Jon is Everclear's Bitch
Last night I get a page from one of my friends, N.. N.'s girlfriend of three years dumped him. He was lost and didn't know what to do. Unfortunately for him, he contacted me looking for advice. I gave him two things that he needed: booze, and pussy. N. thought it was too soon for girls. I disagreed with him. It was the perfect time for girls. N. didn't give in. He did, however, make the poor decision of entrusting his fate, and therefore his liver.
I think that if N. knew what he was getting into, he wouldn't have come. Entrusting your liver to me is like offering a starving dog a piece of succulent meat. I will devour it. I will rend it. I will sacrifice it on the altar of Baudelaire. I will drag it though the streets of dawn, in search of an angry fix. In short, I will own it, and I will own every subsequent liver that you shall bear.
N. came around 10pm last night. We quickly booze-ran. For him, I picked up a case of Sam Adams Winter Brew Mix. I owed him that after he helped me work on my bike. For myself, I picked up a bottle of cheap Puerto-Rican Rum. For M2, I picked up a bottle of the Captain. For everyone, I grabbed a pint of Everclear (190 proof grain alcohol).
Everclear and I have a rocky history. I first sampled it the night I had my first (of 2!) motorcycle accidents. I didn't know it at the time, but my right ankle suffered a level three sprain. I also tore up my right leg and was bleeding profusely, but that's another story. I wasn't limping too badly, so I decided to hang out with some guys who wanted to rush Kappa Sigma, my favorite campus Fraternity. We went to one of the many row houses that compose D.C. residential housing. In it, we took over a couch, blasted some really bad music, and took shots of Everclear. I wasn't much of a drinker then and I remember vividly the utter disgust I had for downing what appeared to be a consumable form of rubbing alcohol. As B. said last night, we could've sterilized shit with it. Later that night, I ended up almost passing out from lack of blood and spent the rest of the day in the Emergency Room under huddled staff wondering how I managed to live. Funny. That kind of thing happens to me a lot.
The second time I drank Everclear was recounted in my last journal entry. Really, you'd think that after all my experiences with it, I'd finally swear the shit off. I almost did. I mean, this stuff eats brain cells like I claim to eat livers. But, N. was really hurt and I aimed to put him out of his suffering as soon as possible. Everclear was the best way to go. In retrospect, had I known what a lightweight he was, I wouldn't have needed the Everclear. But, N. is about 6'5. I figured that since he was so tall, and of obvious Aryan descent, the Uberman would need a bit more booze. Well, after three beers, he was toast. I had, using the Everclear, made a decent imitation of the Tucker Max Death Mix. The Tucker Max Death Mix is Everclear, Red Bull, and Gatorade. It actually tastes quite pleasant, for something the claims to be a death mix, and the combination gave me enough energy to run around doing various stupid-drunk activities until well after 6am. I highly recommend it for anyone who wishes to attain high-energy stupid-drunk status.
The rest of the night was quite a blur. I remember two parties, picking up H. at a bus stop (she was wearing a beige coat, mind you), and coddling a very, very drunk N.. N. was so drunk that at one point he was sobbing. He eventually passed out in H.'s lap, much to her chagrin and my amusement. I awoke this morning around 4pm, with a very large bruise on my left elbow and a bit of a stomachache. After inquiries, I found that I had tried to break down a very solid door with a single elbow. I don't think I did a very good job and the door took out its anger on me.
Really, I should avoid Everclear, but I have a feeling that it and I are going to be very good friends. Oh, and I drank half the bottle of Rum. It's nice rum, actually. We all agreed that it was better than the Captain. It's sweeter and, I think, a bit more potent. Not bad for only 8 bucks. The brand is Castillo, and it was of the gold variety.
Post-Script
N. came over this morning and moped around. He wanted to go for a ride to Chicago. I quickly convinced him that this wasn't a good idea. His hands were more important than his desire to eat good Chicago pizza. We bullshitted for a bit and then I shipped him off home to get back to bed. Seriously folks, incidents like this once do more to convince me that relationships are a shitty excuse to try to "own" someone. If we could all live together in fraternal fucking, then everyone would be much better off. I don't think the desire to have a monogamous relationship is a priori. I do believe that it is a learned trait and I've written extensively on the subject (5,500 words, 18 pages. Oo-rah, I rock).
A priori is a philosophical term that means separate from experience. That is, we don't need to learn a particular something. It's already inherent.
----------
Lately, I've been listening to a lot of music from the 80s and early 90s. I'm not talking about good music, such as the Pixies, or Nirvana. I'm talking about bands like Right Said Fred, Vanilla Ice, and Men Without Hats. Yeah, I don't understand it either, even as I have Ninja Turtle Rap blasting. I've been in a weird music mood lately. The only thing that's satisfying my urges is the blatantly saccharine pop songs from my childhood. Oh. Wait. I need to download Kris Kross. Jump!
It became popular, for a time, to wear your clothes backwards in the manner of Kris Kross. I don’t think my mother let me wear my pants that way, and I wasn't bright enough to sneak into the bathroom and reverse them. Luckily, that trend was short lived. I am reminded of the joke about the motorcyclist who was killed after crashing while wearing his jacket backward. A bystander found him and attempted to set his head right.
I'm hoping this phase isn't unique to me and at all one point we all feel the urge to play the really bad music from our youth. In any case, I have a strange desire for snap-bracelets and torn jeans.
Ah, the torn jeans rocked. The bigger the tear, the cooler you were. This was before stores got it into their heads to sell pre-torn jeans, or if they existed, I didn't know. We would take our jeans then fall on them as many times as possible in order to wear out the knees and therefore attain coolness. My kneeholes were impossibly large. They were so big that I didn't really have jeans. I had shorts that just happened, near the ankles, to have enough cloth to be considered pants. Of course, that bit of cloth was folded over, showing striped tube socks.
Yeah, the 80s rocked.
-------------
I have, for your amusement, included an AIM conversation that I am currently having. H. is filling in some of my memory gaps. It is below:
H: last night when we were leaving, you were pretty bent on playing pantera
Concrete Hipster: Did it happen?
H: it did
Concrete Hipster: I dont remember that
H: haha we had a pretty good discussion about it
Concrete Hipster: What did we talk about?
H: you: "when we get back to my apartment, we should play some pantera"
H: me: "and be sad?"
H: N: "yea that's sad"
H: you:" but it rocks and he still lives on"
Concrete Hipster: I am insufferably deep while trashed
I think that if N. knew what he was getting into, he wouldn't have come. Entrusting your liver to me is like offering a starving dog a piece of succulent meat. I will devour it. I will rend it. I will sacrifice it on the altar of Baudelaire. I will drag it though the streets of dawn, in search of an angry fix. In short, I will own it, and I will own every subsequent liver that you shall bear.
N. came around 10pm last night. We quickly booze-ran. For him, I picked up a case of Sam Adams Winter Brew Mix. I owed him that after he helped me work on my bike. For myself, I picked up a bottle of cheap Puerto-Rican Rum. For M2, I picked up a bottle of the Captain. For everyone, I grabbed a pint of Everclear (190 proof grain alcohol).
Everclear and I have a rocky history. I first sampled it the night I had my first (of 2!) motorcycle accidents. I didn't know it at the time, but my right ankle suffered a level three sprain. I also tore up my right leg and was bleeding profusely, but that's another story. I wasn't limping too badly, so I decided to hang out with some guys who wanted to rush Kappa Sigma, my favorite campus Fraternity. We went to one of the many row houses that compose D.C. residential housing. In it, we took over a couch, blasted some really bad music, and took shots of Everclear. I wasn't much of a drinker then and I remember vividly the utter disgust I had for downing what appeared to be a consumable form of rubbing alcohol. As B. said last night, we could've sterilized shit with it. Later that night, I ended up almost passing out from lack of blood and spent the rest of the day in the Emergency Room under huddled staff wondering how I managed to live. Funny. That kind of thing happens to me a lot.
The second time I drank Everclear was recounted in my last journal entry. Really, you'd think that after all my experiences with it, I'd finally swear the shit off. I almost did. I mean, this stuff eats brain cells like I claim to eat livers. But, N. was really hurt and I aimed to put him out of his suffering as soon as possible. Everclear was the best way to go. In retrospect, had I known what a lightweight he was, I wouldn't have needed the Everclear. But, N. is about 6'5. I figured that since he was so tall, and of obvious Aryan descent, the Uberman would need a bit more booze. Well, after three beers, he was toast. I had, using the Everclear, made a decent imitation of the Tucker Max Death Mix. The Tucker Max Death Mix is Everclear, Red Bull, and Gatorade. It actually tastes quite pleasant, for something the claims to be a death mix, and the combination gave me enough energy to run around doing various stupid-drunk activities until well after 6am. I highly recommend it for anyone who wishes to attain high-energy stupid-drunk status.
The rest of the night was quite a blur. I remember two parties, picking up H. at a bus stop (she was wearing a beige coat, mind you), and coddling a very, very drunk N.. N. was so drunk that at one point he was sobbing. He eventually passed out in H.'s lap, much to her chagrin and my amusement. I awoke this morning around 4pm, with a very large bruise on my left elbow and a bit of a stomachache. After inquiries, I found that I had tried to break down a very solid door with a single elbow. I don't think I did a very good job and the door took out its anger on me.
Really, I should avoid Everclear, but I have a feeling that it and I are going to be very good friends. Oh, and I drank half the bottle of Rum. It's nice rum, actually. We all agreed that it was better than the Captain. It's sweeter and, I think, a bit more potent. Not bad for only 8 bucks. The brand is Castillo, and it was of the gold variety.
Post-Script
N. came over this morning and moped around. He wanted to go for a ride to Chicago. I quickly convinced him that this wasn't a good idea. His hands were more important than his desire to eat good Chicago pizza. We bullshitted for a bit and then I shipped him off home to get back to bed. Seriously folks, incidents like this once do more to convince me that relationships are a shitty excuse to try to "own" someone. If we could all live together in fraternal fucking, then everyone would be much better off. I don't think the desire to have a monogamous relationship is a priori. I do believe that it is a learned trait and I've written extensively on the subject (5,500 words, 18 pages. Oo-rah, I rock).
A priori is a philosophical term that means separate from experience. That is, we don't need to learn a particular something. It's already inherent.
----------
Lately, I've been listening to a lot of music from the 80s and early 90s. I'm not talking about good music, such as the Pixies, or Nirvana. I'm talking about bands like Right Said Fred, Vanilla Ice, and Men Without Hats. Yeah, I don't understand it either, even as I have Ninja Turtle Rap blasting. I've been in a weird music mood lately. The only thing that's satisfying my urges is the blatantly saccharine pop songs from my childhood. Oh. Wait. I need to download Kris Kross. Jump!
It became popular, for a time, to wear your clothes backwards in the manner of Kris Kross. I don’t think my mother let me wear my pants that way, and I wasn't bright enough to sneak into the bathroom and reverse them. Luckily, that trend was short lived. I am reminded of the joke about the motorcyclist who was killed after crashing while wearing his jacket backward. A bystander found him and attempted to set his head right.
I'm hoping this phase isn't unique to me and at all one point we all feel the urge to play the really bad music from our youth. In any case, I have a strange desire for snap-bracelets and torn jeans.
Ah, the torn jeans rocked. The bigger the tear, the cooler you were. This was before stores got it into their heads to sell pre-torn jeans, or if they existed, I didn't know. We would take our jeans then fall on them as many times as possible in order to wear out the knees and therefore attain coolness. My kneeholes were impossibly large. They were so big that I didn't really have jeans. I had shorts that just happened, near the ankles, to have enough cloth to be considered pants. Of course, that bit of cloth was folded over, showing striped tube socks.
Yeah, the 80s rocked.
-------------
I have, for your amusement, included an AIM conversation that I am currently having. H. is filling in some of my memory gaps. It is below:
H: last night when we were leaving, you were pretty bent on playing pantera
Concrete Hipster: Did it happen?
H: it did
Concrete Hipster: I dont remember that
H: haha we had a pretty good discussion about it
Concrete Hipster: What did we talk about?
H: you: "when we get back to my apartment, we should play some pantera"
H: me: "and be sad?"
H: N: "yea that's sad"
H: you:" but it rocks and he still lives on"
Concrete Hipster: I am insufferably deep while trashed
posted by Jon at 3:16 PM
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