Universal Donor
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You are just a number
to me! And that number
is:

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PAGES UD MADE:

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My Books Page

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My Reviews Page

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My Reference Page

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My Music Page

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My Pictures

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My Store

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UD-RELATED PAGES:

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My LiveJournal

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My MySpace music page

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My Flickr page

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My del.icio.us page

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My Last.fm page

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My Amazon Wishlist

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HEAVY ROTATION

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Dan Deacon:
Bromst
Animal Collective:
Merriweather Post Pavillion
Bon Iver:
For Emma, Forever Ago
Vampire Weekend:
Vampire Weekend
Fleet Foxes:
Fleet Foxes

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BLOGS ETC

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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

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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

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dead amusement pks
craters!

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all content
© 2002-2010
Jeremy Broomfield

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PRAISE & REVIEWS

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"[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

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egeo huic vigorum

MY WRESTLING NAME

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Titan Gently

MY PUNK NAME

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Razor Ection







WHO LINKS TO UD?

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and here's something
weird: my place
in Humor 3-space

  I wrote derisively of my little 11-year-old half-sister's so-called summer "camp" about a year ago, but I didn't go into detail because I didn't have any. Welp, now I do. I spent all day yesterday (and I do mean alllll day; I woke up at 7:15am! On a Sunday. What?) at Belvoir Terrace for visitor's day. This camp is redonculous. The kids live in a converted mansion. The grounds were landscaped by Frederick Law Olmstead, designer of Central and Prospect Parks. So okay, it's not really a camp at all, except you get to ship your brats there for a month or two of peace. It's more like a conservatory in the woods, filled with high-pitched little girls, glimmering with privilege. You can't walk ten feet without barking your hip on a piano, and if you close your eyes and urinate randomly, you have an 80% chance of pissing in the f-hole of a string instrument. The tetherball rope was broken and nobody cared. That really pissed me off -- I was all psyched to put the tetherball hammer down on some Upper East Side bitchlets.
     After sitting in on my sister's violin lesson, swim class, and a mercifully instantaneous group recital, they fed us some kind of crazy, keep-the-walking-checkbooks-happy gourmet meal. Roast beef loin? Some pasta salad that tasted like it had been dressed with god's semen? Some dish with "reduction" in its name? Not a kernel of creamed corn in sight. No mac, and the only cheese was fresh mozzarella. WHAT THE FUCK, CAMP? Anyway, I think I've made that point enough.
     But there is one tradition I forgot about that is fucking awesome, and which this place saw fit to honor: rest hour. Rest. Hour. Can you believe how good that sounds? It's right after lunch, remember? And everybody goes to their beds and does whatever they want, for an hour. I'm drooling right now. Kids have it so fucking easy, right? I would kill a hobo for the right to have rest hour every day after lunch. So yesterday, exhausted from smiling at children displaying the full gamut of talent and ability, I passed out on a bed built for a prepubescent girl. It was great. Then I had to wake up and smile some more.
     I insisted on driving the rental car home, because on the drive up, my father revealed himself to be a dangerous death-wish maniac. This had not always been the case, I don't think. He never wore his seatbelt, which is dangerous enough (actual defense of this practice: "seatbelts only matter in an accident, and I don't plan on getting in an accident!"), and he seemed to think a turn signal is optional, but when I was younger I never feared for my life to the point of closing my eyes so I couldn't see what he was doing, which I did on Saturday. Read that again, because that's fucking insane. Now I'm not a lilywaisted pantyliver, and I've survived a bunch of life-threatening situations without pooping my pantalones. But there's something about being in a car driven by someone who seems bent on your mutual destruction, tonight, and who refuses to listen to increasingly loud pleas for vehicular sanity. "Could you please go slower than 60 on this twisty country two-lane with a posted speed limit of 30 in pouring rain that makes it impossible to see further than forty feet?" "Nah! The faster I go, the sooner we're out of this rain!!"
     Anyway so I drove home, which was good because... you know, I was about to detail the shitty driving conditions, but I just realized that was a boring and stupid idea.
     Instead, I'll give you a new syndrome that needs naming: Today I've had this problem where I can't remember that I've taken a pill that I've taken. Some of you may not ever have to deal with this because your pink little organs all function properly without the aid of pharmaceuticals, but for pill people (holla!), it's a potentially dangerous problem. Like this morning I woke up sneezing, so I took a Zyrtec after I got out of bed. Or so I thought. I know I took the bottle out of my backpack and opened it, and I know I subsequently swallowed some water. But then, five or ten minutes later, after shaving and getting dressed, I see a solitary Zyrtec sitting on my desk, right next to the water bottle. Is that the pill I thought I took? Did I just take it out and put it there? My desk is messy enough that I could believe that there might be random pills lying around on its surface. I took the lonely pill.
     Then at work it happened again with the Zyban (Z is the new Q), except I didn't have a pill lying around -- I just forgot if I took one when I got to work. Did I? I always do, why should today be different? 'Cept I don't remember actually doing it. Fuck. This memory problem is getting drastically worse. Used to be I couldn't remember what I did last week. Now it's five minutes ago. Still, I luckily have no problem remembering that Richard Edson played a character named Elmer on a TV show circa 1990 called Shannon's Deal which also starred Jamey Sheridan, who played Randall Flagg in the miniseries of The Stand, which also starred Gary Sinise, who was a founding member of the Steppenwolf Theater Company, whose early membership also included John Malkovich, John Mahoney, Laurie Metcalf from Roseanne, and Joan Allen, who starred opposite William Petersen in The Contender, which also starred Sam Elliot as a guy named Kermit, in which he looked superweird because he had shaved his mustache but it still looked like he had one -- like a flesh mustache, all puffy and sitting there on his face.
posted by Universal Donor 3:26 PM 0 comments

OTHER REVIEWS:
Scrabble NEW!

LATEST BOOK REVIEWS:
The Game
Moneyball
One-Upsmanship
Siddhartha

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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

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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS

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Chan Marshall
Rotem of the IDF
Eleanor Friedberger
Amy Goodman
Bernardine Dohrn ('69)
Maya Rudolph
Joanna Newsom
Imogen Heap
Caroline Dhavernas

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Shana Rae Ray

DISALLOWED FOREVER

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"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!"
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"from whence"
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"...the exception that proves the rule"
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any use of the question "spit or swallow?"
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the phrase "drop trou"
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fake-o reviewer verbs:
"penned" for wrote
"helmed" for directed
"lensed" for whatever
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"expat"
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the euphemism
"passed away"
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pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!"
(see also: "grassy-ass!")

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PET PEEVES

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"confinscated"
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trying children "as adults"
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"drownded"
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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.
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tattoos in the Courier font
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any use of Comic Sans

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