tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28245224145374704022024-02-07T11:15:10.833-08:00 .Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.comBlogger585125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-21516610505075089692014-04-21T19:55:00.002-07:002014-04-21T19:55:44.268-07:00BLOG HAS MOVED!!!!Hello, my fellow bloggers!!<br />
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I'm writing this today, on the 21st day of April, in the year of our Lord, 2014, to tell you that this very blog, the one you're on this very moment, HAS MOVED. Yes, after 6 strong years on Blogspot, Blogger, whatever the hell this place is called, I've decided to move my blog onto my actual website!!<br />
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Here's the new link.<br />
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<a href="http://www.clausstudios.com/justinharder/" target="_blank">NEW BLOG</a><br />
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I hope you will join me once again, and continue our journey together, hand in hand, together forever, life the mystical nesting squirrel and its nuts.Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-5408723606071445542014-01-24T13:44:00.000-08:002014-01-25T10:01:38.964-08:00Hangin' with Justins: Put The Phone Down<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Glasses thinks that Flattie is addicted to his phone and attempts to cure him through new age holistic techniques.</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/eKu4IAx3OAk" width="640"></iframe><br />
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And to commemorate the guys' 4th year of making films, I made a little poster. It's clean, unlike their humor.<br />
Enjoy!<br />
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-41689232148864795682014-01-16T07:13:00.001-08:002014-01-16T07:36:44.203-08:00Just Drop It<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know you're holding onto it. I can see it there, clutched tightly against your chest. You shield it from our eyes, you turn your back when we catch a glimpse of it, but we know you're holding onto something. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let it go. No, don't gimme it, I don't want it. Just drop it. Right there, right where you stand, right now. Drop it on the ground and step away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">No? You're not ready. Ok, hold onto it longer. Let those knuckles whiten, those muscles cramp. Does it make you feel better, to hold so severely? No, not really. Ah. Why then must you hold onto it? Oh, you're used to it. So, you're used to holding onto that weight, that burden, and you're going to continue to shoulder it. I'm just trying to understand. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's so heavy, isn't it? The weight is crushing you. You're shorter than you used to be. I remember you being taller and now your posture, it's slumped. All of this holding is aging you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How will you ever fly? How will you fly when you're holding and clutching and shouldering? You're strong, I can see that, but nobody's that strong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I get it, so I'll stop. I know, the weight is yours and yours alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, if that's the case, then stop making it everyone else's, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You've become a real ass lately and we wish you'd just drop it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We all wish you'd just let it go. </span></div>
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Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-7099926269542605962014-01-15T23:51:00.001-08:002014-01-15T23:51:06.580-08:00Late Night Sketch - Pretty in Pink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-83382732870266778282014-01-15T22:12:00.002-08:002014-01-15T22:55:52.232-08:00Losing TrackWhy are some fruits labelled 'organic' and some aren't? I was under the impression that 'organic' meant that the item labelled such was grown naturally. How else are you supposed to grow an apple? On a metal pole? They all grow on the trees, I thought. Perhaps, I guesstimate, the 'organic' in this instance refers to the healthy nature of the fruit's development and growth, ie., the lack of antibiotics, rat death poisons or pesticides sprinkled on top of the blossoming fruit in its infant stages.<br />
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That could be 'organic,' I supposed. That apple over there was grown on a metal, pesticide-dipped, stripper's pole and this apple right here was grown in a sunny orchard on the most healthy tree in the entire damned known universe. And the difference in price is a buck a pound.<br />
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Well, I don't trust any of it anymore. Misinformation stifles and drowns. Our news channels, our internet's social sites, our stream of consciousness. We're inundated. And yet we continue to use the labels. Organic. Farmer's Choice. Nature's Own. Democrat. Republican. Gay. Straight. Gypsy.<br />
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The thing is, you'd think we'd have learned our lesson with using labels. We once labelled fountains, after all. Look where that got us.<br />
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It got us to not label fountains.<br />
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But no matter! Still to this day, we continue to apply the labels! On clothing. On foods. Drinks. On campaigns. Movements. Labels are plastered, stuck, glued, sewn, adhered, and pinned to every single item you come into contact with on a daily basis. Every. Item. (This blog, even. It's called 'Blogger.')<br />
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When's the last time you used a non brand-name anything? An unlabeled bag of chips? Drank from an unlabeled cola? And no, Dr. Thunder doesn't count. Still a label, still a brand.<br />
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Yet, that all makes sense. We need labels, don't we? How are we supposed to tell things apart if there are no labels on them?<br />
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The labels remind of us the product's integrity. We must have them. Lord knows I label (sign) every single piece of art I've ever been proud of. The ones I'm not proud of? I label with someone else's name, of course, what's it to you. #CLAUSSTUDIOS<br />
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And the same goes for the big name manufacturers. They're proud of their product, proud of the way you've become addicted to its fantastically so-so taste, aesthetically horrific package design and magnificently mundane logo.<br />
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It's Gluten-Free! The label says so. May as well take a couple then, label-believer! I bought a bushel!<br />
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And to think I used to peel off labels on beer bottles! They'd get a little moist from the chilly delight inside and the labels, they'd dampen, making them ripe for a speedy peel-off. This served no purpose other than to pass the time or to satisfy a nervous tick I'd developed for when too long of an awkward silence elapses on a drink-date with a non label peeler.<br />
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Wellp, that label-peeling I did? Guess what.<br />
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Oh my. This is the part when I was about to compare the peeling off of a beer label to desegregation.<br />
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Man, whatta damn mess this post has become. It had promise in the top portion, maybe the first couple of sentences. I liked 'labels' as a through-line, but somewhere along the way it went astray. It was supposed to be about damned 'organic' food and how quickly I could make you fall asleep by pontificating on said subject, which, of course, I know absolute jackshit about.<br />
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But it doesn't matter because I lost track.<br />
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And that's fine. That's fine. Losing track keeps it interesting. If we always kept track, well then, we'd always know. And where's the adventure in that. The damned joy of it all. I despise the Know-It-All.<br />
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Sometimes I lose track to keep sanity.<br />
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I highly suggest it.<br />
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Now go peel off your label.<br />
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-85655944932590867942014-01-15T00:19:00.001-08:002014-01-15T00:19:10.516-08:00N.O.A.H. Loading Bay #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was thinking about a little comic scene for N.O.A.H. the other day and it involved a cargo/loading bay and the Recon Team's Space Cruiser. I've thus far steered clear of environment designs for the ARK 2056X Spacecraft but decided to give it a shot with this 'loading bay' idea in mind. </div>
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I looked at some reference online to get the general idea of 'loading bays.' Usually they had a lot of criss crossing lattice work, canisters on the floor, numbers on the ground, and wires randomly making their way about the space. I sketched a rough layout and began blocking in the shapes. </div>
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I wanted the language of the Loading Bay inside of the ARK to feel like something we've seen before, but with subtle twists. I decided to add a neon green to Loading Bay 3, maybe each one is color coded per vehicle it houses, or maybe it's absolutely arbitrary. I noticed that once I added the neon green reflective light to the hanging wires they took on the look of vines, which was pretty cool considering the ARK is full of animals.</div>
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At any rate, here's the duo of Agent Sly and Agent Coo returning from a quick jaunt around the galaxy, looking for sustainable resources and possible ARK landing zones. </div>
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I tweeted a time lapse of this piece, if you're interested in seeing the process.</div>
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Thanks!</div>
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Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-74349264664545604082014-01-14T11:09:00.002-08:002014-01-14T11:09:26.029-08:00Bat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-49160215127928870492014-01-13T17:51:00.002-08:002014-01-13T17:51:44.714-08:00Mr. Incredible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-20753219063366262052014-01-10T19:04:00.003-08:002014-01-11T16:50:16.370-08:00N.O.A.H. - Erica and Agent Buttercup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-57908151309887732032014-01-10T00:41:00.004-08:002014-01-10T18:57:20.782-08:00The Non-ListenerYea, uh-huh, right, yep, absolutely. You know this person. Hell, you've been this person. The person I speak of is the Non-Listener. Vacant. Glossy. Unconnected. Symptoms of the Non-Listener, the Already Heard It, the Who Gives A Flip.<br />
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In my humble experiences I've found that the Non-Listener doesn't mean to non-listen, they just simply can't help it. The Non-Listener is genuinely disinterested. They tried to be interested, bless their heart, they did. For that brief three seconds after they finished speaking. The problem lies in the fact that you speaking is not them speaking, and they only care for them speaking, so henceforth, they check out.<br />
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The Non-Listener, however, was not thrust into this world as such, but rather, they developed into one over time. At first, you see, they were the Self-Talker. The Self-Talker is exactly that, one who chooses to speak of and only of him or herself at all times to all people in all places in all situations forever and ever Amen.<br />
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The Non-Listener is the caterpillar to the Self-Talker's cocoon. There is no butterfly in this analogy. The Self-Talker whirls and spins, dazzles with rhetoric and flashes of teeth and in one triumphant show they ignite into a ball of fire and explode into a thousand pieces. Those pieces then settle on the ground, and over the course of the next few moments, moments filled with your sincere words which fall on deaf ears, nonetheless, those pieces form into the flimsy, clear shell of the Non-Listener.<br />
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See, the Self-Talker's said their part, they've spun their web. They're done. They're now content to become the Non-Listener, for they care not and nonly listening is example of that caring not.<br />
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They've finished talking about themselves for now, so hurry, hurry and get in whatever trivial drivel you'd like to set upon their ears for they're only waiting for their next moment of resurgence. They won't wait long, though, as evidenced through the incessant and rapid eye flicks, toe taps, feigned laughter, and of course, the yea's, uh-huh's, yep's, and absolutely's.<br />
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But alas! I would not describe to you merely the problems of such individuals in today's society, but also suggest a few ways to battle them whence contact is made!<br />
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I like to throw a curve at the Non-Listener every once in awhile to see as to the extent of their non-listening. Test the waters, if you will.<br />
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My house is dead.<br />
Yep.<br />
The sun burped.<br />
Absolutely.<br />
You are the devil.<br />
Uh-huh.<br />
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The Non-Listener is so fixated on what they're about to give word-birth to that their ears have sealed shut, their eyes closed, their mind strays, the vortex of the universe is undulating deeply inside of them, for they are about to bestow upon you the secret of life, the galaxy's deepest mysteries. Say whatever you like to distract, but in most cases, it will be too late. They're lost. I suggest halting your speech, opening an umbrella and preparing for a torrential downpour of word rain.<br />
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The conversation has gone from one-sided to no-sided. After all, you don't bounce things off of a wall when you speak to a Non-Listener. There is no wall, therefore, there is no side. It's a no-sided conversation. Simply a vacuous hole of infinite and dense nothingness, as far as the mouth can speak.<br />
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A sadder day there never was, the day an Even and Just Conversationalist such as yourself comes into contact with the Self-Talker/Non-Listener. I'm saddened for you and for them. And for me and for us. We're probably around somewhere, having to listen in an elevator or at an adjacent booth at Luby's.<br />
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Just remember, if you truly want to be victorious on the field of Conversation that day with your run-in with the Non-Listener, you mustn't relinquish control, you must stay the course, and fight fire with fire.<br />
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To the Self-Talker become the Non-Listener and to the Non-Listener become the Self-Talker.<br />
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Yes, it solves nothing. But why is that your fault? Why do people always want to be the solution? I find that being no better than anyone else makes it easier to sleep at night time. There's less pressure.<br />
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-8708574281950022252014-01-09T23:40:00.000-08:002014-01-09T23:40:11.799-08:00Late Night Stroll<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-54497738378074796242014-01-09T16:06:00.000-08:002014-01-09T16:06:00.356-08:00Bat Girl/WomanNo idea why her name is 'BatGirl' and not 'BatWoman.' It's not 'BatBoy'.<br />
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-69147628961824622092014-01-09T11:39:00.001-08:002014-01-09T11:40:19.427-08:00N.O.A.H.'s Agent Opie and Alex <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-64684023494630864862014-01-08T14:13:00.003-08:002014-01-08T14:14:34.040-08:00Officer Spot and Private Stall - N.O.A.H.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-12787082531362768882014-01-02T15:38:00.001-08:002014-01-02T15:41:42.823-08:00CLAUS CITY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Needed some new images for postcards and business cards for the upcoming comic conventions I'll be selling my goods at, so decided to make it my first piece in the New Year.</div>
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Haven't done a cityscape like this in awhile, so it was a challenge to get it rolling, but I'm happy with the final. I could go in a detail and noodle and add little ledges and windows and cars until I'm blue in the face, but ultimately, you want to finish before you wear out your welcome, unlike most relatives during the Holidays.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9OqG23CJALTwxj1zcMj7q9vPdRDznE7dCLZJxOyj6N7Y9Q2tMEttYa_9abqhkO-ZY4Hn4kFVNo9C9Gm_Cx4dplXEJ1yTRPIsmbdE9NzvzcxT2OYEmSqesmyO8xMx95ebMrKFFeV0TSOk/s1600/CLAUS_City2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9OqG23CJALTwxj1zcMj7q9vPdRDznE7dCLZJxOyj6N7Y9Q2tMEttYa_9abqhkO-ZY4Hn4kFVNo9C9Gm_Cx4dplXEJ1yTRPIsmbdE9NzvzcxT2OYEmSqesmyO8xMx95ebMrKFFeV0TSOk/s320/CLAUS_City2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-55653176441064542812014-01-02T10:04:00.001-08:002014-01-02T10:06:45.673-08:00Goodbye, BradBrad, my 82 year old handyman who lives in the unit beneath my staircase, passed away this morning, the second day of two thousand and fourteen. He was not alone, but with his niece, who was in the process of taking him to the hospital, for he was complaining about pains in his stomach.<br />
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<i><u>The following is my blog about Brad from May of 2013</u></i><br />
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I live in an apartment in Santa Monica, California. It's on top of a garage located at the back of a four unit, one story house. My windows face west to a street lined with palm trees. Underneath the staircase leading to my apartment is an additional, unmarked unit and that's where Brad lives. He's the handyman and he's 82 years old.<br />
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Brad grew up in Santa Monica. He's lived here all his life. He's wiry and hunched. He wears a baseball hat and has a tube in his nose for oxygen. He sometimes sneezes and curses at the same time. He sits in the sun all day and if the sun isn't out he sits inside all day. He reads a lot of books. Always paperbacks.</div>
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Brad's room underneath the stairs is only large enough for a single bed and a table lining the wall opposite the door. On top of the table are clumps of papers. I know he has a microwave but I've never seen it, only heard it. The floor in Brad's apartment has been overlooked for quite some time, as layers of thick dirt and grime cover the old linoleum. The only reason I know what his apartment looks like is because it's on the way to the laundry room and he leaves his door open during the day. And I notice things. I'm a noticer.<br />
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At nighttime Brad goes inside and watches TV. His slanted glass window, a staple of 1950's built Santa Monica, is always cracked open and I can hear the sounds of old westerns or the news coming from his place below. It's somewhat comforting.</div>
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From time to time I'll hear Brad speaking with a woman outside of my window. I leave my windows open most all of the time because the ocean breeze is a large chunk of my rent and I intend to get my money's worth. But Brad and the woman, whom I've come to learn is his assigned nurse, speak curtly about what's ailing him. She asks him, more often than not, about his recent bowel movements. </div>
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Brad is rather alert, all things considering. Every time I walk by and think he might be asleep, no matter the time of day, and no matter how quiet I think I am, he'll raise his head a tiny bit and half open his eyes, which are red and irritated and have a number of bumps and scabs around them.</div>
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'Hey there, Mr. Brad.' I''ll say.</div>
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'Hey Justin.' He'll say. </div>
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That's our conversation most days. We've talked more in depth in the past, but that's usually where we get to now. I know that he used to be an architect and interior designer, among other things. He spoke to me one day about 'keeping things simple' and not 'wasting space or people's time.' Brad speaks quickly and with merit. He commands respect and I've always enjoyed our run-ins.<br />
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He sits within ear shot of my apartment every day of his life. Sometimes when I'm not busy with artwork, I like to shoot videos in my apartment. These videos cause me to say the same things over and over, take after take, and some of those things are repulsive and silly. I can only imagine what Brad actually thinks of me. </div>
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My doorknob fell off the other week and I asked Brad what I should do. He's the handyman, still, and I didn't want to disrespect him by going over his head and taking care of it. He told me that the doorknob was, in fact, not broken, but could easily be fixed if I twisted it just so. The screws, he told me, fit into the notches still and it would be an easy fix. I told him I'd tried that and it didn't work. He told me that I wasn't doing it right. I began to speak again but caught myself. </div>
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I was arguing with a 82 year old man about a doorknob and I decided to stop. I politely told him that I'd try again and then I proceeded in driving to HomeDepot to buy a new knob set. The set was ten dollars. I bought it and also some cacti for my patio and then came back home to fix my door.</div>
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Brad saw me in the morning and asked me if I replaced the doorknob with a new doorknob. I had to tell him the truth. I said yes. He sighed and looked to the sky.<br />
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To somewhere else.<br />
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May he forever find that sunny spot. May we all.<br />
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Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-326780834124505372014-01-01T21:52:00.001-08:002014-01-01T21:54:19.110-08:00Harder Christmas 2013Every year at the Holidays I take out my 60D with the 50 prime and I film my family. I then take all the footage, cut it together, and put a song to the whole thing, effectively making it not only a music video, but a fun little keepsake for the whole gang. Here is this year's video! Enjoy.<br />
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-61018129267260985282013-12-30T22:27:00.000-08:002013-12-30T22:27:12.465-08:00N.O.A.H. - Agent Sly and Officer Snout<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-8945230654166193912013-12-18T09:59:00.000-08:002013-12-28T17:08:01.910-08:00Introducing...N.O.A.H. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hello! I'm posting today to bring you a new project that is very dear to me, something that I've been thinking about for quite awhile now.</div>
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It's a familiar concept, to say the least, but done in a brand new way.</div>
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I hope you come to like it as much as I've liked making it. I give you... N.O.A.H.<br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">Initially, N.O.A.H. will be a graphic novel and online web series that I will self-publish and sell through my CLAUS store. I've begun developing the full-length animated film, as well. I love this cast of characters, their plight, their mission, their passion, and I hope you will, too. I've got plenty of stories to tell with them and hope you come along for the journey.</span></div>
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It's going to be a fun one.</div>
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Here's to the future and 'To boldly go where no animal has gone before!' (Sorry...I just had to.)</div>
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Here are the first members of N.O.A.H!</div>
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N.O.A.H. Book One is available now <a href="http://claus.bigcartel.com/product/n-o-a-h-book-one" target="_blank">HERE</a> for purchase!</div>
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Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-44193552824368045782013-12-16T18:43:00.004-08:002013-12-16T19:16:55.711-08:00Latenight in DallasThis is a true exchange that took place around 1:30 am one late/early morning outside of a drinking establishment night in Dallas, Texas, 2009.<br />
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Him: Hey guy, can you drive me home?<br />
Me: Huh-Excuse me?<br />
Him: Can you drive my car home for me? You and your friends?
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Me: Nah man, we're good.
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Him: You guys waiting for chicks? Where are they?
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Me: I don't know.
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Him: Yea, where are the chicks? Are they in the bushes? Are the chicks hiding in the bushes? (makes 'here kitty kitty' sounds to the bushes)
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Me: (speechless)
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Him: Are the chicks in the bushes?
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Me: They could be, I guess.
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Him: Can you drive my car home for me?
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Me: No I can't do that for you.
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<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-38780968607643147062013-12-16T12:00:00.001-08:002013-12-16T12:00:53.056-08:00Monday sketch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Monday morning warm-up sketch.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVTYfQwgc-xFz_IOruKByzI1av_S6Q7AXAqO0K07PrgSPsoN3tQze-6VZ30ncKWHBEd-6L3hAgIZScrsI_JFEAWE4HY5BVoBu3gOyXvei0DT0dIku5BeY9yWCMzqbIGTQKI5e1i1SdCk/s1600/BigMtns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVTYfQwgc-xFz_IOruKByzI1av_S6Q7AXAqO0K07PrgSPsoN3tQze-6VZ30ncKWHBEd-6L3hAgIZScrsI_JFEAWE4HY5BVoBu3gOyXvei0DT0dIku5BeY9yWCMzqbIGTQKI5e1i1SdCk/s320/BigMtns.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-76404126706445640692013-12-14T08:19:00.003-08:002013-12-14T08:19:52.083-08:00Awww----Holidays from Us to You.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImdKZQa1UCvw2C2wBL5lMuWvobfUtwxj561ot0LbwrfO1_whyexF2S8Bp1djTlJjo6BpSHEFpNsZLXSphcP4NycIwz7Trm08nkScEKxjSsvsPFdpL8ZXAxKP1wfEYpEzGKDUvyxYoa1w/s1600/ChristmasCard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImdKZQa1UCvw2C2wBL5lMuWvobfUtwxj561ot0LbwrfO1_whyexF2S8Bp1djTlJjo6BpSHEFpNsZLXSphcP4NycIwz7Trm08nkScEKxjSsvsPFdpL8ZXAxKP1wfEYpEzGKDUvyxYoa1w/s1600/ChristmasCard.jpg" height="262" width="320" /></a></div>
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My girlfriend is tall to begin with, then she puts on some stilt heels and is the same height as me and I need to get a step stool to put mistletoe over her head so that I can kiss her. The step stool to physically kiss her and the mistletoe to, ya know, allow it or something. </div>
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'Hey, you're under a twig, let's make out.' </div>
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I bet that tradition started with a horned-up botanist in Scandinavia. Sounds like something a Scandinavian botanist invented when the sun didn't come out for 6 months and folks started getting fidgety.</div>
<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-78528389289042070562013-12-13T14:34:00.001-08:002013-12-13T14:34:12.520-08:00Friday Landscape Sketch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JhZ8_zJo6pkokgSo73B4dCO7DPayO0ZUY5V35QLIjNmQ2_tpJ7sx3C4rHnypxNem9lrOkV3uD2tA3PsKGW-zjeLGmxADlEXYGNz8U2VeiLWkSZLmIdfSrU7WcXB2HDDBfGODuPTfHMg/s1600/Christmas_Barn3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JhZ8_zJo6pkokgSo73B4dCO7DPayO0ZUY5V35QLIjNmQ2_tpJ7sx3C4rHnypxNem9lrOkV3uD2tA3PsKGW-zjeLGmxADlEXYGNz8U2VeiLWkSZLmIdfSrU7WcXB2HDDBfGODuPTfHMg/s1600/Christmas_Barn3.jpg" height="131" width="320" /></a></div>
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Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-7728519434892811352013-12-13T13:00:00.003-08:002013-12-13T13:02:24.954-08:00The Man Who Never Intends - Chapter OneHello readers. I'm going to try something, an experiment. I've written a decent sized story/novel and I want to release a chapter at a time on this blog. It's about a guy named Gary and it's called 'The Man Who Never Intends.'<br />
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Enjoy.<br />
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<b>The Man Who Never Intends</b><br />
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Gary was tired from a long day on an old bus. He was the only one on the bus, as the folks in the town he just left weren't too interested in taking the bus to Little Port, Texas. The town was named after something it didn't have, thought Gary as he peered out through the bus's dingy windows. This town was landlocked. <br />
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Gary thought about his life and how'd it'd come to this, going to towns with no ports on old buses looking out dingy windows. On cue, the bus driver honked his horn long and steady, bringing Gary back to reality and away from his thoughts about his life. He looked up to see the bus driver wearing a smug, cranky expression. He looked like one of those dogs with the jowels all floppy. His eyes were slits in fleshy mounds situated atop a squashed nose which sat lazy guard atop the sloppy cheeks.<br />
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Another honk. He wanted Gary to leave the bus. And Gary wanted to leave the bus, just at his own pace. Apparently his pace and the bus driver's pace weren't the same pace.<br />
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OK, thought Gary, have it your way. Gary told himself that he'd think more about his life later on that night.<br />
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Gary stood up, stretched, and grabbed his backpack, which had a change of shirt and a notebook stuffed inside. The shirt inside his pack was grey, just like the one he currently wore. Gary only wore grey shirts. He once tried another color. It was the worst day of his life. He decided then and there that the mid-grey, the heather grey, was the hue for him.<br />
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The other item in his backpack, the notebook, was unopened. It was new, see, and Gary bought it a few towns back in order to record some of his daily activities. His missions, if you will. Gary would write in it later, he decided. He was surprised at how his night was filling up. He should make mention of that inside his new notebook.<br />
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Gary walked to the front of the bus and stopped.<br />
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'Thank you for the ride,' Gary said with a firm resolve and a very Gary-like chin tilt.<br />
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'Humph,' said the driver.<br />
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So much jowel, thought Gary. It's probably the best he can muster with all that flap.<br />
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Gary stepped down onto the loose soil and sighed. The sun was purple and gold and warm and setting on the tiny town of Little Port, Texas, the town with No Port at all. Cute town, though, thought Gary. Smells a little, but other than that, it's cute. Maybe it was Big Grey that smelled. Gary had nicknames for his t-shirts. There was Big Grey and then there was Special Grey. Gary got bored a lot in life.<br />
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As the bus went off, Gary thought to himself about how he should remember to think about his life again later. He'd do it over dinner, he decided, at the quaint little cafe he spied across the street. The 'E' in the Cafe sign was out so it just read 'Caf.'<br />
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This town is kind of a dump, thought Gary, who only a few moments earlier thought that it was cute. <br />
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Just then Gary heard a scream.Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824522414537470402.post-27976230284054709792013-12-12T18:52:00.005-08:002013-12-12T18:52:44.267-08:00Thursday Night Sketch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcet6DilLRXYO0koglBrIqCVLQyG7QqGZDkKCbalDp-28IxI-lzQZqRLkXsjqdwaxYUpz_N5JcoYP7OwaptWOKQcw96ge0VRa0JGo34OvNem6IAcSxL9Zp-TPeii69cY5rgJ9NneH7F4U/s1600/Christmas_Barn2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcet6DilLRXYO0koglBrIqCVLQyG7QqGZDkKCbalDp-28IxI-lzQZqRLkXsjqdwaxYUpz_N5JcoYP7OwaptWOKQcw96ge0VRa0JGo34OvNem6IAcSxL9Zp-TPeii69cY5rgJ9NneH7F4U/s320/Christmas_Barn2.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<br />Justin Claus Harderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107930587064507826noreply@blogger.com0