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 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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Friday, February 20, 2004
Things I've been doing instead of writing you a sassy new post:
Opening a new bank account. Picking at this thing on my neck. Tossing my head around like that creature on the subway car in Jacob's Ladder in a fruitless attempt to shake the stress out of my neck muscles. Trying, also fruitlessly, to convince my coworkers not to play the lottery despite the stupidly huge jackpot: "Here are your odds, here is your expected outcome, which as you'll see works out to a negative expectation, which as you can also see is like betting a quarter to win a dime on a coin toss, which as you SHOULD be able to see is just STUPID." "Yeah but that's a lot of money." Glarrgle. Watching as they fall prey to a sophisticated combination of common causes of human misjudgment. Sighing with exasperation. Reading Lore Sjöberg's Book of Ratings, which is just unbelievably fucking hilarious. The consistency of his style and the application of his chosen form never lessens the joy. Too good. Fulfilling orders for Fear Not #3, which are coming in heavily as word gets around, but only slightly more frequently than requests for free copies, which what gives? I'm not made of postage, pals. Buying paperback reprints of Jaime Hernandez's stories from Love & Rockets, and crying while reading them because they are so fucking beautiful. Berating myself for reading superhero comics as a teenager when I could have been reading this stuff. I was an idiot. Why didn't anyone tell me? What a waste. Panicking because the new office chairs, which seemed so comfortable in the store, now seem to be about what you'd expect from a $125 chair. Am I looking at even worse back pain from now on? Sweating at the thought. Sweating more because the chair is covered with a fabric designed by IG Farben during WWII for Nazi interrogation chairs, and which can make you sweat even as you shiver from the cold of the office. Realizing that crying while reading comics, while understandable in the current instance, is probably a sign that I'm feeling a little more fragile than usual. I had a shiver the other week, when the temperature topped 45 degrees, an atavistic flush of chemicals that screamed "spring is almost here." It felt wonderful, really fucking transcendently so. I almost cried again. But spring is not almost here. I don't need a groundhog to tell me that it snowed in April last year, and that I'm not mothballing my arctic parka until about the same time this year. I see the hipsters wearing sportcoats and scarves in the subzero chill and I know they felt the same thing, but are young enough to live by their false hopes. I'm tired of waking up with frigid shoulders poking out from under a comforter that slips down while I sleep. Remembering when it was too hot to sleep with even a sheet on top of my sticky body. Remembering the blackout: I walked from midtown to my parents' apartment in Soho, hung out on the fire escape watching spooky flashlight beams crisscross on the silent street seven floors below, and wandered out to a candlelit bar where I was handed a guitar and asked to sing. I sang. I went back to the loft, where I slept on the fire escape, 'cuz even a hot wind is better than no wind at all. 0 comments |
OTHER REVIEWS: Scrabble NEW! 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" - 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 |