UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu 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 Dan Deacon: Bromst Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavillion Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago Vampire Weekend: Vampire Weekend Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes 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 © 2002-2010 Jeremy Broomfield
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Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Tonight I tread a dangerous road. I am performing my own music in front of a crowd of people who are coming to see a play. They won't be prepared for what they will hear, but that's ok -- we aren't really prepared either. I am jittery as a nervous dog in the purse of an Upper East Side socialite as she tries to walk through the middle of a biker gang brawl. But not for the reasons you'd expect.
It's not performing per se that has wound my spring; most of my friends would confirm the notion that my entire life is one continuous, neverending, extremely garrulous and irritating high-energy performance. And it's not really the lack of practice, because I've never been prepared for anything, ever. I'm a fly-by-the-smell-of-my-poo guy, a night-before-it's-due guy, a yabba-doo guy -- a fucking lazy fuck. If it weren't for half-assed, I wouldn't have no ass at all. Right, so not that. I am a little worried about sudden, violent dehydration, because I sweat when I sing and I sweat on a stage and I sweat when it's a billion fucking degrees outside, which it is. But I've got some "Fierce" Grape Gatorade hooked up to an IV-drip bag and a catheter to catch any nervous urine and route it into the Gatorade bag. I'm nervous because of what it means to have a band. Once you have put together a group of musicians and practiced a bunch of stuff, it becomes harder and harder to claim that you don't want to get famous. Because that's, like, the whole point, innit? The early goal might be "to let the people hear the music, dude," but at the end of that path is the chance "to let the people buy the music, dude." Bands go on tour. Bands carry a lot of stuff and sleep in uncomfortable place. Bands get their sleep schedules all kinds of fucked up, and even some really famous bands are broke-ass po. J.Ro is fond of saying that I "owe it to the world" to play my music in public. But does the public deserve to hear it? I already suffer for my art. You want me to suffer more? MORE? Do you want my blood, J.Ro? COME AND GET IT. Oh, and wish me luck. 0 comments |
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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" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |