was those kids, I know it. Bad kids in the neighborhood took my dog, I know 'em. But my dog? She got a microchip in her, cuz she a purebred. All purebreds got microchips in 'em, cuz they valuable. So they tracked her! I got my dog back! Woooo-EEEEE! Yeah!" The other customer looked like he wanted to die, kept on looking at his book like he couldn't hear her, but that was clearly impossible. He had to nod sideways and smile that way you do at insane people so as not to upset them. He got up and paid his bill without making any sudden movements, and the lady started telling her story to the mirror behind the counter. Wooo-EEE! Friday, January 23, 2004
I just overheard my co-worker say on the phone to her sister: "Yo, so I was just wundrin' how much that kid charges for the tax, for doin' the tax return." I hate to admit to eavesdropping, sweetums, but if you're referring to somebody as "that kid," he should NOT be doing your taxes. Just like you shouldn't let a man who calls himself "The Slicemeister General" operate on your brain. Also, don't get a tattoo from Twitchy McSpaztard, and don't use a babysitter named Fondles MacPheely. (Common sense is truly the rarest coin, Watson. Shut up, Holmes.)
Also, don't give beer to girls named Daphne Abdela. I was talking to Raekool about my Jailbird Baby, and she was like: "Damn. Things must be pretty bad when you have to kill someone and fill them with rocks. Like they really must have exhausted all other avenues for settling their differences." Har. I pointed out that the rocks were meant to weigh down the body, which Daph and her boyfriend attempted to sink in a lake. Rae was like "Oh. Well that makes a little more sense. I thought they were just wicked pissed at the guy." Yes. I'm pissed at Gregor for pulling a Hoffa on the blog, but not quite mad enough to fill him with rocks. Especially because his mouth is so full of hobo cocks -- he's busy! Here's a thought: when somebody is described as "street smart?" It means they are dumb. Similary, if someone claims that they're not "booksmart?" It means they are stupider than a bag of hot dirt that got hit with a hammer. Not "book smart?" Like, what other kind of smart is there? Car smart? Tree smart? Mailbox smart? Shoveling smart? Give me a fucksuck break, again. Shovels don't make a sulky Mars rover communicate again, unless you're standing right on top of its idiot lensy face, shovel cocked and ready for a roboslap. New York is sucking a wintry nipple and our lips are getting stuck. I was happy when Claudia's care package arrived, and it confirmed my theory that if you want people to send you shit, nothing imparts a sense of obligation like a big honking SASE with a dollar's postage. But the filpside of my happy burger is the crappy burger: my left eye's gone nystagmic. I don't mind the twitching, but what I hate is that I can never catch the eye twitching in the mirror. It's like twitch twitch twitch and you go look in the mirror to watch the fun trick and it's like, dullsville, dad; no twitch here, mang. So you wait for the twitch to come back, all sneaky and giggling because you're gonna fake it out by grabbing a coworker's hand mirror from your lap, and it's like twitch twi-- and BAM you grab that mirror and FUCK, NOTHING. Well, apparently, the Mars rover is talking to us again. And you know what it's talking about? Bendifer! Bennifover! Bennifinito! Bleep Bloop Glaargle Fuck! Thursday, January 22, 2004
Memoranda To: Self Re: Sweetheart Killers She is out of jail now, yes, on parole for good behavior. She was cute but untouchable back then, sweet sixteen and probably been kissed an awful lot. Daphne Abdela (scroll down to "Killing Field"), so rich, and so sociopathic! Is there anything sexier? But it's not a good idea, dude. She's only 23, and perhaps a little more unstable than the mildly insane liberal arts girls you're used to hanging out with. They're Dr. Bronner's and Daphne is, like, that tub of pink shit that mechanics use to remove oil and epidermis from their working-class hands. Oh hands! Also, the fucking Post put her on their cover today, which means that you will have competition for her affections. I bet there's a crowd right now outside 115 CPW, waiting with cards and flowers. SKIP IT. ------------------------------------ To: Awesome Neighbor Re: This morning's train ride How come you are so awesome, next-door neighbor? I saw you on the platform, and you gave me a look like "I am a dead dead zombie and you don't even want to try to talk to me on this train ride." To which I was like, in my head, "Awesome! Because we both have books to read! And I can't do it neither! Blaargle! I'ma siddown now! Talk when caffeine in, other time is!" ------------------------------------ To: The weather Re: The weather You are stupidly irritating. Why you gonna warm up enough that the hip-high mounds of grey-black snow-ice will melt just a little, leaving the sidewalks slick, and then freeze again? Life is one big "capade" to you? Are you a hockey fan? Because I'm going to have a donnybrook on your fucking gay face. WARM IT UP. ------------------------------------ To: The shower Re: The shower I promise to come visit you soon. It's not that I don't love you. It's just that I am busy and tired. If I ever get home before midnight, I swear. Maybe this weekend. ------------------------------------ To: My sheets Re: The shower I promise to visit the shower soon. I am sorry. ------------------------------------ To: My pillowcase Re: Grease strengthens fibers, I hear So it's ok that you are, um, fucking translucent. Fuck. Did somebody use you to carry around some Fritos, or what? Uckle. You are revolting. Aww, who am I kidding? I can't stay mad at you! C'mere! ------------------------------------ Wednesday, January 21, 2004
I hope you're all reading for what my imaginary friend Eric calls "a big fucking edgy transgressive expectation-subverting surprise": today's post is a total mess. I've been all over the internet like cold sores on frat house lips, and I want to show you some things.
Some of you have heard of Seanbaby, who is a genius, but few of you have heard of Bowtied Duckfoot Adoracubbies, which he invented to trump all other beings, real or imaginary, in the contest for cutest thing ever. They are truly hideous. I am so tired. Now check out this page I found on the US Army's sprawlingly ginormous web presence: Distinctive Unit Insignia. Oh sweet lord. Apparently half of the pentagon budget goes to developing and describing special heraldic tchotchkes for EVERY FUCKING UNIT OF THE ARMED FORCES. I am swooning. Check out the overhyped insignia of the Dental units, the jolly camaraderie of the Finance units, and the truly creepy symbols employed by the Psychological Battalions. For those readers too lazy to click, here's a typical description, written by a monkey on crack, or a heraldry expert: A Gold color metal and enamel device 1 1/8 inches (2.86 cm) in height overall consisting of a shield blazoned: Argent, a saltire Gules fimbriated Or cantoned by four mullets Azure, overall a dragon segreant Vert, armed and langued of the third. Attached below the shield a cobalt blue scroll inscribed "DEFENSORI VISIUM" in Gold.Somebody please give me a hot jellied break, please. On a lighter note, if tired incest jokes are your idea of light, you can order up some awesome Appalachian instruction, because you always wanted to be 'shine-huffin' cousin-pumpin' tooth-losing hill folk, am I right? SHUT UP AND SAY YES. Then go ahead and order the Beginning Appalachian Dulcimer video, or the awkwardly titled Beginning the Appalachian Autoharp video. Then wake up to a cup of robot tea and just hope to hot fuck the machine hasn't introduced some kinda SkyNet-devised mycotoxin into your Irish Breakfast. Then somebody please kill me, except not, because I'm just tired, is all, and the last thing I need is one of you earnest, eager-to-please, never-commenting lurkers to take me for serious and put a bullet in my abdomen when I finally fall asleep. Chill out. Tuesday, January 20, 2004
All I want to do on the subway is read. Sit down and read. Maybe sleep sometimes. But before I have coffee, I definitely don't want to talk to strangers. I don't even want to talk to friends. But this morning I get through two pages before a manky white dude in his mid-50s says excuse me.
"Hi. Yeah. Can I just ask your opinion on something?" "Sure," I say, using my finger to hold my place in the book. "Are sunglasses funny on a day like this?" Huh? "Um, you mean does the world look funny through sunglasses today?" I ask. "No, no. I mean, I'm going to a meeting with some music bisuness people and I wanted to know are these glasses okay?" He puts on some $5 drugstore shades, which look pretty ridiculous under his leather hat with "fur"-lined earflaps. "Those look great on you. Perfect. No problem." I turn hopefully to my book. There is a five second pause before -- "Hey do you listen to music? Yeah? What kind?" "All kinds," I say, knowing this will be painful. "You listen to Hip Hop? Yes? Really? Can I show you something?" Going into his satchel for a high-school-style presentation folder with a stack of laser-printed lyric sheets printed on ridiculous mottled "nice" paper. "They're all raps I wrote, they're all anti-drug, anti-violence. I got a meeting with Tommy Mottola and later in the week with Russell Simmons." He shows me the first rap. Man, they were terrible. So utterly bogus that I cannot even recall a single line, except the credit at the top of each sheet that said "written by Jason Swartz" or something. He's telling me about the group he's putting together like he's Lou Perlman squared: "I got this one black kid to sing, sixteen years old, and a hispanic, and a jamaican girl, and this french guy. Fantastic. You gotta know somebody in this biz, but I'm gonna walk up to the guy's secretary and say "I got an album here that could sell more than Thriller, so if I'm crazy, send me to Bellvue, but if I'm not, you'd better make sure your boss takes a look at this.' It's the positive message that's so good. I'm also talking to the Partnership for a Drug-Free America." The lyrics are like some white guy's idea of rap if he had only heard rap during 1987. I ask him if he listens to a lot of recent hip hop. "Nah," whispering now, "I can't stand the stuff." "Really." "Oh yeah. It's garbage. But this is great, really positive. Lemme do one for ya called 'Joe the Alcoholic.'" At which point he does, he raps his little song about how wicked awesome AA is, right there on the train. I told him it sounded great. He'll find out otherwise soon enough. Oh god. "Dude," I say, "you should really try listening to some hip hop. There are some rappers -- just, you know. Listen to it. Turn on your radio." "Really?" he asks, wrinkling his nose like he smells dogshit on my shoe. "I dunno." Thursday, January 15, 2004
The concierge has a lonely job with a gay title. His day is spent watching people walk by at their New York clip, hustling to and from their jobs, and his only conversations are variations on the weather ("Goddamn it's cold out there, Kevin!" says Biz Guy, "Yeah... s'posed to get colder, too, I hear," replies Kevin, as Biz Guy disappears into an elevator) and are shorter than my attention span in a high school history class. So he tries to contrive ways to stop people and make them chat with him a little bit longer. I can't blame him for trying, but his gambits are so weird.
Like today he waits 'til I'm almost in the elevator to ask: "UD, you like Alice in Chains?" "Well, I did in high school," I say. "Like 12 years ago. I wore out their tape. Long time ago." "The lead singer, he died of an overdose? Heroin?" Asking, as if doesn't know the answer. "Yup." I'm in the elevator now, holding my lunchbag in the line of the electric eye that keeps the doors from slamming on the frail Japanese girls who attend the "language school" (prostituion ring) on the eighth floor. "A lot of his songs were about heroin, Kev. No one was surprised." I'm motioning as if to let the doors close. "Him and Kurt Cobain, they were friends, right?" he says. "Both from Seattle. Probably knew each other. Maybe friends," I say, as the doors mercifully slam on my short sentences. I can't do it, folks. Every one of his questions leads either to me delivering a left-wing jeremiad or to me being utterly confused. Which is the state in which I left Lynda Lopez Wednesday night at trivia. The CBS New York "features reporter" who covers "fashion, trends, and celebrity stories" certainly knew where to look for her hat trick interviewee. I was fashionably dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of pants, I had trendy unwashed hair, and I am an unbridled celebrity, galloping all across the stage of superfantasticstardom at the back of a Williamsburg bar, reading trivia questions to the Brooklyn's largest collection of nerds in one place since an MIT bus broke down on the BQE. Lynda (she's my dear friend now, you see) smiling brilliantly at the back of the room during the entire quiz, even though the camera wasn't on her. Which means she was actually having a good time, or she is very professional. Or she was flirting with me. I thought I should probably flirt with her, because as everybody kept on telling me, she is "J.Lo's sister." There's some vague directive in the back of my head about schmoozing with famous people in the music biz in order to... um, I don't know what, but I'm not sure siblings count. "Hi, Jenny? It's Lynda. Listen, this guy who hosts a trivia night in a bar in brooklyn gave me a CD-R of some songs he wrote, and I think you should listen to it!" Hah. If you live in New York, I think the piece will be broadcast on channel 2 sometime from 5-6pm today. I will warn you: they filmed my bad side, and my bottled water was lukewarm. Tuesday, January 13, 2004
How I Jedi-ed My Way Off the Jury. I can tell by ZP's tone in her comment that she doesn't think a) that I really jedi-ed myself off of anything, or b) that anybody has ever jedi-ed their way off of one of her juries. Well she's wrong and wrong. It may be true that I, UD couldn't Jedi myself off of her jury -- if she knew it was me. Because if she had the stronger case, she would want as many smart people as possible. At least, that's the Conventional Wisdom (heh... CW!): that the lawyer with the weaker case wants to kick off the smarties and keep the dummies. Well, the guy with the weaker case must have the advantage every time, if my jury pool was typical. The average IQ in that room was so low you could trip over it.
The case was presented to us during voir dire in the most reductive, uninformative, and stultifying terms possible. A man was driving his car on a city street, a manhole sticking out above the roadway scraped the bottom of his car, he claims injuries as well as damages to the car, and he wants the city to pay. I figured that if it went to trial, the evidence would show clearly for one side or the other, and that my unique type of genius was not required. So I began my campaign to get kicked off the shit. Actually my campaign had been pre-kicked last Thursday, when I decided not to shave, bathe, or change my clothes until I was dismissed for duty. I naïvely thought I would stand out, but people don't really seem to treat the process with the respect it deserves (ahem), rolling in like they had just been lounging in front of the TV in their "comfortwear" before they came downtown; I saw acres of sweatpant, jean, t-shirt, and do-rag; maybe five men (including me) wearing neckties out of 200. Here's an interesting image: a hoodrat kid in his early twenties, tryn'a be sooo hard, refusing to turn down his thug, doing his pimp roll up and down the waiting room aisle, but faltering a little in the face of utter institutional indifference, and the lack of shorties who might be impressed by his Woolworth bling. Being told just like everybody else who approached the clerk with a dumb question to "just sit down please," unable to play it off all cool or say something back to the guy because who knows whether they know about his outstanding warrants. Looking back to see if we saw his do-rag get shut down by the big mean clerk, a grampa-looking black dude who may have had a partner and a penchant for Carole Lombard posters but could still whup this punk's ass with his belt if he didn't sit his skinny ass in a damn chair. Tsk! Hunh! Very satisfying. Um... where was... oh yeah: I looked like flaming hot crapcakes. But since I didn't look any more disheveled than anyone else, I had to be a little more aggressive in displaying my unsuitability for service during voir dire: Lawyer 2: You may not know this, but there are actually two judges in the courtroom. (pauses for non-forthcoming gasps of surprise.) The Judge in the black robe, (mimes a robe), judges the way the trial is conducted. You are the other judges! Your job is to judge the evidence, and make sure the law is applied! Juror number 1, can you listen to the facts and decide whether the law was broken, no matter what you think of the law? Juror 1: Sure. Lawyer 1: Juror number 2? Juror 2: Yes. ...etcetera... Lawyer 2: Juror number 8? UD: Well, it depends on the law. Because some laws are just ridiculous. Lawyer 2: What? Um. Sure, but you could put aside your feelings on the law and just determine whether it was broken, right? UD: Sure! Lawyer 2: Good. UD: As long as the law isn't too ridiculous. - - - then, later - - - Lawyer 2: Now, you all believe that a witness could swear on a bible to tell the truth, and then lie, right? Lawyer 1: Pfft. Lawyer 2: ...Or that someone could swear and then exaggerate? Or swear and omit something? Lawyer 1: (Rolls eyes and shakes head at the implication that his client might lie.) Lawyer 2: Juror number 3, you believe someone could swear and then lie, right? Juror 3: Yes. Lawyer 2: Juror number 4? Juror 4: Of course. Lawyer 2: Juror number 5? Juror 5: Yes. But I think he tell the truth, if he swear. Lawyer 1: Thank you. Lawyer 2: Juror number 6? ...etcetera... Lawyer 2: Juror number 8? Someone could swear and then lie? UD: Well... are there any cops testifying? Lawyer 2: What? All Jurors: (laughter) UD: Oh, well it's a civil trial. Nah. I mean if it were criminal, you know, a lot of times cops get on the stand and then.... Forget it. It's a civil trial. So um. Sure, I guess people could lie but probably not, if they're under oath. Lawyer 2: Wait, you said something specific about police officers? UD: No, nothing. Forget it. - - - later, I talked to the lawyers privately in the hall - - - UD: I just wanted to let you know, privately, that although I respect the right of a citizen to sue the city, I think it sounds a little ridiculous here. It's clichéd, I know, but I think we live in an overly litigious society and people gotta take a little more responsibility for their actions, you know? So to be fair, I think that if it came down pretty evenly, I'd still lean towards the city. So I don't think that'd be fair to the plaintiff, and I wanted to let you know. Lawyer 1: Well thank you for telling us that. We appreciate it, and my client appreciates it. Thank you. Lawyer 2: Yeah, but you could still be fair, right? In the trial? UD: Um.... Lawyer 1: No, he just said that he'd -- Lawyer 2: But you could be fair, right? Apply the law fairly? Lawyer 1: John, he just said he'd lean. Lawyer 2: Sure, but -- Lawyer 1: No! UD: The whole point I'm trying to make is that I couldn't be fair. Lawyer 1: Exactly! Lawyer 2: (glumly) Okay, okay. - - - - - - We were sent home at 4:30pm Monday and told to return the next morning at 9:30am. It was a little anticlimactic when they told us that they'd settled the case, but Lawyer 1 thanked me again for coming to them about it, so I'm pretty sure my ploy would have worked, ZP. Back in the pool, we watched a little All My Children, which nowadays stars a skeletal doll-figure molded to look like Susan Lucci with a space-age skin-like polymer stretched over its bones. I took a nap, and then they cut my jury loose. Five years until my next call. Good night.
Today was my first day of jury duty, and it's just exactly as you've heard, except with a lot more John Ritter than I thought was indicated by law. I've had a fairly healthy fear of JD since I read Sars's account of sitting on a civil case in 2002 (it's worth a read, and much funnier than I'm going to be: part 1, part 2, part 3). My boss spent a month on a grand jury, spending every morning deciding whether or not bad people should go to trial, which sounded okay but seemed inconvenient, and I had weird fantasies about mobsters or their sleazebag lawyers giving me the sticky eyeball, threatening me and forcing me to go into hiding and leave my rommates vulnerable to certain carbombing.
First thing today in the big waiting room we saw a government video produced on a government budget, with government quality, and for all I know government actors moonlighting from their jobs at the DMV. It was similar to that institutional video in Being John Malkovich about the 7 ½th floor, with fewer midgets but an impressive historical segment about medieval trials by ordeal, which featured an Aragorn-goateed magistrate-type dude wearing what I'm pretty sure was an authentic Columbia Sportswear parka, with a fur-lined hood for extra authenticalicity. After having my intelligence insulted by a videotape, the two clerks took turns condescending to us over the PA as they told us how to write our names on the forms using a pen and our hands. They referred to each other, these clerks, by saying "talk to my partner" or "ask my partner for help remembering where you live," so I whiled away a daydreamy five minutes or so picturing their cozy lovenest, bedecked with rainbow flags and campy posters from Carole Lombard films. or whatever gay civil servants use to cover up the drafty holes in their poverty-chic garrets. A frighteningly obese man (like, you know, the "hello sir, how may I help OH MY SWEET GOD" kind of obese) sat against the back wall (where I guess he thought the teacher might not call on him) and snored for a few hours in quick, belly-quaking gasps, and we all laughed until we realized that he might be dead before we were ever selected for a jury. But the domestic clerks made us feel right at home by turning on Nick at Nite's Three's Company marathon. There was something about making beds, which Mr. Furley only caught the part where Jack said "So me and Janet were trying to make it, and Chrissy found us all tangled up in the bed" HAW and then there was a pie-baking competition which apparently involved only whipped-cream pies, a very specialized sitcom type of contest, see; and then Larry was naked at a party because there was some kind of misunderstanding and I lapsed into a coma. There was a lot of blah-dee-blah before they let us out for lunch and cigarettes, but I got called for my first voir dire at about 2:15. If you don't know, it means two lawyers take eight jurors and six alternates into a room and talk to us like we are exceptionally brain-damaged golden retriever puppies ("You understand what the law is, don't you? Don't you? A-woo-boo-boo? Yesh you do! Oh yesh you do!"). Tomorrow I will explain how I jedi-ed my way off that fucksuck case ("I'm not the juror you're looking for..."), and hopefully, I will have earned my freedom through conscientious application of all-American shirking and dirty dirty lies. For justice! Friday, January 09, 2004
I just got a defective pre-wrapped toothpick with my lunch. Is there no such thing as quality control anymore? I could have seriously splintered my beautiful, pillowy lips, and very few people want to make out with a guy with a gushing bloodfountain for a mouth. Goth girls, I guess, are the only people I can think of who would. Maybe a dude at the tail end of a month-long hunger strike. Or a zombie, but you know he'd only be kissing me for what's behind my face. Sigh. Zombies.
Another irritating absence impends, maybe: I have been "selected" (read: bureaucratically ass-raped) for jury duty in the Kings County Civil Court starting Monday at EIGHT. FORTY. FIVE. A. M. Oh mah gah they must be joking. Didn't they read yesterday's post? Well, they sent me this card that says like "you may have to serve Monday at 8:45am, but give us a call after 5pm the night before," which is intended to fill me with false hope that they'll say "No! You don't have to serve! Watch Adult Swim and sleep til your normal time, tender citizen." BULLSHIT. It's a telephonic fakeout. I bet's it's even an answering machine. Hold on.... dialing.... listening.... oh hot donkey balls. I was right, a machine: "We are asking that all jurors attend" a first-class fucksuck waste of time! Glaargle! Add this to my weepy list of stressors: four or five times a year, I host a trivia night at Pete's Candy Store in Wmsburg. It's a lot of fun, and it's very difficult, and my partners and I have a reputation for being good hosts who devise challenging quizzes that entertain and edify and Jesus fuck I sound like a nerd. Um... did I mention the trivia groupies who act as fluffers for the duration of the quiz? Who's a nerd now, bee-yotch? ANYWAY we just found out that for some unholy reason, a CBS evening news crew will be at our quiz, pointing their hairy lenses in our oily faces. This makes us nervous. All weekend plans have been scrapped in favor of preparation. I am sweating right now, and I think I have to take a nervous poop. Well, at least I'll have something to do during all those hours I might otherwise be asleep (planning, I mean. Not pooping). Goodbye forever. Thursday, January 08, 2004
I searched my archives to see how many times I've blogged the word "insomnia," and after vomiting at the sight of the hideously formatted search results page, I counted eight hits. Bend over for number nine, bitches. Because this whole week, it's been bad. At 2am, when I should have the lights out and a puddle of Tums-flecked drool on my pillow, I've sat up with my book, stared mistrustfully at the clock, like: it's not really 2am, you lying pile of unpredictable transistors. And my body is like: seven hours of sleep is waaay to much, UD; go for the lean six and finish that chapter! So then I finish the chapter, and the next, and I'm all riled up because I've been plowing through John Le Carré spy novels at the rate of 2.5 a week, and goddamn if those spies don't have some exciting experiences!
In other news, I am a spy. I have been behaving in a very clandestine manner since I started reading this crap. I have been watching you, though I have left no trace you could find. Look, I'm suggestible, and immersion in one author's worldview for a month at a time has scary results, and I always read books in retarded author clots. So when I read all of Raymond Chandler's books, I thought I liked whiskey, which I hate. When I read Thomas Pynchon I though I was the smartest person on the planet, and according to everyone but me this impression has yet to fade. When I read David Foster Wallace I thought I liked tennis, which is only humanly possible during Grand Slam women's finals. When I read Elmore Leonard, I thought I had been to prison, or at least would survive longer than twenty minutes in a prison, which is just utterly, laughably bogus, except you shouldn't laugh at my first-day shivving. Have you ever fantasized about what you'd do on your first day of prison to establish dominance? Have you ever fantasized about the heroics you would perform if you were to get mugged, all steely stare and arm-twisties? These are the things that keep me awake at night when I should be sleeping. Also fantasies of running spy networks in cold war Germany, though that's a relatively new one, thanks, John. I read books so that I will never be left alone with my thoughts, because my thoughts alternately horrify, confuse, or bore me. I am fanatic enough about this that when I went for a smoke break earlier, I thought I might finish my book, so I brought another book with me. Sure enough, I finished Smiley's People halfway through my cigarette, and A.D.Dressed my attention directly to The Rebel Angels, which of course is the beginning of a horse-chokingly huge trilogy. I HATE MY THOUGHTS! GIVE ME MORE BOOKS. I have no focus, and you will suffer for my sleep. Making dinner plans with a friend I nixed Thai food because I like coconut and peanuts on my ice cream, not my meat. Remember that line, friends, and you will never have to eat Thai food again for the laughter that surrounds you. Unless you are a girl, in which case you are required by law to love love love it, and proselytize. But also remember this charming anecdote from yesteryear: one time this girl, see, I asked her if she wanted Thai food. She thought for a moment, then asked astutely: "is Taiwan part of China? Or different?" And I stared at her for a few seconds before responding, as innocently as possible, that "It's a separate country, but most of Taiwan's population is ethnically Chinese." She seemed satisfied with the answer, so I ate her brains, and they were light and tart, like lemongrass soup. Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Who isn't excited about the new slam-bang hi-res Mars pictures? Gee whiz, pops, I sure as heck am! In "3-D" you say? Where do I click? This picture is awesome, dad! Or at least it would be -- if I were a fucking 10-year-old in 1950 and had a pair of goddamn 3-D glasses jammed inside the lunchbox buried in the yard under my tree fort. Fuck you, JPL!
Are businessmen retarded? Aside from the fact that they pretend to care about Mars only so they won't look uninformed during pre-meeting banter, they do not dress appropriately for the weather. Bizarrely enough, they have this in common with the terminally hip. Yes, Mr. Jean Jacket, your denim is distressed and it would be a shame to cover it up, but YOU LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT when it's cold as Hoth out there. Do you think girls like idiots? Well, okay, you're right, but even a real moron-magnet won't let you shove your hands down her underpants if they're chapped and blue. And you, Mr. Biz, your socks are too thin, and no amount of cheerful hand-rubbing or collar-upturning will keep you from looking like evolution's oversight. I know that the corporate law uniform contains no concessions to temperatures other than the air-conditioned confines of your warrens, but your black blood must keep flowing if you're gonna keep up your poor-fucking quota. I swear, if this weather stays chilly, the streets will clot up with an unnavigable labyrinth of frozen fucktards, stalagmitic hipsticles and bizzicles who didn't listen to mommy about the cold. Maybe I'll start carrying a bat to smash them into a huggamajillion pieces, like those sci-fi movie bad guys who stumble stupidly into the futubiquitous streams of liquid nitrogen. To keep warm, I enjoy cool media. Though neither businessmen nor hipsters will admit to watching QEftSG, I will, because even if last night was my first time, I feel intimate enough about it to refer to the show by its initials upon first mention. Cue Eee for tha Ess Gee. I almost cried when that one guy had to teach the fake rocker veejay dude how to make a smoothie after all the other guys had wrought some kind of major, transformative magic. And the rocker SG fucked up his first solo smoothie, too, adding too much tofu, and making his girlfriend wonder after one sip if she were in some kind of hidden-camera bukkake show. But the show was good and if I had addictive tendencies or an attention span, I might get hooked. You might like it too, but it's hard to say if you have enough love left in your head for five pampered, overindulged poofs on parade. Use this question to determine the answer: when you say "homage" with a French accent, are you joking or serious? Monday, January 05, 2004
One good thing about a new year is that I almost always write a new song. January 1, 1999 saw the birth of my songwriting career (for real, I mean, ignoring certain earlier novelty efforts) with "Robot," which, like every song or word I wrote in 1999, was about the impending end of the world. That was so weird! I woke up on Jan 1 and I just knew the end was near! I'm so glad I had a four-track handy instead of oaktag, magic markers, a yardstick, and a toga, or I could very easily have become a gag panel cliché, standing next to that blind guy selling pencils.
If I were a good blogger without A.D.D., this is where I would write something about songs I wrote in the beginnings of 2000, 2001, and 2002. But shut up. Because I don't remember those years at all. Nor do I remember last week so good. Nor do I remember you -- who are you? HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE? I didn't write a lot of music during 2003 because several other demanding pursuits sucked most of the creativity out of me before I got home each night. Yes, I am looking at you, you bastards, and your eyes should sting with guilt, squirt hot tears into your keyboards. Heh. I don't know at whom that last sentence was directed, but if you feel even a smidge guilty, then I guess it's you. Also the fact that I've got a lot of songs finished, enough for an album, but NONE of the energy or motivation required to DO SOMETHING WITH THEM, makes the notion of creating more music seem sorta pointless. Although, come to think of it, I do seem to recall lip-synching one of my songs in front of a video camera while other people moved around a lot and one guy in particular yelled "action" and "cut" and "fuck" a lot. Does that count as "doing something" with the music? Well, then I'm in the clear. Except see, I made a new song for you, darlings. I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do; my gift is my song, and this one is a hot steaming bag of balls. Listen. Thursday, January 01, 2004
Nunky has already expounded ably on the several topics I intend to include in this post, but I'm not the kind of guy to quit fucking a horse just because it's dead, so sit tight and listen up.
I've never been big on the New Year's Eve search for the Big Fun, because like a gaywad I believe that the Big Fun is a state of mind rather than a particular place or party. My ex-gf Burfur would always stagger from party to party, trying to sniff out the nebulous ideal for which she had no discernable criteria but which she would know it when she was soaking in it. Of course, the Big Fun is as evasive as Mount Peng-Lai, which appears to recede the neaner you approach (how's that for obscure, you giddy fucks?) so Burf always ended up disappointed and sore-footed, $100 in cabfare lining the far-flung pockets of our local Mexican car service industry. So in the spirit of chilling the fuck out, I only went to one party last night. The party was full of strangers, but for the most part they were attractive strangers, which was cool as key lime pie. One of my social phobias about parties is that I'll end up at a party full of ugly, deformed, or SpEd people, and because I'm wicked polite, I'd treat everyone like they were ONH ("of normal hotness") and end up fucking a chinless paraplegic in a beanbag chair. The corollary inverse phobia is that I will go to a party so full of hipster hotness that I will be the least attractive person there (if you can even imagine the Olympian grandeur of such a gathering) and transform into a giant UD-shaped gourd. But so the party was nice, and I was comfortably in the average range of the event's attractiveness roster. I taught the Feather Boa Girl how to accessorize her dance moves with it. I complimented the baking skills of Girl Who Brought Cookies To The Party in such a way that her muscly boyfriend looked like he was gonna punch my lights out, but he let me live because I gave him a kiss when the Bloomberg Ball said zero. We were all just so glad that the Bloomy Ball didn't trigger a dirty bomb, but we were disappointed that our Mayor was wearing a sweatshirt. Ambassador to the World, my fat ass! In the kitchen, Hot Black Guy heard me say "I did such a Jew thing today" and he was like "whoa! hey now!" and I was like "what? I'm a Jew." And he was like "but it's a slur. Oh, okay, I see. like I can say I'm a nigger, and so you can say 'I'm a Jew' in the same spirit" and I was like "no, 'Jew' is not a slur; it's a proper noun, like 'Christian' or 'Muslim.' I'm a Jew and I'm proud." I half-expected J.Ro to walk in and out me as a half-jew, but she didn't, and then the HBG covered up for his drunken confusion by saying something about Catherine the Great and paradigmatic metareference or something, and he ate a deviled egg. But he was hot, so it was all good, right? Confusing Wizard called from Texas, where he and his friends were celebrating Remember The Alamo New Year's Day, when all good little Texans drink Vaseline margaritas and pistol-whip each other's balls in remembrance of the bravery of Davey Crockett, Sam Houston, Daniel Boone, David Bowie, Tom Collins, and Harvey Wallbanger. CW's pal grabbed the phone and effusively praised my musical skills, which makes two teenagers in two weeks who have compared me to Radiohead. Happy New Year! |
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" |
