Blind people can't clap.

I did it! LOVE ME

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 04:36:54 GMT

I made me a rope bed frame! Now all I need to complete this pointless and unnecessary project is a wool-stuffed mattress and pillow. Those will be coming along shortly.

Components of rope bed frame: Aspen logs from the trees that are dying on the side of the house; one 2x4 from Jake's discarded trebuchet, now being used as a grape arbor; and one 2x4 from the crucifix that mysteriously appeared in the driveway.

Why do I DO this to myself?

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 03:28:00 GMT

I mean, it's not like I don't have more pressing matters in my life. But dorky shit like this is a hobby, and everyone needs a hobby, right?

TINY CAN STOVE

It cooks tiny pancakes! This one is made from a soup can, but the design could obviously be scaled up to any size of can.

Also I made the candle. :3

HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?!

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 05:29:18 GMT

Well, I'll tell ya how! It's cuz I don't have any classes tomorrow! Anyway, I wanted to make a candle reflector sconce. And a candle. So here's what I did:

1. I started with a shoe horn, silver serving tray, and picture clamp dealy from Arc.

2. Then I bent the shoe horn and snapped off one end.

3. Poundin' a hole in a piece of steel at night is a good way to piss off everyone else in your apartment complex! Hannah's pumpkin is pretty stoked about it, though.

4. Assembling the whole thing.

5. Lookin' good!

6. Next it's candle time. Here's my makeshift double-boiler with a wrenched-up Arizona can.

7. Dippin' that wick!

8. Lettin' the candle dry.

9. FINISHED! Now, if only we didn't have incandescent lighting, this thing would actually be useful!

10. Also I made an arrowhead out of a spoon.

Boox

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 20:31:20 GMT

I work in the campus library, repairing old and damaged books.
Today I was working on a pretty heavily damaged volume - it was a first-hand account by a British soldier who had been held prisoner for several years by the Germans, published in 1917.
The spine was mangled and ripped, so I carefully cut it away in order to replace it.
I discovered that the person who originally bound the book used a timetable for the London subway system as a liner beneath the spine. The table of arrival and departure times for various stations was in perfect condition, though it was glued to the book, right where it had been, unknown and unseen for 92 years.
However, to replace a spine, I have to replace the liner paper too. I clamped the book in a vise, and smeared the spine with methyl cellulose gel. I watched the print on the timetable slowly dissolve, and after a minute, scraped away the resulting pulpy goo with a blade.

lanruojevil

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 03:15:58 GMT

This is a little story I wrote for my brother's birthday.

From Englewood Remembrances, copyright 1959 Utsler Publishing, Denver.

Vacuuming in Early Englewood
As remembered by Phillip Cooper

Back then, in the eighteen-eighties, we didn’t have the little vacuum cleaners in our homes like you do now. At that time, you just had to sweep out your house with a corn husk broom, and most of us didn’t have carpet anyway, just the richer folks mainly. But those folks that did, that did have carpet, they sure looked forward to when the vacuum would come.
There was just the one vacuum cleaner on the Front Range at that time, and we didn’t ever know exactly which day it was going to arrive. Usually it was in the summer. In the morning, you’d maybe see a big plume of smoke south of town, and there weren’t tracks down that way in those days so you knew it wasn’t a train. And you’d start thinking “Well, could it be the vacuum?” Me and the boys, the other children, you know, we all played outside all day, and we’d speculate that the vacuum was back.
One year my dad saddled up his horse, it was my older sister’s mare, and he rode down to the hill where Belleview is now – that was a couple miles from town. He came back, that little mare at a gallop, shouting that “the vacuum is coming! The vacuum is coming!” And people started coming out of the shops on Broadway, and staring up the hill, looking for the vacuum.
Soon you could hear the clanking, and the chuffing of the steam engine, and people started getting real excited. Jacob Jones, he was the mayor then, he come out of the little building they were using as city hall, and he climbed up the little bandstand, and he was shouting at his men to round up the band. Soon the bandsmen were assembling and some of them were still just wearing their suspenders – they hadn’t had time to get their uniforms!
Just as the band started to play, the vacuum crested the hill. It was a massive machine. It was mounted on a wide wagon body, with a huge boiler standing upright on the rear. Out of that stuck a huge smokestack with a spark arrestor at the top – altogether about two or three stories tall. The hose, a big heavy canvas hose, was rolled up on a reel on a little two-wheel cart behind the machine. Standing and swaying with the motion in front of the boiler, Orem Warbull shoveled coal from a big coal hopper in front of him. He was wearing boots and overalls, and feeding coal to that roaring firebox. Down below, in front of the coal hopper, Orem’s brother Hiram drove the contraption, from a little tin-roofed cab. The whole machine was steam powered, of course, and the steering was done by a big wobbly pair of iron-hooped wheels on the front. Hiram steered by whirling a big heavy steel wheel in front of him, which was a brakewheel that they bought off an old caboose. The wheel pulled on a pair of chains going off to those two front wheels. You could see the sweat on his forehead as he puffed out his cheeks and wrestled with that wheel and the other valves and levers around him in the cab.
Now, that skaty steering apparatus made the machine damn near impossible to steer. And when they crested that hill, and started coming down toward downtown, Hiram threw on the brake just as hard as he could yank the levers. The pads screeched down on the rear wheels, and a shower of sparks rained down, but it barely slowed down the vacuum.
And us kids, well, we just took right off up the hill, whirling our hats over our heads, running up to meet the vacuum. Some of our mothers shouted after us to come back, but the damn thing was so loud we couldn’t hear ‘em. Once we got up by the machine, we started running and skipping alongside, waving and shouting to Orem and Hiram, but they were both too busy to wave back. So we were all skipping around, and a couple kids bent down to scoop up chunks of coal that fell off the deck.
Meanwhile, Hiram was fighting that machine, shouting over the din to tell us to stay out of the way. The vacuum couldn’t keep a straight track down the hill, and weaved to the right and bashed into a trash can, sending papers and other junk flying. Hiram overcorrected, and sent it careening toward the other side of the street. Hiram ducked as the left front wheel went up on the boardwalk, and the weight of the machine started cracking the boards. A bunch of horses tied up in front of Brown’s Mercantile started to panic, and yanked at their lashings.
The brakes were screeching horribly. Orem had dropped his shovel, and was clutching an iron rail attached to the boiler, and was shouting something at Hiram, but he probably couldn’t even hear himself holler. The shovel fell right off the deck.
On the bandstand, the band was playing away, but by now nobody could hardly hear ‘em play. Somebody shouted “The vacuum’s gonna hit the stage!” And suddenly people were clearing the way, parents grabbing their children, and backing into the doorways. But by now the vacuum was going slowly, and it came to a shrieking halt a good few yards from the bandstand. It was close! The band had stopped playing in the meantime, and as the dust settled, the only sound was the one big piston on the side of the boiler pumping away, chunk-chunk-chunk, and the steam hissing out of the pressure valve. Mayor Jones stepped back up the bandstand, and started to speak. He grabbed his lapel and lifted his hat, and said “My friends, Englewood welcomes you.” And he started giving a little speech – Jones loved his little speeches – but about when he started, Orem, who had climbed down, grabbed his shovel from a kid who had grabbed it out of the street, and climbed back up to his spot in front of the boiler. He tapped the glass on the pressure gauge, and started shoveling coal again. The boiler started chuffing heavier, and soon nobody could hear Jones again. He must have finished, though, because he made a little bow, and people clapped.
He called Hiram up to the stage, and Hiram stood there, sweating and panting, sweat dripping off his moustache, looking at the crowd. Jones looked at him and said “Sir, I would be honored that I might be the first customer of your service this year.” Hiram nodded and Jones grabbed his hand and shook it. Hiram looked exhausted. Orem was leaning on his shovel and grinning at Hiram.
Gradually people started to go back to their business, and some people got on their buggies and went back up the hill toward the farms, and a few others crowded around the vacuum. Jones and the Warbull brothers had moved to the foot of the bandstand, and Jones was getting down to business with them. Jones sent the Marshall to the stable up the road, and soon he was coming back leading a team of mules. I guess Jones didn’t trust those boys to drive the machine to his place under its own power! They hitched up the mules and drove ‘em all over to Jones’s place. I followed the machine over and watched ‘em get set up.
That afternoon, the Warbulls unreeled that big hose, and attached it to the side of a big air chamber on top of the boiler. Hiram dragged the hose inside the house, and shouted out to Orem, who pulled a lever and twisted some valves, and soon the machine was shaking violently. A mighty plume of smoke belched from the smokestack, and sparks flew. Orem started shoveling faster, twisting one way to get a new shovelful, and twisting back the other way to feed it to the firebox. The piston pumped faster and faster. The mules were getting fidgety. A big canvas bag on the back, the dustbag, started to inflate, and dust shot out the little rips in the bag. Orem was hacking and coughing. The hose was jumping and being yanked this way and that where it snaked inside the house. The windows were all rattling and I thought they would break. The piston was whirling so it looked like the flywheel was just a blur, and the smoke cloud was passing over the whole town. This continued for maybe an hour, Orem shoveling the whole time.
When they were done, they told Jones that that was enough for tonight. Jones patted Hiram on the back and told him to come by City Hall before they left town to collect their pay.
One of Tom Skerrit’s boys told me the next day that he had sneaked up to the Petersburg Inn, where the Warbulls stayed that night, and said they were treated like regular celebrities. Didn’t have to buy a drink of their own all night, and had some of the ladies of the evening hanging on their arms.
The next day, the big smoke cloud was up over town again, but this time my mother didn’t let me go down there. She made me stay up at the house and help with the chores. A day later Ma sent me down to town with a nickel to buy some sugar, and when I got to Brown’s store I saw them firing up that big boiler in the street there, and when I got out of the store, They were getting up to steam and started chugging north, toward Denver.
The vacuum continued to visit for a few more years after that. I don’t remember when I last saw it – maybe around the turn of the century. By those last few years, there wasn’t really so much fanfare anymore.

EEEEEEEEEEEE

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 05:28:55 GMT

I think if I had to come up with a definition for my world view (and you really should not care what mine is), it would be pretty similar to most peoples' conclusion: life is fucking absurd. Today, driving home, I knocked over a traffic cone with my hand, and some bros in a Lexus followed me until they could get beside my car - and throw an orange at it.

Sometimes the guy in the booth next to you ordering a second plate of Buffalo wings is a rapist. Sometimes people with beautiful souls work 40 hours a week until they die. Sometimes caring, loving people go insane and get spoonfed drugs until they can't stand up straight. Sometimes everything works out okay.

captain

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 20:05:10 GMT

(this is not done this is a draft i'm gonna finish after work)

Poem Composed By Prairie Moonlight, August 12, 2009

Tonight the stars are falling
Cannonballs across the sky
Tonight I drove a hundred miles an hour down
dirt trails, arrow straight
Radio frequencies crackled to me
reading news from Boise - Omaha - Santa Fe - Chicago
bouncing inside the atmosphere
Between the stations, the ancient hiss
of a trillion-year-old fire

And I halted, and I lie in the grama grass
comet dust pelting the heavens

Ghosts grumble past me
trundling in heavy wagons
off to the Next Better Place

To the south, stars fall into the nuclear smudge of the City
and the woman I love sleeps in the glow
Tonight my brother sleeps God-knows-where

but tonight I spoke to him, and I said
Look at the Big Dipper
He said, I see it
I said, me too
I said, tonight we're looking at the same thing

Tonight a thousand stars will fall
Tonight I'll make a thousand wishes

(i'm trying to come up with an alternative to the phrase "woman i love" because it's kind of a cliche)

It was gonna happen eventually

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 00:43:52 GMT

Godspeed, you crazy fuckers.

WUT

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 04:58:05 GMT

Mi abuelo materno, Joe Rubinstein, nacido en Nueva Jersey. Su familia opera una pequeña tienda. Cuando tenía 17, se alistó en la Armada, y sirvió en la Segundo Guerra del Mundo en un portaaviones. Mi abuela materna, se llama Bette Rubinstein, nacido en Indiana. Su padre era un maestro. Se encantraron en universidad en la década de 1950 y tuvo un hijo llamado Geoffrey, y dos hijas: Shalom, mi madre, y Hanni. Joe era un profesor de psicología en la Universidad de Purdue.
La historia de mis abuelos paternos es muy diferente. Mi otro abuelo, se llama Stanley, es descendiente de muchas generaciones de agricultores. Él y mi abuela, se llama Elizabeth, tiene una granja lechera en el noreste de Indiana. Tuvieron cinco hijos: cuatro niñas, y mi padre, Scott. Scott tiene muchos hermanos fomentar también.
Mis padres se encontraron en la Universidad de Indiana en la década de 1970, y se casaron en 1981. Mi padre es un periodista, y mi madre es un artista gráfico. Tengo un hermano, se llama Jake. Mudamos a Colorado desde Indiana en 1994.

I do apologize for the plug

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 04:53:22 GMT

Be sure to check out "Here You Go," the hott new blog by my dad Scott Gilbert:

http://thewordfromscott.blogspot.com/

Check back frequently! He's updating it like a man possessed. Like a man possessed by the ability to write touching poetry, subtle personal reflection, and humorous and interesting historical narratives.

Bitchin' about ever'thing

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 12:49:43 GMT

I dunno, I guess I just feel kinda like a hostage to my jobs right now.

Between the two jobs, I work six days a week. Hannah works six days a week between her three jobs. My day off is Sunday. Hers is Saturday. So, basically, that means no camping, no going to the pool, no canoeing at the lake.

Also, the entire month of June has been pretty damn heavy with rain, which has precluded backyard fires, or outdoor activity of almost any kind except getting rained on.

Not to mention the fact that as a state employee, all my paychecks for the month of June are getting held up until July. It kinda fosters the feeling that I'm working for free.

It's a beautiful Colorado summer. I know that streams are flowing, and that the trees smell good. I know there are interesting people to meet. But unless they come up to my desk at the library, I won't talk to them.

Thank god I'm going to Portland with Hannah to see Shana in July.

Other things that probably won't happen, due to work and lack of money and upcoming classes: road trips, canoeing trips, and parties.

It's really okay though. I've been blessed so far in my life, and having to forgo a few luxuries for a while isn't a big deal. Honestly I've been rather spoiled.

a-hyurk hyurk hyurk

Sun, 10 May 2009 20:44:38 GMT

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee looka this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7b9pHtOZ0k

The rough cut of the slideshow component of a project I'm doing for my Nature Writing class. These are all photos I've taken (with the exception of two or three taken by my brother Jake Gilbert) at abandoned homesteads across the Great Plains.
Music is Gnoissiennes and Manierde Commencement, both by Eric Satie.

The Great Plains, I have read, were once the bottom of a great sea, in a time long before there were any people to sail across it. But the sea did not stay full, and the waters evaporated, ascended to the atmosphere and were deposited ten thousand miles away. And no more rain ever came. The seafloor rose, ascended to be nearer the sun, and grass grew. Crossing the sea of grass were great beasts – camels, horses, lions – and eventually scant bands of hardy people who hunted the beasts. They followed meager trickles of water, and slaughtered the herds that grunted as they chewed the grass. When other hunters arrived, separated from their prairie-dwelling brothers for twenty thousand years, the new arrivals killed both the herds and the old hunters, and soon the sea of grass was again empty of fauna, and ready to be repopulated.
And once more a new group moved onto the plains, and for the first time, they built permanent homes, and with plows they overturned the earth, and sought to make the prairie their garden.
For three generations they tilled and toiled, building hopeful cities. Hotels, schools, banks proclaiming their stern grandiosity. And in the 1920s and 1930s, the hand of God came to scrape clean the plains. The prairie, you see, does not tolerate settlers. It is meant to be forever a near-trackless sea of grass. Dust storms, rolling monsters as high as mountains, scooped up the fragile topsoil, and whirled it aloft, to be deposited as far away as the Gulf of Mexico.
And the people, the attempted settlers, abandoned the prairies, their bodies and their clothes and their souls caked in dust, their heads in their hands.
They never returned.
And in cruising the vast and trackless wastes, I am a sailor on that ancient sea. My car, my safe and tiny vessel, bobs slowly up and over and then back down the swells of low hills, like mighty currents turned to dust. Sometimes I travel via the Interstates, the great shipping lanes, where 18-wheelers roll like enormous cargo ships to distant ports. Like distant islands, I see the jumbles of the survivor towns far ahead of me. Sometimes I pull into dock to restock my supplies and fuel. At night, lonely blue lights dot the horizon like sleepy fishing boats with anchors dropped.
But on the back roads lie the ghosts. The tragic aridity of the dry sea, that drove the settlers away, also preserves their former homes. Without water, the only methods of destruction and dissolution are gravity and wind. And so are left moments in time.
***
They say the astronauts’ footprints on the moon will remain for millions of years.
They say the Pyramids of Egypt will last another ten thousand years.
I say a concrete foundation in the Pawnee Grasslands will last just as long.
***
Abandoned homesteads are easy to spot from a distance – the windows are black. Whereas inhabited dwellings exhibit windows covered by lacey white curtains, vacant ones belie their empty interiors with gaping black holes.
I approach them with reverence. They are the homes of stalwart pioneers, the desiccated remains of those who fought and failed against the prairie. The houses are often ringed with long-dead cottonwoods, doubly to take the inhabitants’ minds off of the placelessness of their existence, and to attempt to cut the insatiable, incessant howl of the wind. Inside it’s not uncommon to find 60-year-old furnishings strewn about as if the little house had been shaken like a toppled doll house. The houses, formerly swaddling hearths, are not dormant. Though mummified and crisped in the oppressive sun, shutters clatter and clunk in the wind; they click with locusts, flutter with swallows.
Unlike the mountain ghost towns, populated only briefly by hordes of rowdy twenty-somethings seeking quick riches in the mines, the homes and towns of the plains were platted by older, wiser men taking the great gamble of moving their entire families onto the desert to eke out a legacy.
In the mountain ghost towns, I might find the ruins of a saloon, evidenced by glittering pockets of broken whiskey bottles; on the plains I’m more likely to find a child’s bedroom, bird-shit spattered toys on the floor. Many homes still contain the cast iron stove on which maybe two generations’ worth of a family’s meals were cooked, the rotted remains of box spring mattresses onto which an exhausted farmer collapsed after a day’s desperate work, or the closets where a wedding dress hung hopefully for decades. As far as I can tell, the family floated away into nothingness.
The families, quite likely, ended up scraping by somewhere else. And yet the houses are haunted, by the emotional leavings that saturate the walls of any building where families dream. And I must realize, they are haunted by me. I am an intruder, sometimes, into once-comfortable and familiar surroundings, where vinyl records played and floorboards squeaked beneath children’s feet.
Further, the homes haunt me. When I leave, I take with me a glimpse into another life, a memory of a time that was not mine and a family who never invited me into their home. No one told me it was okay to enter the room where their children were conceived, born, and raised.
I see in the homes an awful future. I think of my childhood bedroom, and I close my eyes and watch the passage of time crack the walls, shatter the windows, rip up the floorboards. I watch the roof beams cave in over the kitchen where my mother baked pies. I see birds nesting above the bookshelves. I watch the basement fill with tumbleweeds.
Nature is slowly reclaiming the meager plots of land that were briefly stolen from it. Blowing dust nicks away microns of dry wood walls, and grass grows through the floorboards. Eventually, the homes will be overtaken by a heavy blizzard, or a powerful wind. And if not, one day the world will again freeze, and glaciers the size of mountains will roll forward and pulverize the homes to dust.

truck wanting part deux: the reckoning

Wed, 25 Mar 2009 22:08:30 GMT

le sigh

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 04:47:49 GMT

Yeah, so I'm bitter

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 15:20:54 GMT

FANCY NEW EDIT: I'm not angry at anyone in this community. You are all cool people. Consider this an open letter to every asshole who just shrugs and says that newspapers are useless or, worse, that the Rocky got what was coming to it for being so got-dang lib'rul.

______________________________________________________________________

When I got home last night after a weekend in Denver, there were three wrapped, unread newspapers in my front yard. One was the final issue of the Rocky Mountain News, the other two were Denver Posts.

I would have thought nobody had been home all weekend, if it hadn't been for the flicker of the TV in the window.

You all just lost a major source of information about your state, your country, and your world. How many of you care that the Rocky folded? How many does it affect? Do any of you read a physical newspaper in the course of your day?

For just shy of 150 years, the Rocky staff worked hard to put out a daily record of everything happening in the world around you. But in the last ten years, that just didn't matter. It was boring. City hall? School boards? These things don't matter! The world's fucked anyway, why should you bother reading about it, right?

In the last nine years, they won four Pulitzer Prizes. For pictures and stories that probably none of you ever saw.

Financial analysts say that in coming years we will see several major cities without a daily newspaper. That is utterly pathetic. I just don't understand - who do people think will cover local events? Do you think the New York Times will send a reporter to cover city hall? Not to mention, TV news has little time to cover any issue in-depth - unless it's the death of a coked-up celebrity.

For everyone that scoffs and says that they'll just get their news online: WHO DO YOU THINK PRODUCES THAT CONTENT? What incentive does some asshole with a blog have to have his or her entries edited and fact-checked?

How many of you wouldn't know the Apocalypse happened unless you saw it in a Facebook status update?

OMG

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 02:09:03 GMT

OBAMA IS ASECRET MUSLIN

PHACES OF METH

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 01:58:36 GMT

Okay, so meth ain't good for you. I've never done it, and I never will. The latest anti-meth ad campaign is called "Faces of Meth," showing "before and after" photos of heavy meth users, exhibiting how it will destroy your face, apparently. So let's examine some of these poor ravaged souls:

See what meth did to Jennifer! It caused brighter lighting and sharper focus! It also gave her a crappy haircut, and didn't give her time to put on makeup like in the Before photo! Oh, and it gave her kind of a pizza face.

Then there's James, to whom meth was even more unkind. It kept him from combing his hair, and made him grow a unibrow! Also it apparently made him kinda pissed off. A rare bright spot, though, in that meth seems to have cleared up his acne.

Poor Patrick. Meth took him from angry and confused to sad and confused. Could have something to do with the road rash.

Next is Esther. Meth had an interesting effect on Esther - it seems that it made her two inches taller. Also is has caused her brow to become dangerously furrowed, and persuaded her to tease out her hair.

Finally, the worst of the worst. This poor, unnamed, bedraggled addict, who has suffered no outward ill effects... EXCEPT FOR THAT WIIIILD HAIR! Forget the sheriff's department, someone call the fashion police! That look is sooooo 1978!

preparing for a road trip

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 22:00:54 GMT

Scott performed Oil Change!

Talisman slots 1 & 2: Support Ribbons (2) (+4 protection against Republicans)

I've got some other stuff in my inventory already:

(+5 Healing)

(+3 Morale)

(+7 Light)

(+10 Repair)

But I'll need to run around the House today and collect more. Unfortunately most of my good gear is in Fort Collins, but I don't know Rune of Return, so it would take forever to go there and back to get it. I'm running really low on CP, too, so I can't go buy more (I think I have like 43 CP total. AND I don't have my Card of Credit anymore). Oh well, I'll make do.

Shameless Self Promotion

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 17:22:52 GMT

Okay I can't embed this video so you'll have to copy & paste:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcetRQFr4MY

Short documentary about me and Joe by filmmaker Nick Jossendal.
Kinda silly - especially the part about dreaming and discovering (I do no such things)!
Pretty neat though!

blogging

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 20:52:44 GMT

Blog blog blog blog. Blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog. Blog blog blog blog, blog blog blog blog blog blog, blog. Blog blog, blog blog blog blog blog blog blog. Blog blog blog blog, blog blog blog blog, blog blog blog. Blog blog, blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog. Blog blog blog! Blog, blog blog blog. Blog blog blog blog, blog, blog, blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog. Blog blog blog blog blog blog... Blog! Blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog! Blog blog blog? Blog, blog blog blog blog blog. Blog, blog blog blog!

home a da reel rock

Sat, 22 Nov 2008 10:08:13 GMT

"You're listening to 99.9 FM - THE POINT! Fort Collins' home for three Nickelback songs per hour!"

fiddy seven channelz n nothin on

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 06:40:22 GMT

Things I do not care about:
Celebz
Whatever the hell "The Hills" is
Forever 21
Malls
Soulja Boy
My appearance
How many people you've had sex with
WaCkY sex moves
Casinos
Euros
Leaving the heat on while multiple doors and windows are open
Trucks
Bratz dolls
Locking my car doors
Replacing my car's missing window
Homework
Rechargeable batteries
Grassroots charity movements to save drive-in theaters in towns with exploding homeless populations
American Idol
Kosher
Ceiling fans
Any musical artist whose stage name begins with "Li'l"
Food that's fallen on the floor
Whatever is under my bed
Plato's Republic
Girls named Kelli or Brandi or Ashli
Honey sticks
Film noir
Whatever the hell peanut roca is
Chuck Palahniuk
Shoes
Scented candles
Season finales
Playing cards
Being tall
Golf
Nostradamus
Willy Wonka
Paisley
Helmets
Vans
Poorly translated idioms
Freezer burn
Ferris wheels
McGruff the Crime Dog

Things I do care about:
Fuckin' french fries

NATHAN

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 04:55:44 GMT

skeleton mans

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 17:15:07 GMT

You know what, for the most part my life is utterly awesome. People/things in my life that are awesome include (in absolutely no order):

The very fact that Hannah loves me
Living with Reed and Erin
My cool car
Jake being a badass
My acquiring of a really nice computer through multiple donations by friends
Road trips with Scott & Jake & Shlom when she comes along
Havin' backyard campfires
The documentary that's being made about me and Joe (details later)
The musical performances at my parties
Feedback I've gotten about Wolf Boy
My parents being mostly laid back and accepting about my life
My multiple relatives in California who have said I can stay with them anytime
My grandparents in Indiana who have done so much to help me pay for college
Living about a block and a half away from one of the largest libraries in the state
Hangin' out with Cory & Reed
Exploring tunnels
The fact that I've been consistently getting As on my speeches in Public Speaking
The number of free meals I've received this weekend
Learning how to sew
Knowing how to cook
Going home to do the Englewood thing over Thanksgiving
Text messaging
The wicked dreams I've been having lately
Getting by without spending any money

Short list at the moment, but I'ma go eat breakfast.

for the love of god

Wed, 29 Oct 2008 07:08:06 GMT