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HEAVY ROTATION

Dan Deacon:
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For Emma, Forever Ago
Vampire Weekend:
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BLOGS ETC

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elyse from ANTM
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123 i love you READ NOW
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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!


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Jeremy Broomfield



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

Thursday, February 14, 2008
 
It's not fun to have a fever on an airplane. That much is true. But is it less fun than being healthy on an airplane? I'm not entirely sure. Air travel is so different from normal life, but in such a way that it difficult to pinpoint the exact ways it's different. Just like a slowly-brewing fever, or like waiting for hallucinogens which may or may not be bunk to kick in.
     I got nauseous almost as soon as I got into my cab to the airport, but I chalked that up to the fact that I ate a bowl of yogurt and a brownie for breakfast. In the cab, I had the Phildickian experience of finding a counterfeit $10 bill in my wallet, which had clearly come out of the ATM at my local deli (which is the only ATM I know of that dispenses $10 bills: also weird). It was a pretty good fake, I guess, except that I spotted it immediately: two pieces of color laserprint glued back-to-back on cottony paper. I showed it to the cabbie, who was glad I had not tried to pay him with it, and then I tore it up. Subsequently, two people have expressed exasperation with me for destroying the ersatz cash because they wanted to seeeeee it, but I figured a good time to divest yourself of WILDLY ILLEGAL THINGS is right before you get mandatorily searched by agents of a notoriously humorless federal agency. Blerg.
     Wandering through the sad excuse for a terminal that US Airways operates out of LGA, I thought maybe if I threw some more food on top of my nausea it would go away. I opted for an egg & cheese on a roll made by the surliest family of Indian women I had ever seen making airport breakfast food at 7am. It was not a good idea.
     (Side note: I don't know if I've ever mentioned the foibles of the service industry down here on St. Thomas. One of the amusing quirks of the locals is that they have zero interest in serving you. ZERO. But it's hard to be anything but amazed, because they employ that disinterest so heroically that you are forced to posit the existence of TIME-SLOWING or WORK-DESTROYING devices behind the counter. I have seen two employees of a Subway sandwich shop take twenty minutes to prepare a sub. It was the only thing they were doing, and they never visibly stopped doing it. It was not larger, or more complicated, than a normal North American-made Subway sub. But it took twenty minutes. I know this sounds hyperbolic, but you seriously have to see this. Oh! And it is widely reported by non-locals that if you comment on this phenomenon -- or in any way attempt to counteract it, say by mentioning that you are in a hurry -- the service will slow down even further. As a result of all this, there was much jolly consternation in the non-local community down here when it was announced that a branch of Hooters would open on the island. Since business models based on speed, friendliness, efficiency, etc, cannot seem to run on local power, almost all the staff had to be imported from the mainland U.S.)
     Anyway. My first plane ride was only 1.5 hours of tightly cramped nausea, crushed between the curvature of the plane and a 300lb neighbor. I got off the plane for my hourlong layover, and realized that I would have to puke pretty soon. I wondered where to go. Excuse me, ma'am, I'm going to be violently ill in less than five minutes; do you have some sort of vomit accommodations in this terminal, or shall I just use a bathroom stall? Oh and while I'm here, can I have a seat with legroom?
     So I puked in a stall of a crowded bathroom, with the stalls on either side of me occupied with horrified travelers wishing only to void their bowels in peace and keep their loafers free of acidic spatter. Wow, this got gross fast. I'm gonna stop here, and see if there are a lot of votes for continuation of this narrative. If not, I'll just let it fade away like the memory of a headache.

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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