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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Thursday, December 01, 2005
This may come as a shock to some of my newer readers, but I am a deeply vain person. Most of my friends let me slide on this account because I have a charming tendency to combine my vanity with a towering immodesty, so, you know. It's all good. But so here's the thing about my the zits that have colonized my head/neck/face area: I don't like them. They make me feel blemished and unclean... which, of course, I am. As you know, I never used to wash my hair, and I've never been a daily face-wash, scrub, or toner kind of dude -- metrosexuality is just too much damn work. But here I am, with hair all clean and poofy after god knows how many days of consecutive shampooing, and my face has seen soap at least once a day for the same amount of time. Worst part: a well-meaning friend bought me some witch hazel-impregnated cleansing and toning wipes to help with the face oil at work, where we have no hot water. Which means that I have something called "wipes" on my desk. Wipes. Fucking... WIPES! What's that on your desk, buddy? What these? Oh they're just my WIPES. Glaargle! I do not think of myself as the kind of person who needs "wipes." But there's no getting around the fact that at present, I am.
(Digression:I maybe be especially oversensitive to this word because of a product called Kandoo, which if you don't know is a flushable moistened paper towel thing for kids who are toilet training. It's basically a baby wipe repackaged to appeal to the actual baby, like: Baby's First Toilet Paper, or Toilet paper with training wheels. For no single reason I can pinpoint, the very existence of this product skeeves me the fuck out. Maybe it's the fact that it's moist. Maybe it's the way that some overly literal marketing fucktard suggested putting "doo" in its name, presumably so that consumers wouldn't forget its purpose. Maybe it's the fact that, for the sake of a stupid pun, it takes a perfectly serviceable (if old-fashioned) figure of speech that seemed to signify a particularly American type of eagerness -- (dictionary.com:"a willingness to tackle a job and get it done") -- and threatens to associate it forever with ASS-WIPING (like if this product gets really popular, who would want to be described as having a "can-do attitude" anymore? I know that at best it's a minor linguistic tragedy, but still -- who do they think they are?) Maybe it's the vomity purple/green color scheme of the brand, or JUST MAYBE it's the goofy frog spokesanimal who is depicted on the packaging WIPING HIS FROG ASS, oh mah gah.) Yeah. But so! About my zits: I have a theory. When your body perceives an attack, as from an infection or a foreign object, it usually sends white blood cells* in great quantity to deal with the situation. I think something similar has happened to me. I think my body believes that my face is being attacked by my beard (here's the picture of the beard, sorry for the delay), that my face has in fact been besieged for almost a month by objects that my body has misconstrued to be foreign -- my own goddamn whiskers. I think that in response to this perceived threat, my body has instructed every inch of skin north of my collarbone to pump out as much oil as possible. Now, I'm glad that my body is aware of and responsive to threats -- that's a reassuring sign that my immune system is still online (which will be handy when the bird flu metastasizes into a lethal pandemic, hits New York, and wipes away half its population like god's own sheet of Kandoo). But I guess I'm a little confused about the strategy. Is the oil supposed to make my skin so slippery that my beard is supposed to, like, lose its grip and fall off? I guess that might work if my face were being attacked by a squid. Well, whatever. The point is that despite the fact that I really kind of like the beard, it's going to come off very very soon. I know that some of you will be disappointed.** Hell, I'm disappointed. I was so proud of myself for making it through the itchy week two without caving in. (Yes, I know it is fucking lame that this is what passes for a proud achievement in my life. Fuck off.) But since the oil production shows no sign of abating, and since I can't keep my stupid dirty fingers away from my face, it's got to go. At the suggestion/request of Sars, I will shave my jowls, neck and chin first, leaving a Fu Manchu/thigh-tickler style mustache for a week or so. But then it's back to smoothness, and hopefully I won't have to shampoo until 2006. If you want to run your fingers through my greasy beard before it's gone, I will host an open house this Saturday at the Socrates Diner in Greenpoint between 11am and 1pm. Your hands might get greasy, though, so don't forget your wipes. ----- * Awesome fact from Wikipedia: "The name "white blood cells" [is derived] from the fact that after centrifugation of a blood sample, the white cells are found in the Buffy coat, a small fraction between the hematocrit and the blood plasma, which is white in color." Heh! This is totally random, but the term "Buffy Coat" makes a nerd like me think of this yellow thing. ** When I told a friend of mine in California that I had a beard, she actually yelped with irrepressible (and kind of freakish) delight, as if I'd told her I was having a baby. 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 |
