What’s that spoo on my car?

I didn’t notice until this morning that my car has been egged.

What’s really weird is that it looks like someone tried to wipe off the eggy deliciousness. Maybe they were hungry.

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I Am Evil Craig Finn

“I hate to break this to you, but my husband also thinks that you look like Craig Finn.”

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Dia De Los Muertos

Skull

Tonight’s increasingly inaccurately named “class” in Mexican Folklore was held at El Colegio, a charter school for the arts and stuff, where they were holding festivities in honor of the Day of the Dead. Sadly, there were no zombies or baseball bats, but there were some great dancers, great food, and an eight piece mariachi band with an amazing female vocalist. Listening to things sung in languages which I don’t understand is like some sort of abstraction of music. I did recognize one particular spanish word which was sung more than any other.

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I Met A Man

Frank Black

I just won Frank Black tickets off of Radio K. I’m so excited that I just can’t hide it. I know I know I know, uh, something something.

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Happy Homecoming

Zach and I have done our best to make the “Wild Wild Midwest” themed homecoming maybe not so terrible. Since neither of us could bear to actually be on the homecoming committee we made our inputs via darkly sarcastic comments from the sidelines. Instead of some weird “celebration of Minnesota history” we got the cowboy and cowgirl theme that we so rightly deserve. Now if only we could enforce some Deadwood-style swearing and maybe some historic recreations of classic whorehouses we’d be fucking set.

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No Potluck

The potluck got cancelled in favor of some sort of Day of the Dead festival thing. Sigh.

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Developing and Printing

I did not have a photo assignment to turn in last week, so I printed some random stuff after the lecture.

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Potluck

My Mexican Folklore class is having a potluck on Wednesday. I’m thinking cochinita pibil, or some sort of mole — perhaps one of the seven from Oaxaca. You know you want my meat.

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Oh, are you?

“I’m six kinds of trouble,” she said. I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m in the middle of a bad breakup,” she continued. Internally I guffawed. I laughed until I wept and then slept it off, all within a single beat of the dance music.

“Just give me your fucking number so I can never call you!” I shouted. Enough with the fucking around. Let’s get down to it! The world, with its tap dancing incestuous band lineups who are ex girlfriends of bass players of bands on whose singers I have crushes, just will not grow past my own udder.

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At This Rate We’ll Be Here All Night

It could take a WEEK to transfer 30g+ of gallery images to the new server.

A WEEK.

Oh man.

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