UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu  feed it up!
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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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Wednesday, December 22, 2004
It's hard to believe that Dirt McGirt is dead, right? One minute, the Dirty Bastard is rapping about zoos and hos and petty crimes, and probably swords and zombies, too, and then he has some kind of death-related incident which kills him. Baby, I've got your money.
This morning I saw this girl and I almost had one of those subway in-your-head love affairs that lasts as long as a train ride, but something went wrong. First of all she was cute as houses, with a loose-weave cableknit sweater that poked out and cuffed her belted suede hip-length jacket. Her hair was all hacky layers that looked like they hadn't been washed in almost a week, which was great, and made up for the fact that the hair was too long. She looked kind of like Liv Tyler, except dirtier, and with normal teeth instead of Liv's round little chipmunkery choppers. Green wool skirt, big backpack filled with all the clothes she'd need for the trip back to mom's for the holidays. Aww, she was so sweet that I actually got all self-conscious about whether or not my mouth was hanging open Cletus-style. But then she ruined it all, she did. Ruined it by opening a copy of the fucking' New York Post. Eat crappy dicks. What a fucking disappointment. I had to switch my morning's amorous ADD attentions to the girl sitting across for me who was reading the real newspaper. She was plainer, but she was tall. That's always nice. I emailed the following story to the Metropolitan Diary section of the real newspaper. It's a cutesy slice-o-life column that runs once a week and is so disgustingly Upper West Side that at least one of the stories always involves Zabar's. If you don't know what Zabar's is, consider yourself lucky, if left out. Here goes. STORY START Last night, I'm in the back of a cab crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. We're trying to get into the right lane, but nobody will let us over, so I roll down my window and stick out my hand, palm facing backwards in a "please stay back a moment and let us in" gesture. A white minivan drops back, giving us enough room to move over, but wait a minute, this motorcycle is still in the way, and it's coming towards us instead of making way. It's a sporty Japanese bike, not a big flatulent American monster, but still, it's getting closer, and closer, and closer -- what is he thinking? Can he even see me? Am I in his blind spot? It seems like a collision is imminent, but somehow I can't move my arm out of the way. This is gonna hurt! Then the motorcyclist pulls neatly alongside, and matching our speed, reaches out his hand and touches mine. After thus making contact, he accelerates away along the dashed white line, and my cab pulls into the empty space in the right lane. STORY END Anyway, this morning when I walked out of the deli with my artery-clogging b'fast sandwich, I held the door for and smiled at this girl who I've seen a million times -- she works in my building. But I'd never smiled at her before, and, well: WOW. She smiled back and her normally pretty face lit up like a sun. She looked fucking amazing. What a smile. It's kept me feeling good all day. Mmph! 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 |