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 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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Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Lately I've been looking at famous men and comparing myself to them. This is not a good thing to do unless you have a limitless pool of narcissism burbling inside you. Luckily, I do! Now, I have not been performing this survey with any pretense of comprehensiveness. The men included just happened to pass in front of my eyes in the last week or so. Still, I compare favorably to just about everybody, as you'll see.
Lance Armstrong looks old to me. He's 33, which is not old, but he looks kinda leathery and skeletal [note: call Vilanch for Nicholson/Lara Flynn Boyle joke to insert here]. I would say that Lance is trying very hard to commit suicide, except that he's proven himself to be relatively invincible, what with totally bitch-slapping nasty cases of nut, leg, and wrist cancer. Or whatever. He had a funny enough cameo in Dodgeball, but that doesn't prove that he has a sense of humor -- just that he can memorize a short string of words and parrot it back without glancing at the camera. How could he have a sense of humor? Here's his life: BIKE, BIKE, SWEAT, SWEAT, SLEEP, PUMP IRON, BEAT WIFE, BIKEY BIKE BIKE. Advantage: UD. On Six Feet Under, Nate Fisher's hair is very cute but I don't think it would fly at a funeral home. Otherwise, the character is a mopey sumbitch and I guess you can't blame him, but don't you feel like Peter Krause has gotten awfully far on that smirky fucking half-smile? (Now that I think about it, what cast member of Sports Night didn't use that smile as their primary, go-to facial expression?) You know what's so weird about Six Feet Under? With the exception of Frances Conroy, none of the characters move their facial muscles almost at all; they're frozen in their expression of choice. I've only seen a couple of episodes, so maybe I should shut up, but think about it and maybe you'll see what I mean. As for Krause, well, sure he's hot, but can the man blog? Advantage: UD. Jake Gyllenhaal is just straight-up gooney-looking. His character in The Good Girl was obviously a little unhinged, and that's only occasionally attractive, but somehow the movie really called attention to his huge head, which I didn't notice in Donnie Darko. And he's another smirker. A soulful smirker. Okay, I smirk sometimes, but only when someone is too far away for me to put my hands in their underpants. Jakey G is a big-eyed freak. What the hell has happened to me? What is this shit? Advantage: Everyone but UD. Colin Farrell is an idiotic lip-chewing leprechaun, and whoever styles his facial hair should be bashed in the nuts with a cast-iron boot, forever. (I hope to god he styles his own facial hair!) I probably don't have to say much to convince you that this guy is a class-a fucktard. Just picture him running full-speed in a shiny suit while kissing a rosary in Minority Report and try to hold down your bile. And they picked this Irish midget to play Alexander the Fucking Great? GLLLAARRRGGLE! Fuck you! History itself rises up to smash you! Is Schumacher involved in that project? He has such a hard-on for Colin Farrell. Farrell! He's yet another goddamn smirker! Smirkers! Everywhere! Shut up, smirkers! Advantage: UD! Universal Donor über alles! Now I am completely bored with talking about famous men. Colin Farrell makes my blood hurt. I also hate Julia Stiles, mostly because she can't act, not because she's a moon-faced pout machine. Didn't I say last week that it wasn't okay to make fun of people's physical characteristics? Well you can make fun of famous people's anything. Shut up. (Just so you don't think I hate everybody, here are two people I love: Justin Theroux, and... well, if I think of somebody else, I'll let you know.) Thursday, July 22, 2004
I don't usually think it's a good idea to make public fun of other people's hobbies or obsessions, mostly because I wouldn't want to be held up to the same kind of scrutiny, but also because it's lazy. It's very easy to post a link to a horrifying website, whether about unicorn-fucking, Peter Pan-fucking, or Jesus-fucking, and just let the site make fun of itself. The InTerWeb is so full of possibilties for this kind of humor that entire sites can be devoted to weird links. It's comatose comedy, the humor equivalent of asking your roommate to turn off the living room light because you're too tired to get off the couch and go to your own damn bed. It's like making fun of the way German sounds. It's like laughing at someone who trips just a tiny bit on a crack in the sidewalk. It's like using any of the following words in your humor: monkey, retarded, muumuu, robot, zombie, hammer. Heh. Retarded robot zombie hammer! Lazy -- but funny!
Which brings me to my main point, which is: look at this guy. Ok, did you look? If you're like me, you've been gone for like twenty minutes, having gotten out some snacks, wrapped yourself in an afghan, and settled yourself into a comfy chair and read the entire page at your leisure, savoring every semitransparent unitard disaster mustache photo. Also if you're like me, your boss asked you what's up with the afghan ya weirdo and would you put that chair back in the big boss's office, like now? But you see what I'm saying? This Tron guy really rings my bell not because he seems like he couldn't handle the minor social pressures involved in asking a pretty girl for the time. I like dudes who don't give a fuck about what "mainstream" society thinks and go ahead and paint themselves up a glowing spacesuit. That's the balzac. All right, I've just gone and confused myself about my position on this issue. I'm not really sure how I feel about that guy at all. Slow it down, now. Premise 1: Once you are out of high school, it's not okay to make fun of people just because they are not so gifted, attractiveness-wise. It probably wasn't okay then, either, but it seems to be par for the course, kids being the hideous monsters they are. Obviously people break this rule all the time, but you're not reading their sites. You come here for ethical, emotionally sensitive laffs. [Heh. I was trolling my archives for an ironic link to put after that last sentence, and although I couldn't find something suitably egregious in the 40 seconds I allotted to the task, I did find this gem from March 25, 2003. I think I used to be funnier.] Premise 2: it is okay to make fun of people for bad fashion or grooming choices. Right? It's not like they were born in that muumuu. Fair game! And our Tron guy chose to grow his hair so it looks like he sliced the wings, back, and tail off an eagle and pasted it to his head. Seriously, go look again and you'll see what I mean. This is why people-watching is so universally enjoyed, because you can make fun of anyone who doesn't fit into your limited framework of what it's permissable to wear in public. Everyone can do this! When you were a safety-pinned punk rock kid, you laughed at business people and hippies. Now that you are an adult, you laugh at hippes. But the hippies laugh at you, too! I guess. The mall is society's arena for life's giant stomping parade of people making fun of the way other people look. And, I suppose, buying stuff. I'm gonna add a rider to that last premise: it is okay to make fun of people for bad fashion or grooming choices... unless they are really poor. Because it's not okay to make fun of the fashion choices of those who have never really experienced the concept of "fashion choices." That was a gloomy point! Okay, back to Mr. Trontastic. Is his apparent lack of physical shame something good, something to be encouraged? Like yay, he doesn't feel constrained by popular media-perpetuated notions of beauty? That seems too oversimplified, somehow. I live in New York, after all, which say what you want about it, but the people are hott. Not everybody, of course, but if you lay a hottness histogram of New York over your standard bell curve, you'll see a hunchbacky lump on the side that approaches maximum hottness. Then again, New York is one of the centers from which the media perpetuates their stereotypes of beauty, so is it any wonder that I think New Yorkers are hott? GABBLE! I'm saying maybe a certain amount of physical shame is required by a civilized society. For example, it's what keeps me from walking around in buttless chaps. (You're welcome.) Why do we love to stare at the Tron guy? We are fascinated by the amount of time he spent actually doing something that we would not have spent even a nanosecond thinking about doing. But he's doing something! That's good, right? Does it matter that it is a cripplingly geeky something? YES??!? NO?!? HELP ME!!! Dear Mom: today I spent a lot of time staring at a fat guy in a body stocking, and realizing that I will never be able to write a coherent essay ever again. (Dear Prospective Book-Deal People From HarperCollins Or Whatever: unless I am being paid to do so. Then I will be as coherent as fuck.) Monday, July 19, 2004
I wrote derisively of my little 11-year-old half-sister's so-called summer "camp" about a year ago, but I didn't go into detail because I didn't have any. Welp, now I do. I spent all day yesterday (and I do mean alllll day; I woke up at 7:15am! On a Sunday. What?) at Belvoir Terrace for visitor's day. This camp is redonculous. The kids live in a converted mansion. The grounds were landscaped by Frederick Law Olmstead, designer of Central and Prospect Parks. So okay, it's not really a camp at all, except you get to ship your brats there for a month or two of peace. It's more like a conservatory in the woods, filled with high-pitched little girls, glimmering with privilege. You can't walk ten feet without barking your hip on a piano, and if you close your eyes and urinate randomly, you have an 80% chance of pissing in the f-hole of a string instrument. The tetherball rope was broken and nobody cared. That really pissed me off -- I was all psyched to put the tetherball hammer down on some Upper East Side bitchlets.
After sitting in on my sister's violin lesson, swim class, and a mercifully instantaneous group recital, they fed us some kind of crazy, keep-the-walking-checkbooks-happy gourmet meal. Roast beef loin? Some pasta salad that tasted like it had been dressed with god's semen? Some dish with "reduction" in its name? Not a kernel of creamed corn in sight. No mac, and the only cheese was fresh mozzarella. WHAT THE FUCK, CAMP? Anyway, I think I've made that point enough. But there is one tradition I forgot about that is fucking awesome, and which this place saw fit to honor: rest hour. Rest. Hour. Can you believe how good that sounds? It's right after lunch, remember? And everybody goes to their beds and does whatever they want, for an hour. I'm drooling right now. Kids have it so fucking easy, right? I would kill a hobo for the right to have rest hour every day after lunch. So yesterday, exhausted from smiling at children displaying the full gamut of talent and ability, I passed out on a bed built for a prepubescent girl. It was great. Then I had to wake up and smile some more. I insisted on driving the rental car home, because on the drive up, my father revealed himself to be a dangerous death-wish maniac. This had not always been the case, I don't think. He never wore his seatbelt, which is dangerous enough (actual defense of this practice: "seatbelts only matter in an accident, and I don't plan on getting in an accident!"), and he seemed to think a turn signal is optional, but when I was younger I never feared for my life to the point of closing my eyes so I couldn't see what he was doing, which I did on Saturday. Read that again, because that's fucking insane. Now I'm not a lilywaisted pantyliver, and I've survived a bunch of life-threatening situations without pooping my pantalones. But there's something about being in a car driven by someone who seems bent on your mutual destruction, tonight, and who refuses to listen to increasingly loud pleas for vehicular sanity. "Could you please go slower than 60 on this twisty country two-lane with a posted speed limit of 30 in pouring rain that makes it impossible to see further than forty feet?" "Nah! The faster I go, the sooner we're out of this rain!!" Anyway so I drove home, which was good because... you know, I was about to detail the shitty driving conditions, but I just realized that was a boring and stupid idea. Instead, I'll give you a new syndrome that needs naming: Today I've had this problem where I can't remember that I've taken a pill that I've taken. Some of you may not ever have to deal with this because your pink little organs all function properly without the aid of pharmaceuticals, but for pill people (holla!), it's a potentially dangerous problem. Like this morning I woke up sneezing, so I took a Zyrtec after I got out of bed. Or so I thought. I know I took the bottle out of my backpack and opened it, and I know I subsequently swallowed some water. But then, five or ten minutes later, after shaving and getting dressed, I see a solitary Zyrtec sitting on my desk, right next to the water bottle. Is that the pill I thought I took? Did I just take it out and put it there? My desk is messy enough that I could believe that there might be random pills lying around on its surface. I took the lonely pill. Then at work it happened again with the Zyban (Z is the new Q), except I didn't have a pill lying around -- I just forgot if I took one when I got to work. Did I? I always do, why should today be different? 'Cept I don't remember actually doing it. Fuck. This memory problem is getting drastically worse. Used to be I couldn't remember what I did last week. Now it's five minutes ago. Still, I luckily have no problem remembering that Richard Edson played a character named Elmer on a TV show circa 1990 called Shannon's Deal which also starred Jamey Sheridan, who played Randall Flagg in the miniseries of The Stand, which also starred Gary Sinise, who was a founding member of the Steppenwolf Theater Company, whose early membership also included John Malkovich, John Mahoney, Laurie Metcalf from Roseanne, and Joan Allen, who starred opposite William Petersen in The Contender, which also starred Sam Elliot as a guy named Kermit, in which he looked superweird because he had shaved his mustache but it still looked like he had one -- like a flesh mustache, all puffy and sitting there on his face. Thursday, July 15, 2004
A good indicator that you are losing your mind is thinking that you are invisible (which in real life translates into nobody noticing you in any observable way) or thinking you are... um... hypervisible -- that everyone is looking at you. The subway is a crucible for insanity. (Now hold on a sec, maybe I'm not using "crucible" correctly there; the sense I'm trying to convey is more like "proving ground" or "easy bake oven" -- oh wait, I've got it. Just outside this upcoming parenthesis!) Ahem. The subway is the kiln of urban insanity, and especially so in the summer. Minor psychoses enter the system soft and half-baked, but by the time they stumble up the gritty stairs into the grotty light of day, they have hardened into unbreakable, dishwasher-safe CRAZY-PANTS-NESSES.
Straphangers are on the defensive as soon as they swipe their Metrocards (and tell me you didn't stumble on the first word of this sentence, getting all fricative when you shoulda gone plosive, am I right?) because even if it's cool and breezy topside, it's ten degrees hotter down here in our subbacultcha. But enough about hotness. I get enough of that in the mirror. No, this morning the in-sane-i-tude came in audio form. I was trying to sleep and I heard this noise, like: Thump-gik-gik-thoom-thicky Thump-gik-gik-thoom-thicky and there was this dude standing by the door across the car from me with a walkman on. I thought for a moment that maybe his earphones had gotten twisted somehow and were directing the music outwards instead of towards his ears. Because the music was very loud, see? But no! A closer look revealed that he was using one hand to hold the right earpiece an inch away from his ear. What? The man was staring out the window so that nobody could make outraged eye contact with him, which believe me, I tried. Instead, I scrawled the following notes on my bookmark for later blogging: "Freakin walkman croaking reggae like a pond full of dying frogs. Giant grey suit that bells out at the waist like he's used to his weight fluctuating by 100lbs or so on any given day. Eyes closed, one earpiece lifted off the ear -- to share w/ us? Thanks a heap. If I wanted to hear tracheotomy patients--" at which point I stopped writing, I guess. Revenge is sweet. Take that, crazy guy on the subway! You have been criticized on the InTerWeb! If your mom googles you by searching for "crazy guy +reggae +earpiece", she will see how harshly you have been mocked, and you won't be invited home for Easter. In other news, New York City has released the Ultimate Guide to Paralyzing Fear and Paranoia. Now surely this guide has useful information about how to cope with various life-threatening situations, but there's something about the comprehensiveness of it that fills me with municipal pride. I love that I live in a place where there are so many exciting ways to get killed, maimed, or trapped by debris! (Note: V. should not read this guide, because her head will explode.) Monday, July 12, 2004
I've probably said a million times that I don't have a lot of male friends, or that I don't usually get along with men, or even, if I was feeling particularly snarky, that I don't like men. Sometimes I just say "most of my friends are, and always have been, female." Whatever. I just sorta let you know, and you can do with it what thou wilt. I realize that I've never explained why I can't hang with the XY. I've never actually thought about it too hard, because I never thought it was a real problem, but maybe it deserves a little rumination. And let's put aside, for now, that the root of the problem is almost definitely a lack of masculine role models during my formative years, and instead examine the effect.
I think it's that I'm always afraid of what will happen if I just hang out with a guy. I have foggy notions of what straight men do together, mostly assembled from movies or television. But correct me if I'm wrong about the following ways men interact. 1) STRIP CLUBS. I'm always afraid that I'll be hanging out with some dude and he'll be like "let's head on down to the strip club." Is there a way to say no without showing your violent nauseous disgust with the dude who suggests it? I find it horrifying that men do this. First of all, the idea of a place where the entire purpose is to get drunk and stare at naked woman for money is just fucking stupid. Stupid. Also, it's gross, and it's emotionally stunted. Now when you see scenes in movies of women going to a Chippendale's-type place, they're always whooping it up and giggling, looking at each other and waggling their eyebrows, covering their faces, and generally having a blastaroo. It's a social event, a shared transgression. But with men, it's not celebratory at all, nor is it shared. It's furtive, or sleazy, and solitary, even though they're there together. Right? 2) TALKING ABOUT WOMEN. The idea of a man saying to me: "wow, check out the tits on that one! Wouldn't you like to take those home and squeeze 'em?" (or whatever) makes me almost crap my pants. How is this different from him saying: "Check out the vagina on that one! Wouldn't you like to move your penis in and out of that vagina until you ejaculate?"? it's only a matter of degree. Oh, disgusting. Again, when women do this kind of thing, like make a statement about some guy's "butt," it just seems like their hearts aren't really in it. They want to piss on the man's behavioral turf, but their plumbing makes it too difficult. This is all so stupid, so I'll stop now. Aside from the fact that I can't hold my attention span together long enough to make this coherent or comprehensive, it's also totally disingenuous. Because I have a bunch of male friends, and I can hang out with any of them without fear of the above happening, because they are sensitive, intelligent, creative people. I don't hate the kind of man that I am most likely to come in contact with in my social circle -- I hate the other men, the slack-jawed, muscle-pumped doofi of the world. AND IF YOU'RE READING THIS, YOU DO TOO. But it's not a problem, because I almost never have to deal with Manly Men in a meaningful way. So what the fuck? Maybe I feel overprotective of all the girls that have to swat these monkeys away every time they go out for a drink, and maybe I feel a little ashamed of the fact that I could not physically defend any of my friends from an overbearing ogre, that in fact a Girl Scout could kick my ass with one hand bowlined to her badge sash. I have to post this unpolished because I am now having a total panic attack because I just found out that I'm hosting trivia night at a bar on Wednesday and I have done NOTHING TO PREPARE. I AM SO FUCKED. GABBLE! Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Going to movies alone: okay, or lame? Last Wednesday night, after failing to secure tickets to Spidermovie 5000 and therefore having to reschedule the appointment with my chosen companion for that film, I was left with nothing to do, so I went to see Dodgeball all by myself. There was a time, friends, when I would seriously freak out if I had no one to hang out with at night. In summers between semesters of college, I would have minor panic attacks if I had to stay at home in the evening. "Stay at home." Three words that filled me with dread. Something to do with needing distraction, I guess, or feeling that not being able to fill your social calendar was a character flaw, or somehow meant you weren't interesting.
Those days are gone. I can go weeks without seeing anyone but my roommates and J.Ro. Is it okay that I want to spend this entire week doing nothing but sitting on a couch watching movies? Is it okay that I don't want to see or talk to anybody at all? Is it okay that I left my cell phone at home today because I'm physically incapable of not answering it if it rings (which see the last sentence for the problem with that)? I'm cat/housesitting for my parents this week, and it's all I can do to drag myself off the aforementioned couch to do things like go to the bathroom. I rented The Weather Underground, and after watching it I added Bernardine Dohrn (circa 1970) to my list of imaginary girlfriends. (Incidentally, the website I linked to for that picture has really hilarious blurbs next to their collected mugshots. It's like they were all written by that guy who hosts and does the voice-over for Cops, all snarky law-enforcement self-satisfaction. Heh.) I've had trouble getting comfortable with the temperature in my old bedroom, which unlike the bedroom at my house has an air conditioner. You'd think this would be a good thing, but Monday night I was alternately freezing (which woke me up to stiffly shift a blanket over my freezing limbs) and boiling (because the blankets were too much). So last night I decided to just crank the thing full blast and sleep under a winter comforter. Totally decadent, I know, and not the kind of gesture that I usually endorse. Those of you who always yell at me to turn the faucet off while I'm doing the dishes because I'm "wasting water" will be happy to hear that Operation Arctic Bedroom was a failure, a big sweaty mistake. Apparently the AC can't lower the temperature by twenty degrees. At least falling asleep is not a problem this week -- a nice change of pace -- but staying asleep is a real challenge. I keep waking at 3 or 4am with complex mathematical diagrams of why sleep is bad sketched out on the backs of my eyelids. You ever get that? Detailed, arcane runes and logic flowcharts explaining why you must WAKE UP IMMEDIATELY? Not likely. As if that weren't bad enough, the cat hates me. She always has, but there's something so fucking ungrateful about it when I'm the one feeding her. She hides from me all night, then when I stumble naked and defenseless to the bathroom at 4am, she's there, swiping at my ankles with her ancient claws. And in the morning she's all up in my footspace because she's used to getting her breakfast at 6am or something, so she swarms me as if maybe I'd forgotten completely the entire reason I'm in the fucking house this week. Cat: you will be fed your revolting food twice a day, and you will leave me alone. I am allergic to your stupid dander and I just want to watch movies. Hey! You can have the run of the place! I just need this section of couch and my old bedroom. LEAVE ME ALONE. Shit. I bet she's not even reading this. Fucking cat. Friday, July 02, 2004
Memoranda To: Office Chair Re: How you lie to me You look comfortable, chair, but you're not. You look like you'll support my back, but you don't. It seems like a good idea that you tilt backwards, but it's not. Your fabric is supposed to be "breathable," but my ass is hot. You are uneven in a startlingly fickle way -- if I want a level seating surface I have to rotate your wheely-base thing so that ONE of your wheelyspokes points South, and that is retarded. ------------------------------------ To: My high school valedictorian CC: My high school senior class president Re: Whereabouts Where are you now, you smug, overachieving bastards? I googled you. Where you at? The sludge has sucked you under. One of you is lost in the static of your popular last name, which you share with 1/10th of the population of China, which is a lot of people. The other of you has a name so obscure that your absence from googledom mean your are either totally lame, having accomplished nothing for all your plaudits, or you are dead. If the latter, I'm sorry for mocking you. But I don't think you're dead. Didn't I see you at the reunion? ------------------------------------ To: Self Re: The previous memo Did you really just mock the valedictorian? Puh-lease give me a break. I can't even begin to address the lameness that implies about you. 1) You should not be thinking about high school people. 2) You should not be mentally antagonizing HS classmates. 3) Especially not the valedictorian and the class prez, because it's not like those positions held a lot of social value, and what the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK? Enough. ------------------------------------ To: Thursday New York Times Crossword Puzzle Re: Your difficulty, or lack thereof What happened? You used to challenge me, and you used to require at least a half hour of my time. Now it's like my pen never stops moving. That's Monday through Wednesday's job, keeping my pen moving. You're supposed to give my pen a breather. My pen is panting. Its tip is friction-hot, scorching the newsprint. Be harder! What's a four-letter word for you? LAME. ------------------------------------ To: The previous memo Re: Your irritatingness Shut up, memo above this one. Nobody is impressed by nerdytards. ------------------------------------ To: Claudia Re: The squirrel story at the end of your post Fucking Gross. I'm'a vomit down my shirt now. "Munching." Oh sweet RRAAALLFFFFF! ------------------------------------ To: iTunes Re: I heart you so much... ...Because you do everything better than your competitors. I don't know why I didn't install you at work sooner. I've loved you at home on my Mac, but I didn't even think about using you on a PC until one day I just woke up. You are the bizzity blizzomb. With no work at all, you make this, which makes my heart aches with love for you. 111010010010101010. I just removed RealStupidPlayer from my machine because there's no room for the both of you in my perfect world. Real was a hydrocephalic baby birthed by Big Mama Software, and I'm the old-timey obstetrician who strangled him as he emerged from her womb to spare her the pain, the tears. You are my star. You are my JonBenet, my pretty angel who will win win win! You will go to Harvard and fulfill all the dreams I never could, the means through which I atone for disappointing my parents! You will be the most tortured bouillabaisse of metaphor this blog has ever seen! You are a pill I take to make monsters go away. You are an ergonomic chair. You are my north, my south, my east and west; My lurking geek, my yum breakfast; My boon, my fistfight, my Bach, my Pong. I thought I was stuck with RealOne forever ... I was wrong. ------------------------------------ To: Self Re: That last memo Get over yourself, fagtard. ------------------------------------ |
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" |