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 
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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Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I stopped taking my Ritalin, and I'm afraid that you, notional readers, will suffer the most for it. I can barely have two consecutive thoughts that relate to each other, so writing two sentences on the same subject is like forget about it. One solution would seem to be the construction of huge sentences, but my brain is not fooled by such amateur ployage, you smartass punk. So I'm back to unconnected grab-baggy accretions of thought vomit. Like today's post!
It's even worse at work, where I seem incapable of completing a task that takes longer than... is a femtosecond longer or shorter than a nanosecond? I could never use the word "nanosecond" in a punchline, but using a substitute prefix like "femto-" instead practically screams "I WAS GONNA SAY NANOSECOND BUT DIDN'T BECAUSE IT'S OVERUSED BY UNFUNNY PEOPLE AND ALL I COULD COME UP WITH WAS FUCKING FEMTO, BITCHES. EAT HOTT COXX." The only way I can write this post is if I make distraction-derailing rules like "no masturbating until you finish." J.Ro sent me a link to a MySpace page advertising a retarded event called the Central Park Makeout, which is an event where a bunch of people are supposedly going to meet in the Sheep Meadow and kiss each other like a bunch of fucking high schoolers. Can you imagine the scene? Can you imagine the stench of wine coolers and flopsweat? Can you imagine all the people cruising by the Sheep Meadow all innocently like "oh, now what's this event here, a kissing party you say? How droll! Why not give it a whirl, eh chaps?" as if they weren't there to scope out potential mackees in the first fucking place? Such people will be easy to spot, because they will smell like MySpace (which, no surprise, smells just like sweaty taint). This event is so awful that I could talk about it for hours, like an episode of Survivor: All-Stars. But I won't, because it will just seem like I really want to go. Trust me, I don't. I've already got Herpes times a billion, thanks, because for years my social circle enacted the functional equivalent of a Central Park Makeout every weekend. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if this event was actually created by Herpes itself, or Hep C, somehow acting through a human agent. I like this idea. I told J.Ro that I would only go if I could wear sweatpants, a corporate giveaway t-shirt, and a bright green Legal Observer hat. She wasn't familiar with this last accessory, so I showed her and she went blind. Then we had these IM exchanges: UD: Google the phrase "sexy legal observer" J.Ro: I got nothing. UD: ... J.Ro: Is that your point? UD: WAH HA HA ----- J.Ro: I am making awesome iron ons right now UD: I bet. But nothing could be as awesome as a legal-observer-green jumpsuit J.Ro: if you ironed these onto it, it might vault into the over-awesome, and become invisible. I love this image that I swiped from the FAA website, because the control tower and the two planes talk like they're in a Winsor McKay comic from like 1912. Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Being a superfamous A-list celebrity requires so many traits in combination -- talent, ambition, focus, emotional fortitude, charisma, looks, etc -- that I think it's impossible to make someone into a star who isn't already multiply gifted in a predestined kinda way. The myths of "luck" and "the big break" are somewhere between anecdotal and irrelevant, and serve mostly to contribute to the delusions of people who ain't got it and never will (otherwise known as "waiters"). The looks part is important but standards change over time, so your looks have to resonate with the public at the moment of your potential fame. AND bigtime film stardom requires the biggest stars to look "good" from the most possible angles (do you have a "good side"? some people just don't) and in the largest variety of clothes, and often without clothes (good here just meaning that you fit within specific margins of acceptable weight, proportion, etc etc etc). I'm saying that N*Sync may have been "created," but really the process of making a boy band involves seeking out kids with the Fame Qualities and jamming the five best ones together and crossing your fingers. (Do you remember how popular New Kids on the Block were at their height? Sheeit.) Good songwriting helps, but if your stars ain't got it, your good song can too easily become the One-Hit Wonder's one hit.
N*Sync might have culled the kids with the highest FQ (Fame Quotient) at the time of their selection, but only one of them looks to have staying power. It's not the one whose name is funny if you say it "Fat One" instead of "Fa-Tone." So the FQ is always in flux, maybe, or maybe emotional fortitude only gets revealed over time, or the public's taste for your look abates, or you focus on things other than fame, like, I dunno, family, or life, or whatever. Then your fame is fucked. Which: congratulations! Fame is for chumps! (Reality shows illustrate the doom of a lopsided FQ really clearly. The main requirements for participation in your typical reality show are ambition, extroversion, and volatility. Ambition is one of the key elements of fame, but alone it is NEVER enough. Extroversion is unnecessary and volatility is a liability. Some shows focus on a specific aspect of the quotient, like looks for America's Next Top Model, or talent (I guess) for Project Runway or American Idol, but really. The lopsided FQ will prevent any aspirant from achieveing a-list fame; as an exercise, you can try to name five people who got famous through reality TV who will still be relevant in five years. Meet me by the statue of Garibaldi in Washington Square Park in 2011 and we can see how you did.) Anyway, who cares. I feel like I could go on about this forever, but I'd get super depressed. LINKS YOU'VE PROBABLY SEEN BY NOW BUT FUCK IT: • The Top 10 Will Ferrell SNL skits ever. Neil Diamond and Harry Caray are just unbelievable. Also, it seems that WF relies a lot on shouting for his comedy, and on the phrase "smack you in the mouth." • Check out this artist description from AllMusic of mostly forgotten but Wu-sampled girl grouper Wendy Rene. The second paragraph is the best Easter egg I've ever seen on AllMusic. Read it before they delete it. • Pitchfork's Top 100 Albums of the 1990s is a three year old feature that I'd never seen before. What's my problem? The album images are all missing, but the list is still captivating if you're into music and you came of musical age in the 90s. Don't skip ahead to the end, either, it's really cool if you count down with them in order. I kept on thinking of albums that I thought should be there, and I'd scroll all slowly like "is it... is it... no.... is it..." and every time one I loved was there I jizzed in my jeans. Also, one of my favorites made #11 and I totally didn't think anybody else even liked it. Only one album that I think should have been there was completely forgotten, but I'M SURE IT WAS AN OVERSIGHT. Lists can be reductive and irritating, but they can also be really helpful and satisfying, and my favorite thing about this one is that it makes a hell of a lot more sense to make "Best Album" lists for short chunks of time than for, like, Ever. Saturday, August 12, 2006
Sometimes it seems so goddamn impossible to write a post, but the fact is that if I sit and try to write, thirty parpagraphs will spill out of me at once. I spend most of my lengthy posting process deleting text. I'm sorry for huge delays, but sometimes I just want to look at Wikipedia pages all day (So! Much! Information! Erich Honecker! Pancho Gonzales! The Free State of Fiume! A fucking hole in the ground!) Also, sometimes the shit that I write is just not appropriate for public consumption. I don't mean pornographic Battlestar Galactica fanfic or like that. I mean I was about to write -- or rather I half wrote and then stopped -- a rant about how a passive agressive acquaintance is driving me crazy, when I realized how unbelievably passive aggressive it would be to complain about her behavior on the fucking internet instead of talking to her about it. What the fuck? So instead I will tell you about something my dad said the other night that made me want to chew nails. I can bitch about my dad.
I was talking to him about how I get really stressed when the driver of a car I'm in doesn't use their turn signal before they turn. He knows that I feel this way because we've spoken about it in the past. My feeling on the matter is summed up easily with the following point: a) use your fucking turn signal. Gah. I realize there are probably some of you who don't like signaling every time you turn or whatever. Maybe you like to decide on a situation-by-situation basis. Maybe you think signaling when you can't see a car behind you is stupid. Well hurrah for you! You're awesome! Wheee! Let's all punch babies! I don't care. Whatever your reasons for making a choice out of something that would be automatic if it could be (viz the way some new cars turn on the headlights if you turn on the wipers) they can't compare to the following arguments my dad has used to defend his non-use of the turn signal in situations where (for starters) the law requires it: ARGUMENT #1: (abandoned years ago, but vividly recalled by me) "They make car parts to certain specifications, and certain parts are designed to break after a certain amount of time. I had a friend who was an engineer who said that he designed a door handle for a car company, and they told him that it was too sturdy. It broke after 500,000 uses. They wanted one that broke after 100,000. So I'm just saving wear and tear on the signal. It may be designed to snap off in my hands, but I can delay that day if I don't overuse it." ARGUMENT #2: "At least I'm not as bad as some people, like [name withheld], who, if she forgets to signal a certain amount of time before a her exit comes, won't make the turn at all, because god forbid she makes a turn without signaling. Or she'll signal late and turn late as a result, sometimes too fast, which is dangerous." ARGUMENT #3: "If you always use your signal, you might expect the same kind of behavior from everyone else, and that could create a very dangerous situation; some people don't signal before changing lanes, or before turning, or -- worst of all -- they signal right and go left! If you're not ready for that, you could easily get killed." Oh yes he did. So I waited briefly for the "just kidding" that I knew wasn't coming, took a deep breath, and said something to the effect of: "I understand the desire to use the tools and language of reason to justify one's emotions, because god knows I do it too, but an important part of that is mentally testing one's arguments before speaking them aloud to make sure they are not UTTERLY FUCKING INSANE. Simply mimicking the structures and cadences of logic is not sufficient. "Allow me to summarize the meaty parts of your two latter points: #2: I may not always use the turn signal, but I know people who use the signal in a really retarded way! I don't seem so bad now, do I?"Can you really not see how FUCKED FUCKED FUCKED up those are? "Now let me anaolgize them in a hyperbolic but hopefully illustrative way. The first is like saying "I may be a rapist, but at least I'm not a murderer!" The second is like saying "You shouldn't go around not killing people because it might train you to expect people not to kill you, and you won't be ready if someone does." I'm not entirely sure how I stopped ranting at him, but it something to do with futility and a sense that he had tuned out as soon as he detected a note of criticism coming his way. Or maybe he tuned out when I screamed "FUCKED FUCKED FUCKED" at him. Or when I called him insane. Hmmmm. So I never got to say the next part, which was going to be something like "You are not a special magic man who doesn't need to use your turn signal, just as you are not a special magic man who doesn't need a seat belt, or who can decide for himself whether it's safe to talk on the cell phone while driving. When your wife and tweenage daughter are in the car, your responsibility is to more than your petty rebellions. You can be a goddamn authority-flouting brat when you aren't hurtling down the road at somewhere between 10 and 20mph over the speed limit. You cannot overcome the physical reality of the world through sheer will alone." Glaarrgle, people. Fucking gllllaaargle. Monday, August 07, 2006
I saw a story in Metro (one of two free morning newspapers that appeared in NYC sometime in the last couple of years) that reminded me why I hate crappy newspapers. It's not Metro's fault, they were picking up a wire story, and I kind of like the fact that the story is all about a lady complaining about how she has been portrayed in newspapers. Anyway, a story in some paper called her the "Skull Stripper." I was understandably horrified at that sensationalist moniker, but it was all a sham. Turns out she is a stripper who has some skulls in her house. Skulls she got from a mail-order catalog. Not, as I felt the name suggested, a lady who strips the skin from the skulls of her victims, probably while they are still alive and screaming.
Shiiiiit, man. That's like if they arrested a prostitute for having skulls in her house and the papers called her the "Skull Fucker." Tabloid crapsacks. I saw The Descent this weekend, and I thought a lot about critics and reviews. I thought about horror as a genre. Then I thought that it would be funny if there were a small independent movie out at the same time called The Docent. I pictured staffers at a multiplex theater deliberately misdirecting customers to The Docent, pretending they read their tickets wrong. Meatheads going "who is this fucking old lady and why is she walking around the MoMA? Where are the hot chicks and CHUDs and shit? Fuck!" Then I laughed myself to sleep. |
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" |