I spent like two days making the mole for my Chicano Studies class. I brought it to the potluck and was declared an “honorary Latino” by my professor, so I think that’s a good thing. I finally got to trot out my best Spanish line: “Mi estómago habla español mejor que yo,” which means: “my stomach speaks better spanish than I do.”
Dear mull0160@umn.edu,
Thank you for submitting your single greatest question to the University of Minnesota. The Driven to Discover web site has generated a large number of thought-provoking questions, not all of which can be answered at that site directly. For assistance with your particular inquiry, the Driven to Discover team has forwarded your message to our office, the University of Minnesota Feedback Service.
According to several different web sites, the stadium will cost an estimated $248 million dollars. For more detailed information about the projected costs of the stadium, you may wish to contact the Capital Planning and Project Management office directly at:
(248 million U.S. dollars) / 50 000 students = 4960 U.S. dollars per student. So. They could give everyone five grand, or build a fucking stadium.
No, I don’t mean my stony wasteland of a heart, suddenly incapable of human emotion, I mean in the house where the furnace has magically stopped working. The gas company shipped us an enormous box that is whimpering and crying, so I think that it is full of orphans. I’m gonna make a big pile of them to sleep under.
I am currently wearing two sets of pajamas. Remember when I used to sleep in the nude? Of course you don’t, you weren’t there. But I’m sure that you’re imagining it now.
Whenever I get to Norway, I am required by law to eat smalahove. That’s half a sheep’s head. Yes, I will eat anything. Photo courtesy h0bbel, who is my Norwegian brother.
On Saturday, after I finished taking seven poops, timed approximately fifteen minutes apart, I went to the photo lab to do some printing for fun. Yes, after the hours and hours of tedium interspersed with minutes of raging uncontrollable anger making prints from my negatives, I went back of my own accord to print things.
Here are my mom and John walking through an orchard way back in the fall.
I assure you that it looks a little nicer as an 8x10 print.
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It was a whirlwind weekend, and I am bone tired, but my handful of regular readers expect — no — demand that I keep them informed of the minutiae of my existence. Tonight after work I headed over to the photo lab. I produced three prints in three hours, only two of which I like. After that Sarah and I walked to the parking lot. On the way out I found a stretch of gravel and found my hands compelled to pitch the car around a corner while I stood on the throttle. Sarah asked nicely that I not do that again, and I swallowed the tremendous grin on my face while apologizing profusely. I can always go back by myself, so there is no reason to terrify anyone. Suddenly my car and I are the best of friends.
I printed these:
Motherfucking Minneapolis, Bitches.
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Okay, so covers of Decemberists songs in disco style, and we’d call ourselves the Discocemberists.
Oh, wait, they did that themselves with “The Perfect Crime.”
Sigh. I just wanted to say “Discocemberists” because their name lends itself so very well to puns.
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