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, November 12, 2004
Ce n'est pas une habitude
Out of boredom, pique, or temporary insanity, I made a questionable purchase. I was feeling a little weird, a little down, a little vulnerable. As an American, I know of only two cures for this condition, and since there wasn't a television nearby that I could use for a marathon of electronarcotized passivity, I chose the other cure: I bought something crazy stupid. My crisis overtook me as I passed a tobacconist, but as you know, I no longer smoke cigarettes. After much trial, I have decided that cigars -- at least the kind I can afford -- are just nasty, and that smoking them is an act of aggression against the people around you more than anything else. So what's that leave? Yeah. I bought a pipe. I know, I know. It's retarded. I don't know what the minimum age for pipe-smoking is, but despite my disintegrating body and advanced store of wisdom, I haven't reached it yet. This is clearly The Most Obnoxious Affectation, worse than the high-schooler with a fedora or a college kid with a walking stick or (gulp) a staff. Hmm... what do you think, does the pipe still trump the Moses staff? What's worse? Still, the pipe is fun. Undeniably. (Did you know that after filling a pipe and lighting it, it will always go out, requiring you to tamp the tobacco down and light it again? The first light is called the "false light." Hah!) So if I only smoke it occasionally, and alone, in my bedroom closet, that's okay, right? I'm in good company: Bertrand Russell, Santa, Sherlock Holmes, Einstein, Mark Twain, and, of course, Popeye. But then the other night, Cookie gave me a withering look and told me that I'm a smoker again. I disagree, because I think a pack-a-day cigarette HABIT where I needed to inhale great clouds of smokeborne nicotine twenty times a day differs significantly from a take-it-or-leave-it nighttime bowlful of amusingly-scented shag tobacco that just rolls around in my mouth. But just in case I was getting dangerously close to recidivistic levels of nicotine, I handed the pipe and its attendant paraphernalia to J.Ro for safe keeping until such a time as I have demonstrated to my own satisfaction that I don't NEED to smoke the pipe. Can we try it here? My boss came back from Paris with a ton of snapshots, and I was impressed with the sights. But when she showed me her shots from Versailles, I almost lost my shit. She said that after walking around there for a while, she completely understood how the French Revolution happened. She wanted to go cut some rich people's heads off. Louis XIV apparently had 20,000 members of the frog aristocracy living with him at Versailles. Here's a pretty little fountain, but my favorite was the shot of Le Roi's backyard. He'd get up in the morning, have the crew of drapery-servants crank up the mechanism that eventually pulled back his ten thousand pounds of drapes, revealing this view, which as you can see extends for many miles unobstructed by any ugly or inconvenient topological features like mountains, hills, or hummocks. He'd had the view flattened, because it pleased him. Jesus. Cue sound of guillotine's thunk and cheering crowd, am I right? Best co-worker complaint ever Quoth the receptionist: "I hate answerin the damn phone. I swear, that shit's nevuh for me -- it's always for Joanne, or Juliette, or it's sumthin work-relatit. Tsk!" 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 |
