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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Tuesday, March 29, 2005
If I haven't mentioned anything about it, it's not cause I'm hiding anything from you, my turtle doves; it's only because it's so, so, same-old-song, sooooo four months ago (and four months before that, and maybe six before that, etcetera etcetera ad infinitum ad nauseam), but it's time I told you: the main reason I've been so blogligent is that I'm down to the wire on yet another roommate search. Yeah, I know. CAN IT. But it's all looking a little bit okay, maybe from where I'm sitting. I'm not inclined to jinx anything here, so I won't actually say it's all good. When it comes to roommates, I do believe in jinxes now.
In fact, the whole shebang makes me kinda shaky. Lined up behind the rental stressors, like an angry queue at the post office at lunchtime when only one window is open, are a bunch of familial obligations, though I've discharged a slew and I'm almost out of the woods here and the goalposts are in sight and if I catch a tiger by his toe, I just might have the right mix of metaphors to completely bamboozle you. But see: it was my Mom's birthday last week. Tomorrow is my stepmom's. Friday is my stepdad's. I'm helping my dad with a massive project involving a book he's going to publish for which I've volunteered to take about 300 photos of book covers in his Updike collection (do not ask, do not ask). Yesterday I hooked up my mom's DSL line; the week before I'd helped her upgrade from an iMac to a Mac mini, which by the way is a superdope computer. My half-sister is turning twelve this summer, which means that I am... let's see... oh yeah -- FUCKING OLDY VON OLDENSTEIN. I'm all jumpy and rattled. Exempli gratia: today, while eating lunch with my father at a new Mexican fast-food joint on the forty-deuce called Chip-otle [sic], I picked up my Nantucket Nectars Orange Mango Juice to give it a good pre-drink shake. Unfortunately, I'd already shaken it, and removed the cap. Juice everywhere, especially all over me, which whatever, but also all over the jacket and pants of a very expensive-looking black suit of another customer, a business-y type. I apologized and avoided eye contact, and the guy left without saying a word to me after napkinning himself off a bit. I reflected on the miracle of the new millennium -- wouldn't that same guy have decked me right in the yapper in the 1950s? Or even more recently? And mightn't he have been justified? No jury would convict -- that was a nice-ass set of threads. But he chose the path of peace. Maybe he's a Buddhist. Maybe he had a spare suit in his other pants. Or maybe he was just a fucking pussy, too scared to say anything to my face. Wanna make somethin' of it, buddy? Care to step outside? Tonight was a nice break from the everyday. Indian dinner with Foxy and PunkyDell, which was relaxing (except for the part where Foxy threatened to smash my newly-bought and dearly beloved Palm Zire 31 with a tureen of raita) followed by a postprandial constitutional in the promisingly primaveran evening air, further followed by a descent into a murky basement hole of a sake bar called Decibel. We drank stupidly expensive sake and made promises to each other and I drew some diagrams on free postcards, something I used to do all the time at bars, but I haven't in a long time. (Which reminds me of the Best Diagram Ever, which I found in a 1953 plumbing manual, thoughtfully sent to me by Isaac earlier this week. You rock, Ikeypoo!) I discovered at the bar that I am so well ladytrained that I unconsciously put the toilet seat down in public bathrooms -- even in the men's room. What a retard. I'm just a dumb animal, and I can hear the women in metaphorical labcoats slapping each other five for a job well done. Here's a message to Dominic and Mike, the two sake-soaked dudes from Queens at the table next to ours: if you're going to be so bold and helpful as to suggest that if I share the train ride with PunkyDell, she might share her genitals with me, you might consider a) shutting up, b) shutting your fat stupid faces, c) not braying your misogynist fucktarditry right in front of her face, d) not expecting me to be your new best hand-slapping buddy when you can't even master the standard three-part urban handshake, e) SHUT UP YOUR FACKING FUCKFACES! I hate bars! I hate drunk men! I hate men from Queens, especially if they are drunk, and in fucking general I hate the alcohol-fueled assumption of camaraderie that makes men think it's okay to say totally fucked-up sexist, racist, or homophobic shit to me as if I were an old frat buddy of theirs and we used to be on the same football, swimming, gang-raping or fag-bashing team. I DON'T KNOW YOU. I've only just met you, but it only took you twenty seconds to make me hate you forever and wish for your drawn-out, painful death at the hands of everyone you've ever harmed. 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 |
