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, January 25, 2006
The following was too long for a comment, but it's a response to Stu's comment on the last post, in which he said
One of the main things about kissing is that it's pretty boring to watch and quite a lot of fun to do -- I'm not sure I could stand to watch even two horribly attractive actors kiss for more than 5 seconds without wanting to know when something is going to blow up and zombies will begin rappelling into the scene.My reply: Simply ridiculous, Stu. Rappelling zombies? I don't think so. First of all because rappelling requires too many things that zombies don't have: long-term planning ability, equipment, motor skills, just to name a few. Also, are your attractive smoochers standing at the base of a cliff, or leaning against a building? Because otherwise they're indoors, where rappelling is just more trouble than it's worth, or they are out in the open, which would require a helicopter, and, well, jeez, what kind of asshole would give a bunch of zombies a lift in his huey? Well, wait a sec. Maybe I can make this work. Okay, maybe it's a SWAT helicopter or something, and all the SWAT dudes put on their rappelling gear and took off for a four-hour flight to pick up these kissy gorgeous people, who are stranded in a field outside a town that's been completely overrun by the undead. Unfortunately for everyone involved, one of the SWAT dudes had been bitten by a zombie and neglected to mention it to anyone, so in midair he dies, turns, and swiftly dispatches his snoozing SWAT buddies, who die and turn in turn (...there is a season....). The pilot doesn't notice all this stuff for whatever reason (no rearview? restrictive harness? bulky helmet with broken comm system?), so he keeps flying towards the tongue-wrestling twosome. When he sees the heroes in the middle of the field, he tells his passengers to jump down and grab them, quick before any of those goddamn flesheaters are attracted by the noise of the rotors. The fully suited-up and harnessed SWAT zombies don't really respond except by scratching at the partition that separates them from the pilot, which they've been doing for a while now, but he hadn't noticed. Anyway, he follows standard SWAT procedure for encouraging reticent jumpers: he opens the side hatch and tilts the huey 45 degrees, spilling out the zombies, who slide down the ropes, utterly confused. Our liplocked heroes take a breath long enough for the girl to sigh "we're saved!" As they watch the SWAT zombies slide faster and faster down the ropes, the guy goes "Um..." and a second later the SWAT team hits the ground with a THUD THUD THUD THUD and the guy goes "...maybe not." The two SWAT zombies who didn't pulverize their legbones on impact struggle to their feet and start moving towards the couple. The guy goes "Okay, we can do this. We just gotta take out these bastards and get to those ropes so the pilot, who can't be a zombie," (cut to the pilot waving and giving them an oblivious thumbs up) "...so the pilot can haul us out of here to goddamn Bermuda already." The girl says "Okay. And don't think I've forgotten that you owe me a Strawberry Daiquiri." The guy chuckles, cocks his shotgun, says "Make it a double, baby" and BOOM BOOM shoots the two walking SWAT zombies. The girl walks over to the two remaining SWAT zombies, writhing at the bottom of the ropes, and uses her pirate cutlass (don't ask) to dispatch them, screaming "Yo-ho-ho, motherfuckers!" The couple grab the ropes and start kissing again. "I can already taste that daiquiri..." shouts the girl over the noise of the chopper. Cut to the pilot, who takes off his helmet for a second to wipe the sweat from his brow. This allows him to see a freaking army of zombies over a little hill, heading towards our heroes. He screams like a girl, panics, and slaps the button that releases the ropes. Our heroes watch, stunned, as their lifelines squiggle uselessly to the ground, pooling around their feet. "There goes our last best chance at survival," grits the hero. But we cut back to the pilot, who pitches the chopper forward to make his hasty exit. This causes a FIFTH SWAT ZOMBIE, who hadn't fallen out during the earlier roll, to fly forward through the partition into the cockpit! The pilot screams as the zombie grabs his head and takes a huge bite. Cut to outside shot of cockpit as gouts of blood paint its windows from the inside. Cut down to our heroes' point of view as the helicopter halts, spins around a bit, then plunges to the ground like an olympic diver some 200 feet from them, causing a giant fireball. Both of them shrug, saying "Huh." BUT! Cut to the zombie army, cresting the hill, moaning! "Honey," says the girl, looking behind her at the horde, "flesheaters at six o'oclock! Um. And 4 and 5 and 7 and 8 o'clock! Fuck! What are we gonna do?" The guy starts gathering the rope off the ground, saying "help me pick this up." She says "Why? You gonna hang the bastards? One by one? Come on! We gotta go!" "Nuh-uh," he says with a glint in his eye and a smile on his face, "I've got a plan." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Heh. That's all for now. Just proof of concept. Plus I've always wanted to use the word "huey." Tuesday, January 24, 2006
So I had a positive experience with my cellular provider, which is as rare as a ribeye done right (thanks, Texan Analogy Generator!). I will give you a brief recap, with a lot of the folderol excised (and replacing the provider's name with "CORP" because I don't want to a) piss them off or b) give them free publicity):
UNIVERSAL DONOR: Hiya. I have two cell phones: one has always been a mobile phone with CORP, but the other was a Verizon land line for years until I had the number ported to a second CORP cell phone. CUSTOMER SERVICE REP #1: Uh-huh. UD: But so now I want to cancel the newer one, the 718 number. CSR1: Okay sir, that's no problem at all. UD: Great. CSR1: You are aware that there is a $150 early cancellation charge for that? UD: Fuck shit fuck goddamnit titty cock ballsuck! CSR1: Um. UD: Sorry, not yelling at you, just yelling. I must have agreed to that in October. I feel like an idiot. CSR1: It's okay sir, I hear it all day long, every day. UD: Thanks. Wait... really? You hear people screaming curses all day every day? CSR1: Um. UD: Wow. I guess people only call when there's a problem, but... damn. That does not speak well of CORP. CSR1: ... UD: Okay, whatever. How much is it monthly? CSR1: Well, it's ten dollars a month until the contract expires. UD: And when is that? CSR1: Uh, let me check. Um. Um...January, 2007. UD: FUCK BALLS! Sorry. CSR1: S'all right. UD: $150 now or $120 over a year, huh? CSR1: Yup. I guess -- The line is disconnected. UD redials the number and waits on hold again. UD: Hi I just got disconnected before can you take my number so you can call me back if we get disconnected? CSR2: Sure. (he takes down the number, maybe.) How can I help you? UD: (explains situation as above) So. I can cancel now and pay the $150 fee, or pay $120 over a year. CSR2: There is another option. You could transfer the liability to someone else. UD: Sounds promising so far. Tell me more. CSR2: Well, you just find someone who wants to take your phone and phone number, and you transfer it to them. Any store can help you do this. UD: Hmm. I don't see the upside for the other person. Lemme get this straight. Say I did this in June of this year, when there would only be six months left on my contract. So does that mean they'd only have to keep the service for six months? CSR2: No, they would have to sign a new one or two year contract. UD: So they get a used phone but a new, binding, contract and a phone number that could continue to get calls for me forever? CSR2: Yes. UD: That is an unattractive option. CSR2: Okay, sir. UD: I have a better idea. Instead of charging me $150 for canceling the service, how about you cancel the service, but DON'T charge me the fee? CSR2: What? UD: You know, as a goodwill gesture to a loyal customer, just... don't charge me the fee. CSR2: (tapping sounds heard) UD: Hello? CSR2: Okay sir. We can do that for you. Because you are such a good customer. UD: What, really? Really? Wow! Thanks! CSR2: No problem sir. Just hold for another representative. UD: Wow? So that's nice. I didn't have to throw a hissyfit, or ask for a manager, or call down biblical plagues on the CSR's head, or threaten to commit suicide while on the phone (which oh my god can you imagine hearing someone kill themselves on the phone? That would totally suck.). They don't always play ball, and sometimes they are just petty and powertrippy, taking their bad days out on you, but CSRs may have a little list of "magic phrases" that if a customer speaks aloud, you must hand them the keys to the kingdom. In this case it may have been "loyal customer," but that might not work for everyone, because I actually have been a loyal customer of CORP for going on six years, muhfuckah. It's really because I am a "lazy customer," but they don't have to know that. Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Movie Kisses are weird. It seems like movie characters always have to look at the lips of their kissing partners before they can kiss them. Do people do this in real life? Not always, right? Is this a convention, something taught in every acting class, like "there is no kiss without the look" repeated like catechism? Or does the practice propagate itself, consciously or unconsciously? (e.g. Do actors watch the look-then-kiss it and go "yeah, look at that! That works!" or are they just so moved by the scene that without realizing it, the next time they have a kiss scene of their own, they ape it without meaning to?) Are directors constantly screaming at their actors in vain (as in this even longer e.g. I've created to fill more lines with carriage returns)?:
"Stop! Cut! Brad, I said DON'T look at the lips. Stop looking at the lips. Don't do it. Stop it stop it stop it. Just kiss 'em." "Right, Chief, my bad. Won't happen again." "Really now, Bradster? Because I've heard that bef--" "I got it. Got it now. No prob." "I'm trusting you here. No look. You know where they are: on her face, where yours are. Kiss them." "Yep. Got it." "Trusting you...." "Yep. Trust. Well-placed trust. I'm your man." "Not looking--" "Right." "--Just kissing." "Ten-four. Loud and clear." "Please now. I think you'll agree this falls under the umbrella of artistic choices made by the director." "Chief! Of course! I'm clay. You mold." "I'm trying, Bradski. Lord knows." "You're the artist here." "Well, thanks, but really. Um. Shall we try it? Again? This time with NO LOOKING AT THE LIPS?" Brad snaps his fingers and points at the director with a winning smile, cocking his head at a jaunty angle. Every female crew member sighs in unison. "Okay so if we're ready with the NO LOOK AT LIPS kiss shot, let's fucking do this thing." "Rolling." "Speed." "Scene 191, take 42." "Jesus god.... Action!" . . . "CUT FUCKING FUCK CUT MOTHERFUCK IT!" "Shee-it. Did I do it again, Chief?" Thursday, January 12, 2006
I told you that I used to lick subway poles, and I'm sure that was a preamble to some post about being chronically germophobic. I hate to repeat myself, but I'm too lazy to search the archives to see what I've said on this subject in the past. And NO that is not a veiled request for somebody else to dig up any such posts -- I don't veil that kind of request. Okay, SHUT UP: 1, 2. Heh. That second one is kinda funny. Bucket of roaches, indeed.
Let's begin again. I am not germophobic until I have a cold or a flu or something with icky phlegm-related symptoms that I want to GO AWAY. That is when I have the ability to... well if not turn into, at least empathize with my almost paralytically germophobic roommate lo, who sees the entire world as if Marg Helgenberger were holding a blacklight over it. But of course I can't be thinking about it all the time. So I touch things, remember to be afraid, and recoil in Tex Avery-style cartoon horror. THINGS I TOUCHED TODAY AND IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED TOUCHING: • Elevator button* • Metrocard vending machine touchscreen • Buzzer of doctor's office • Own nose • Pen-on-a-string at pharmacy • Some railing somewhere • Your mother You like how that list tells a story? I tell how I picked up a prescription, filled it, and sold it to your mother. She thinks my antihistamines are amphetamines. She's still sneezing, but her apartment is spotless. Waaaahhh! Glaargle. * Let me mention that there is a huge amount of construction/renovation going on in my office building right now, so the elevators are filthy, littered with particulate debris and discarded hardware, but also lately I've noticed that they -- the elevators -- stink. They stink of Hard Work. It's not a smell I like, consisting as it does of 80% underarm odor and 20% soupy asscrack funk. Huuurk. What's up with the assbroth, laborers of the world? Friday, January 06, 2006
[from Tuesday] A nasty cold seems to be sweeping the city, and I was so scared by the symptoms that I didn't mention the worst one until today, because I thought it was just me. But both of my bosses have a form of this beast, and its worst feature is that it makes the victim short of breath in a real scary asthma attack/ anaphylactic shock kind of way (except it's not like asthma or allergies: I got wicked spooked because my Albuterol inhaler didn't do shit, like nothing nothing, and even though I don't have an EpiPen, I am pretty sure it wouldn't have helped.)
You stay short of breath for like a couple of days, and on the worst days you can't walk more than twenty feet because you just can't seem to get enough oxygen to power your body through such a heroic journey -- you just want to sit as still as a statue until you can make do with shallow little gasps of air that only half-fill your wasted, useless lungs. Then you cough and cough and cough -- violently, deeply, diaphragm-shreddingly, hernia-causingly -- until you retch, or if you're lucky, maaaaaayyyyyybe you manage to hork up one of the syrupy lungpies that enshroud your every alveolus like malevolent mucoid raincoats. At that point you can spit out what you horked up and examine it for microscopic encoding of US Government labratory serial numbers. This thing feels like a designer disease, because it has such a weird combination of symptoms; I've never had anything like it: Clogged sinuses, headache, sore throat, but no fever, no body aches, and no sneezing. I'm picturing a computer program at some very advanced research facility. The interface is, like for all government software, ugly and utilitarian, all default colors and shapes from Visual Basic or whatever. But it does the job: the scientist (or whatever) just clicks check boxes next to a giant alphabetical list of symptoms (chills; congestion; cough, dry; cough, productive) each of which has its own "intensity" or "severity" slider, and when he's satisfied he clicks the "Generate Disaese" [sic] button at the bottom of the screen. Somewhere across a sprawling underground complex, a little slot opens along the baseboard of a white-walled cell, and a petri dish slides like the devil's own hockey puck towards a terrified arab carpet installer from Qatar whose name is the same as a suspected terrorist's. He doesn't want to get too close at first, but after two years in various godawful cages without cellmates, visitors, charges, or legal representation, the appearance of this odd cylindrical dish ranks up there as the most interesting thing to happen since eight months ago when he saw a cockroach riding on the back of a rat. And this thing doesn't look as gross. Kinda looks like a weird dessert.... |
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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" |