UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu  feed it up!
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You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION TV on the Radio: Dear Science Walkmen: You & Me Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes Ratatat: LP3 Beach House: Devotion BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2008 Jeremy Broomfield 
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Monday, February 28, 2005
People, I'm doing great. It's Monday now, and last night was my first night of truly pain-free sleep, so let me go back a bit and bring you up to date on all that happened to me.
Weds 8pm: Dinner at my dad's, where I stayed because it was closer to the Hospital, and Dad offered to go with me in the morning, which is sweet and very helpful, because I'm not sure if all my body parts work at 6:30am. Can't remember the last time I got up so early. I've seen a lot of 6ams from the other side, and that's always weird enough. We eat a small rotisserie chicken and my little sister avoids doing her homework, which means she gets yelled at. She hates getting yelled at, but I guess she hates homework more. Thurs 6:30am: God fucking damn it is early and cold. No breakfast and we're out the door and onto the subway. Three long blocks to the Hospital and holy fucksucking balls it is cold and gray and this is why Thomas Edison invented beds: so I could BE IN THEM at 7am. Okay. At least the Hospital is warm. I fill out forms. Thurs 8:00am: I am outfitted in my hospital uniform of gowns and styrofoam slippers. I look hot. Thurs 8:30am: Twenty different doctors come by to ask my what my birthday is; apparently there's a large party in the works. They ask more questions. When was your last asthma attack ("about a month ago maybe, but it wasn't really an attack, really it was nothing."), do you have any allergies to medications, is there a family history of goiter, do you play golf or the viola, have you eaten any prosciutto in the last 24 hours, who's your favorite Backstreet Boy, does this lab coat make my ass look fat? I must have answered at least 65% correctly, because eventually they give me an asthma inhaler an wheel me into the room with the big light on the ceiling. Thurs 9:15am: I lay on the operating table as the surgeon shaves my Personal Space and somebody slips a warm, undulating sleevey thing onto my left calf, and the anesthesiologist puts a mask on, saying "boo!" No, just kidding. She puts a gas mask on me, saying "this is just pure oxygen." That's right, she said "just" pure oxygen, as if oxygen is no big deal. Well, I think oxygen's earned a little more respect than that, don't you, lady? Hmm. Pure oxygen. I think of the scene on the plane in Fight Club where Tyler explains that they give you oxygen during a plane crash because it makes you high and docile. They put lots of little sticky pads on my torso. I hear a machine start beeping rhythmically and I know they've got my heartbeat now. Huh. I appear to be pretty calm, judging by the beeps. Hey the celiing looks really cool, all swimmy and blue and... like wow, it's so pretty, it's the prettiest ceiling I've ever seen. I try to tell somebody about it, but then it's Thurs 11:00am: and I'm somewhere else now. Huh. I experienced no loss of time whatsoever. But WOW THAT'S OUCH FUCK! Some helpful man understands my gurgling and gives me some fentanyl. Thank you sir. Ten minutes later I'm still ouchy so he gives me some morphine. Thanks again, new best friend! Then the anesthesiologist from before comes over and bitches him out about it, saying he should have given me Dilaudid instead. I say "Hydromorphone, right? So what's the difference?" She looks at me like I have just disturbed Tut's tomb. "Why do you know that?" She asks. "I just do," I say. "Most people don't know that," she says, wary as a cat looking at the new baby. I swear, doctors really hate it when you look stuff up, especially if it has to do with your health. It's called the internet, Doctor Fuckwad! It's called reading! You are not the only person who can do it! GIVE ME MORE PAINKILLERS. Thurs 2pm: Mom picks me up. Hurts to walk. Thurs later: Nap time. Hurts to lie down. Fri, Sat, Sun: blah blah blah getting better all the time. I make pancakes for breakfast. Wednesday, February 23, 2005
My surgery is tomorrow, and I don't know what shape I'll be in vis-a-vis posting for a while. I know this is ambulatory outpatient surgery, but I intend to milk it for all it's worth. Here's something: they said that a condition of my release was that I had to pee for them. My dad, hearing about this, goes "Huh. You'd think they'd was to drug test you before the surgery." Har de har. But seriously, if you can't prove to them that you can pee, they won't let you go. Apparently it's at least possible that the doctor will completely obstruct my urethra, requiring more surgery immediately before I fill up with poison.
Last night I almost sliced off a goodly hunk of my left index finger while trying to slice myself a moderate piece of homemade cookie dough. Bah! Moderation! Yet again you are my downfall! I mean, I love bleeding as much as the next guy, especially the kind of flow that grows out of control even as you cast about for something with which to stanch it. Whoo hoo, drops on the floor! Drops on the counter! I'm a gushing bloodfountain! Medic! Still, once the Band-Aid is on, it's like total yawnsville. I don't want lingering pain. I certainly don't want to reopen the wound the next morning while tying my fucking shoes. Like I said, it only happened because I tried to subdivide the remaining inch of cookie dough, instead of just admitting to myself that I was going to eat the whole thing, after rolling it around in the sugar bowl for that extra-special textural blast of sweetness. I should know myself better. Self control is not my strong point -- it only seems like it is because I abstain from drinking and smoking weed. But I only skip those because they make me feel immediately, pointedly bad. I'm as smart as a dog avoiding a shock, is all. When it comes to food that is terrible for me, I only avoid those foods that make me feel immediately, pointedly bad, like most junk and fast food. But cookie dough? Don't feel so bad. Mmm. Feels gooood. Thursday, February 17, 2005
So I have a hernia. It doesn't hurt anything except my well-nurtured delusion of everlasting youth. "Hernia." It sounds old. Old, gross, and wrinkly. The word smells like disinfectant, grandpa, and threadbare terrycloth robes. Oh shiver. I found the most disgusting picture possible that illustrates what I've got (though it is much more advanced in the illustration, thank god -- that dude looks like kielbasa are trying desperately to escape from his gut prison. Yeesh). The procedure they're gonna use to repair my hernia is called Hernioplasty, and it's cool because they're going to install a polypropylene mesh in my abdomen, which will make me into a kind of half-assed cyborg. The Doctor said he will affix the mesh with "titanium staples," which are much fucking cooler than regular office staples or those stupid stomach staples, which are probably made of a much lamer metal. (One lame metal is tellurium, which causes bad breath.)
I like this quote from the page describing hernioplasty: "You may not be a candidate for laparoscopic hernia repair... if your intestine is pushed down into the scrotum...." WAHHH! Oh ma gah! Can you fucking imagine? Sweet lord. "Quit scratching your balls, Skeeter!" "I ain't, Ma! I'm scratchin' my in-tes-tines! They's descended into m'nutsack!" Horrifying. My hernia has not, thank blessed Jesus, decided to take that route. The Doctor further warned me that .5% of patients who undergo this procedure say they can feel the mesh after recovery. Apparently, it is experienced as a very slight nagging sensation just over the threshold of detection, like when someone didn't quite lick all the Nutella off your balls, so all day you're walking around feeling just the eensiest bit sticky and hazelnutty? Well, I like those odds, Doc. Full speed ahead. Seeing as I've already reached down your throats and tugged your lunches back up, I'll relate a slightly icky medical story. My dad recently had a colonoscopy (which, if you didn't know, involves sticking a camera up his ass and taking a few holiday snapshots), and the night before the procedure he was given a prescription for this "bowel prep solution" -- essentially a palatable colon soap -- which bore the hilarious brand name Golytely. Get it? It's got electrolytes, hence the "lyte" part, and after drinking a gallon of this swill you will certainly "go" (ironically, quite heavily), and it's named in honor of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, which is certainly a runny pile of poo of a movie. Normally, prescription brand names are just supposed to sound soothing and serious to the consumer, not amusing. But manufacturers of poop-related medical supplies seem to have a sense of humor about it; another funny brand name is for a drug that treats ulcerative colitis: Colazal. As in: "I had a colossally big ulcer in my colon until I started taking Colazal." Ha ha! Anyway. If any of you have hilarious surgical anecdotes to relate that might lighten the mood, feel free to share them with me. I'm not worried about the operation (it's outpatient, although I will be given general anaesthesia), but I love a story about hemorrhaging as much as or more than the next guy. Thursday, February 10, 2005
There's a crusty old sturdy old anecdote (I've heard it apocryphally attributed to both Oscar Wilde and Winston Churchill) with which I wish to take issue [say that five times fast]. Unadorned (and Americanized), the 'dote goes thusly: A man at a fancy party is talking to an attractive, well-dressed lady.
MAN: Would you sleep with me for a million dollars? WOMAN: Okay. MAN: Well how about for ten dollars? WOMAN: No way! What do you think I am? MAN: We've already established that. Now we're just haggling. (WOMAN gasps, throws drink in MAN's face, bursts into tears, stomps away, kicks him in balls, winks coyly, faints dead away, barks like a dog, hitches up her skirts, or whatever. Lotta different versions.) I object. The implication is that a ho is a ho, no matter the price, and there's a pretty clear sense of moral judgment here -- if you're a ho, you're fair game for public dinner party humiliation. Okay, so that's old news, hypocrisy aside, prostitution (especially of the street variety) is traditionally deemed immoral. Whatever. My thought, if I can get a hold of it for a second here, is that the amount of money involved makes a huge difference in the morality of a situation. Most people simply can't say no to a million dollars. I never saw Indecent Proposal, but I always thought decency was beside the point. I can't find the actual quote, but no less a man than Vanilla Ice said something like: "People made fun of me for those pants, but they don't know. The record guys go 'wear these pants' and I'm all 'no fucking way am I wearing those pants' and the execs say 'c'mon, wear these pants' and I'm all 'no way, those pants are gay' and they're all 'here's a million dollars; wear the pants' and I'm all 'yes sir!' I mean, I got my pride, but I'd sell my mother for a million dollars."I hope to explore this more in the future, but for now I'll just locate my fear of success beside this million dollar concept. I don't want to put my music out there for real, or play shows, or get fans, or harass labels in search of a record contract, because I don't want someone to make me a million dollar offer that I would be economically, physically, and morally unable to refuse. I'd much rather scratch my nutz over here on this futon. Wanna some sit with me on the futon? Attention old lady in a movie who disapproves of some fish-out-of-water's bad manners: manners can be dangerous. Here's an insipid example that no one asked for: if you put a spoonful of hot soup in your mouth, really hot soup, what do you do? You can feel yourself getting burned. If you're like me, your first instinct is to open your mouth a bit, roll the stuff around, try to get some air in your mouth to cool off the soup, or maybe you've got a glass of cool liquid nearby, and you take a gulp to dilute the soupy hotness. But every once in a while, I don't have any liquid, and the mouth juggling cool-off act won't do the trick. So I get burned. Because I keep the soup in my mouth. When I should have spat it out in the first place. But where to spit it? On the floor? In the garbage can? On the tabletop? Back into the bowl? There are so many things you're not allowed to do in polite society, and manners have trained out of us what should be a pretty powerful self-preservation instinct: the don't-burn-your-mouth instinct. But wait a minute. Is that actually true? Really powerful instincts are not easily overridden. Maybe instinct tells us not to waste food, and it's instinct's fault that we keep the hot burny soup rolling over our tender tongues when we should be decorating the wall with it instead. What do you think? The guy who makes my breakfast sandwich says it like this: "Bake-o Na-Negg." Last night Claude le Monde, spontaneously creating a Wheel of Fortune "before & after" category answer (you know, like "abbey road hog" or "dung beetle mania" (sorta)) said the phrase "Neverland Ranch dressing." To which I immediately said "glllaargle!!!" because all I could see was Michael Jackson putting his Neverland Ranch Dressing all over some 10-year-old houseguest's face. Thursday, February 03, 2005
The week has been hectic, kids, but I know you're as uninterested in excuses as the shotgun-pumping papa of the cute little Texan cheerleader you impregnated ("I guess the condom broke, sir, but I assure you we used condoms -- ummm... I mean a condom, sir, not like we made a habit of it -- sex I mean, not safe sex -- no, wait, it was definitely safe sex WOW would you please point that at the floor because I don't know if you remember but you just put live shells in there and so it's in a dangerous state ha ha hehhhhhhh would you like to borrow my handkerchief to wipe some of that sweat from your brow and.... head... sir? Agggle. Please let me explain!") and I'm not interested in offering them. In school, when I handed something in late, I'd just say "here's my paper, I'm sorry it's late" without offering any pulp-hungry pet tales. Similarly, when I'm late to work, I always say "sorry I'm late, I'm an asshole" which is universally closer to the truth than any raison du jour. Although one time I was late to work because somebody got hit by a train so close to me that when his head burst open I got brains on my shirt! I had to go home and change, take a shower, and weep while hugging my knees for two hours. So that was a pretty good excuse.
How come nobody wants a giant picture of Paul Rudd? I lugged this stupid thing to my office after spotting it in fairly good condition in a corporate garbage pile, but oddly enough my boss didn't think it made a good addition to the office aesthetic. The eBay listing is a re-listing; the first auction had no nibbles at all. None! Don't girls love Paul Rudd? Doesn't the mere mention of his name cause your typical twenty/thirtysomething to experience an instant underpants tsunami? Especially if they picture his bare ass in Wet Hot American Summer, a movie in which his character was about as awful and annoying as a male character could be and yet he still came off as utterly charming and sexy and make-out-in-the-boathouse-worthy? And what about gay men? I'm pretty sure the Ruddster is a hit with your average FOD. What gives, peeps? Put your money where your soiled undergarments are! In the news of my decrepitude, I had to drop off my arch-correcting in-shoe orthotics with my podiatrist because after two years of daily use they look like Beirut. He's gonna send them to the lab to get refurbished, which will take about a week. In the meantime, I'm supposed to wear store-bought arch things. This is gonna be a tough weekend. After walking one block without inserts for the first time in two years my feet were screaming in agony. I swear, my feet are such sissies, acting like I'd shoved mongeese in my sneakers with them. Get a grip, feet. Shut up. I hope those of you who came to trivia last night enjoyed it. For those of you who live far away, you can click here to test your mettle on the visual round. It's not too hard, as long as your head is filled with crumpled-up pages from old issues of People magazine. Oh, and kids? One of the stories above about brains and trains isn't true. See if you can figure out which one. |
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" |
