A Stitch in Jon Saves Whom?

It's 1am and I'm leaving for Phoenix in a few hours. I want to say that I've strategically been getting my body's necessary sleep in sections all week in preparations for the time shift traveling forces on the body, but the reality of the situation is that my past few days have been harangued by drinking benders and work. I tried to make up for it with a several hour nap, but I was awaken around midnight by waves of crashing nausea, and now I'm sitting at my computer, feeling my temples contort in the most interesting manners. I swear that if there were an audience for this, I'd hear cheers at each flesh twinge or twist, much like the ones you hear on the fourth of July.

I am slowly becoming convinced that my brain is spasmodically trying to cut a hole through my right ear in an attempt to escape the hell I've wrought upon it. A few minutes ago, I went to the bathroom and stuck a q-tip into that same right ear in a veiled attempt to threaten my brain. It shall not escape my skull otherwise it will meet a cottony death struck by generic brand q-tips. Death by generics, I think, is more frightening than death by gradual sleep and alcohol abuse. I'm hoping my stay in Phoenix will cleanse my body of the toxins accumulated by nights of boozing and womanizing in this fucked-up Hicktown.

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N., earlier today, accused me of becoming the archetypical frat boy. I'm not quite sure what she meant by that. I don't pop my collars. I don't wear abercrombie and fitch, or american eagle. I don't own a buttoned-up shirt that had vertical lines on it. I certainly don't own anything that even resembles shades of pink. I don't wear baseball caps, or golf hats for that matter. I own only three pairs of shoes and none of them are Doc Martins, and at least one are Chucks. I wear Obsession cologne, mostly because a former roommate traumatized the scent of Cool Water, and a person I loathe is a big Curve fan, which is too bad because I enjoy Cool Water and Curve. I don't listen to bubble-gum pop, unless said pop has come from the early 90s or late 80s, and that is a terrible crime, I must admit. I own exactly three jeans. One is torn from a motorcycle accident, and the other two were bought off discount racks in discount stores. In short, I don't wear the frat boy uniform, but I'm giving off serious frat boy vibes. I guess drinking too fucking much and enjoying casual sexual encounters with random women make me look a bit like an alcoholic fuck of a man.

I really don't want to be the frat boy’s frat boy, even though I enjoy my fraternity life, and I tell myself that this is a temporary situation. When I remove myself from the college environment, I'll eventually leave the college lifestyle. And, I don't think that I'll miss all this enough to find myself wandering the streets of Fraternal Tempe, home of ASU, looking for parties to have and be had at. If such a situation occurs, I will email any one of my close friends and give them permission to promptly dispatch me, or at least find me a good looking girl who can fuck like a tigress and has the intellectual disposition and personality required to keep me interested longer than several rounds of coitus.

I believe my alcoholism is situational. Remove me from Hicktown and my drink consumption will plummet. This is the theory, at least. If I end up finding another group of hard-partying, hard-drinking friends, then I will continue to drink. I am a fucking social chameleon. While I have my own distinct, eccentric personality, which enthralls those close enough to me to see it, I also have a tendency to mirror the actions of the larger social crowd around me. This mirroring does not extend to clothes or other artistic tastes. I will not wear the frat boy uniform, or take the frat boy stance on most aesthetic pleasures. I will, however, act the frat boy act in a very Jon-way. And, in my Jon way, I suppose, that means being drunk and horny.

I probably should stipulate, or order to drown out the eye-rolls, tongue clucks, and head shaking cacophony that I can hear rumble much like a Honda Civic with its muffler lopped off, that I won't fuck everyone that can accommodate me sexually. I'll probably have a hard time convincing anyone of that, too, because I am a well known Man-Whore© who uses his winks and his supreme-master, elite dancing skills to shimmy and shake his way into some girl's pants. But, seriously, if I am to rock some girl's world, I'd like for her to engage me in conversation, preferably one that is coherent and inherently enjoyable on my part. So many of the girls I meet at my frat parties and in the bars are these vapid little things that are all tits and eyes with nothing substantial. While it is quite nice to have a body to copulate with, I feel that sex with them is the physical equivalent of beating off. I still get my orgasm, yet, after ten years of doing this, I still can't get my hand to engage in meaningful post-coital conversation. It just sort of exists and wavers on command. In retaliation, I cut off my fingerprint (although not on purpose) in hopes of communicating some form of sexual distress. Bitch, talk to me once we're both finished, and please, something that will keep my attention.

Consequentially, most of the girls I end up having sexual relations with aren't the best looking girls, but to be fair, they aren't the worst looking girls (although there have been a few who give me a warm, tingly sensation at the mere thought of them). The girls I do end up having relations with are quite able conversationalists and are able to keep my attention longer than the one or two hours a good fuck experience requires. I keep them on my AIM buddy list and every so often send out spastic glee in their direction.

So, yeah, I am a typical frat boy for time being. I drink. I smoke. I cuss. I'm shallow. And, I fuck. But, like most things, I do it the Jon-way, which you had better believe is the right fucking way.

N., I'm coming to L.A. for New Years, and you'd better believe I've got my game on. We're going to rock 2004 into oblivion.

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M2 sensed my distress a few minutes ago and rushed into my room bearing beer and goodwill. There are two things that make everything okay in Hicktown: a ticket out of hicktown, and alcohol. Granted, it's pseudo-beer manifest in the form of Mike's Hard Cranberry, but it's alcohol and I can feel whatever brain-cells I have left dying in a torrid alcoholic acid bath. That's what the fucker gets for trying to escape.

Mike's bottles come with twist-off bottle caps. On the bottom of these bottle caps are random words. The words are supposed to be used for drunken poetry. I have seen quite a few interesting examples, none of which I can recall at the moment. My bottle cap admonishes me to HOLD. I'm not quite sure what it wants me to hold. Am I to hold it in my hands? Am I to hold you in my arms? Am I to hold my contorting temples with my disfigured fingers? Am I to hold everything dear? I think I'm just going to hold on.

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As is the case, every depressing entry comes with amusing anecdotes. I told K. to keep babbling while I wrote this entry. I don't think she realized that I was setting her up so that I could add something amusing to my blog. I shall now present Ninja Theory.


K: did i tell you the ninja story already?
K: doesn't matter, its a great moment in my life so i'll tell you again
K: ninja's are everywhere
K: they are responsible for all kinds of mishaps in our lives
K: most people are oblivious because the ninjas only change tiny things, so inane that most people wouldn't ever realize it was happening
K: but i know
K: and so, armed with this knowledge, and knowing that ninjas are true masters of stealth and camouflage, i went out to eat at a local restaurant

(Editor’s note: I’ve heard the story. I will condense it for you. K. went to a restaurant and met with a waitress who claimed to be a ninja. Ninja-things ensured and K. wandered off feeling quite replete in her Ninja Theory)

Concrete Hipster: http://www.realultimatepower.net/
K: lol already been ther
K: *there
K: that site isn't entirely truthful
K: ninjas aren't about killing people
K: its about the art of fucking up our lives in ways that keep us in line with the great ninja master and his plan
Concrete Hipster: You really aren't kidding about this ninja thing, are you?
K: hahahaha
K: no
K: i'm probably half kidding
Concrete Hipster: Have you seen a psychologist about your ninja problems?
K: hey
K: there could be a ninja in your room right now
Concrete Hipster: Do you hear voices in your head? Are they telling you anything important?
K: and you'd never know
K: that's all i'm saying
K: its POSSIBLE
K: ;-)
K: plus its nice to have something to blame stuff on
Concrete Hipster: Well, I hope my ninja is a very good-looking woman who enjoys watching me beat off every so often
K: 'what!!! the meter ran out!! i swear i had 20 minutes left! damn ninjas..'
K: it could be
Concrete Hipster: Now, I'd like her to manifest and give me head
K: if you hang out with you'll hear 'damn ninjas' a lot. now you know why
K: lol ninjas aren't sex toys
Concrete Hipster: Why not?
K: because they are ninjas

Jon Gets All Deep

I just finished my last final a few minutes ago. The semester is officially over, for me at least. This is cause for celebration. I will probably get really fucked up within the next two days. N. tells me that there is this blonde that won't mind getting it on with me. Apparently she is interested in this cute little punk thing I've got going. I'm not exactly sure what exactly is my "cute little punk thing," because I'm as punk as Brittany Spears, but I'm going to be sure to play it up if she ever comes over to my place for a few drinks and whatnot. I must have drinking problems. As soon as things get done, my first thoughts are about the vast amount of alcohol I need to consume to feel something that appears to be lacking in my daily life.

Now, when I'm walking, I'm thinking. This is why I often bring music with me for the walk to class. This is also why if I'm not listening to music, I am apt to miss things that I shouldn't have missed. Brothers have walked right next to me, waiting for some sign of recognition. It won't come. When I am lost in my thoughts, I don't see anything but the thoughts themselves. Luckily for me, my feet don't need much in the way of thinking to get me where I'm going. After awhile, I move in instinct and my brain churns out ways to ruin a perfectly good final celebration. Really, thinking too hard at times is quite deadly. I probably shouldn't forget my music from now on. Nothing says brain-dead like pop songs.

But, the semester is over and I have one more semester left in my undergraduate colligate career. I'm really not sure what to make of that. So, I've been in college for three-and-a-half years. So the fuck what? What has transpired in the last four years? I'm told that college is supposed to be the most hedonistic time of your life. All the sitcoms show college to be one giant party. Classes are secondary. Fucking and drinking and booze and road trips come first. I'm pretty sure that I've been doing that all along, and some of my stories are quite legendary, I think, but I'm not exactly sure that I've lived college the way I should have lived college, and I'm not sure that I really want to leave the hedonistic lifestyle that I so enjoy.

Eventually, you know, we all have to give up hedonism and get something that resembles responsibility. I'm going to get responsibility, but I'm also going to drink hard, party hard, and fuck whomever I want. I know of a few people in the Phoenix area who might be willing to join me as I trudge through the desert, beer bottle in one hand and pants in the other. I suppose those are the true friends, you know, the ones who are willing to coax you down from some godforsaken lamp-pole while you swing about wildly while muttering something about how phallic symbols are oppressing the masculinity of Coors-guzzling porky pigs.

Having given my description of true friends, I am forced to pause and wonder how many I have made in college. Sure, I've hundreds of acquaintances, and I do love my fraternity brothers in a very platonic, drinking-buddy way, but I don't expect any of them to constantly keep in touch when I have fled the Midwest. For many of them, friendship is only manifest when I, or they for that matter, are present in person. I remember my disappointment when I left my old university and many of whom I though were my closest friends didn't miss a beat. I guess I didn't leave enough of a gaping void in their lives. I'm not arrogant enough to think that there should be a grieving period for a loss Jon, but an IM every so now and then would be nice. Of the very many friends I had at G.U., only R. and N, and recently T., are left.

I want to say that this happenstance is a result of the very fucked up environment at GU. GU isn't a normal college by any means. It's very much a social experiment gone awry. I don't really think that it should rightfully be called a university. It's just a gated cage filled with people whose disabilities make them educational and social rejects. Those of us who weren't either would gather in our small bands and pointedly look out for the actions of the feebs*, who in their very feeb way would make life that much more amusing for us. Many of the actions and discourses witnessed would be the military equivalent of watching a monkey fucking a football. I'm aware that collective scorn isn't quite the bond that makes strong, lasting friendships, but when you're new to college and you have all of the college promises and stories crammed into your eighteen year old head, how are you to know different?

*I am quite aware that many of the problems associated with deaf individuals who have, for whatever reason, not acquired the language abilities nor the social abilities are quite complex and are not always the fault of the individual in question, and for that reason should not be made into reasons of derision, but I cant help it. Some of the shit we saw was just outlandishly funny.

It's funny, though. I was walking across the concrete bridge that separates the quad from the library and main student center, when I was suddenly struck by the revelation that I slightly miss GU. I may not have been happy there in many ways, but for some reason, the monkey cage was a bit of a home to me. I felt enamored with the city and the land. I don't feel the same about my current university or my current surroundings. My views of Hicktown are anything but positive and those who have hung around me long enough are eventually exposed to my vitriol. In short, it's a shitty little hicktown filled with shitty bars, and people with shitty opinions on how the world ought to be. D.C., for all its flaws, had enough areas that I could escape the overwhelming smell of bullshit flowing forth from Capitol Hill.

I really can't complain about the university. It's aight. But, at the same time, it doesn't elicit any feeling in me. I'm not a particularly proud Redbird. The sound and the texture of the word "Redbird" doesn't evoke any feeling in me. It's almost as if I were walking around going Rock Chalk Jayhawk. They may be words, and they may mean something in context, but to me they are simply empty and quickly disappear into the air as if I were exhaling smoke. So, I graduate in the spring and I'm ambivalent. Um, yay, ISU? I'm not attached to the quad. I'm not attached to my apartment. I'm not attached to the grounds. I'm not attached to the classrooms, the buildings, or the soul of the University. I could be walking through a mall, for all I care, and if I get my diploma before I walk out the door; so much the better.

Yet, there's a strange hollowness in me, like I'm going to miss something or that something is passing me by. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but on occasions when I'm walking home from whatever, I dwell on it. And, I think about how much I have to drink to forget that I feel hollow inside.

Isn't that a fucking downer?

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I should cheer things up a bit. Below is an excerpt of a conversation I had with R. last night. A former professor of ours passed away yesterday. I'll write about him some time. He was quite a person. R. and another mutual friend, who I haven’t talked to in years, decided to mourn by splitting a bottle of the professor's favorite drink, Glenlivet. Well, that shit goes to the heart and mind. So:

Concrete Hipster: You vacillate and are now sobering up
R: im'a not sober
R: i odn't do vasectomies noeither
Concrete Hipster: Man. I miss getting drunk with you
Concrete Hipster: Why aren't you bullshitting with J?
R: Rsx in't good enough?
R: J gotwork at 5 am
Concrete Hipster: Puss.
R: i wanna rsx
R: noce bike
R: wako spanks his ham
Concrete Hipster: There will be no ham spanking
R: hoe don'st spank shi salty pasty no seasoned ham?
R: waspy
R: oink thesy say. teh pigs wanna coors
R: give porky coors
R: or he'll ealt yu all
Concrete Hipster: Why coors?
R: i odn't question hambo
R: hambo wants coors. he spent al ongh hard day killing north vietnames echikens with arrows and knives and now stallone wannam ake a movie about it
R: andhis contraks say must hove coors
Concrete Hipster: That's it. I'm saving this conversation
R: noooo stealing my pickup lines
Concrete Hipster: You would first have to have game
R: i have game
R: but uyou ate it

WeatherBug needs to die

I am attempting to exist outside of time. My haphazard sleep schedule over the past few days have left me an empty shell of a mind. I told a friend that I was like a gnat on speed that had been squashed. Sometimes I am beset upon by a frenzy of ideas, only to be struck by lethargy when I am about to act on them. At other times, especially when I toss and turn in a belated attempt to reach something that resembles sleep, I compose entire symphonies in my head based off of Queen's Under Pressure. It cannot be helped that my recent over-exposure to Vanilla Ice has set off a torrent of bad music in my head. They rampage about, destroying anything that resembles a brain cell. Occasionally, a note falls out my nose and flops wildly about the floor. I watch in amusement as it tries to resemble a melody but only turns out to be another one of those lost Jonisms that run naked through the street like a barely-clothed jungle fetish. At times, when I'm supposed to be existing outside of time, I find myself rummaging through the pantry. Last night, in one of my confused frenzies, I imbibed bakers semi-sweet chocolate and found it quite palatable. Today, its sister-twin was inedible and I ran to the kitchen and drowned its bitterness in milk. Such has been the last couple of days. I look forward to escaping everything and leaving for Phoenix. Perhaps the sun will do me well.

------

In the mean time, WeatherBug really needs to die. I've managed to turn off the sound, but the incredible aura of annoyance that emanates from it causes me to clench my sphincter wildly whenever it blinks and feels the need to tell me to click it in order to find what weather has changed. While I find it greatly convenient to note the temperature on my desktop with the greatest of ease, so that I might better pick my outfit for the day, I do not find it necessary to be alerted to minor temperature changes. A change of a few degrees is expected. A change brought by hell freezing or boiling over is not. That warrants a warning, not a breath near the thermometer.

Weather is a dynamic system that is affected by chaotic principles. If weather were to remain static for a long time, I would start to worry. But, it doesn't, and I don't need to be pleasantly reminded that the world works as normal, especially in Normal, which is so frighteningly normal that sometimes I stand outside and shriek just because it disrupts every day expectations.

WeatherBug also feels the need to alert me to minor changes in wind speed, direction, and temperance. I half expect it to note that a Butterfly has farted somewhere in Indochina and a Tsunami is now headed towards central Illinois. I will probably welcome the annoyance and the un-normal events in Normal.

For now, I have a baseball bat that I keep handy. I finger it gently whenever WeatherBug feels the need to warn me that the barometer has dropped a few tenths of a point. One of these days, WeatherBug!

-------

Yesterday was the peak of the Geminid Meteorite shower. I decided to wuss out and miss it. As much as I love astronomy, I despise 12 degree weather even more. And, as my WeatherBug was wont to shout, the temperature was flirting somewhere along the lines of hell froze over and consequentially, demons are now going from door-to-door, asking if they can warm themselves by the radiators.

My wussing out is fine by me. It can't match the memories of my last meteorite shower. A few bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 do much to brighten an evening.

R. and I were much looking forward to the meteorite shower. We had heard that it would be quite good, and the last one for quite some time. The plan was to wait for me to finish work and then somehow acquire the necessary means to flee the lights of Hicktown and then enjoy the shower in the resplendent quiet of a local cornfield. Well, plans didn't quite work out that way. We weren't able to get the car. So, in order to compensate, we decided to pick up some Black and Milds, and a few bottles of Mad Dog 20/20. The stars were going to find us kicking, ghetto-style.

Kicking, ghetto-style meant dragging a couch out of my fraternity house and attempting to start a fire in an available cistern. We had some previous experience in wood gathering and fire starting from a camping trip taken a few weeks earlier, which, for the sake of amusement, I'll have to describe another time. In this situation, chance to say, two city-boys scrounging for wood, at night, near a fraternity house made for some interesting glances. We didn't find much, but we had ample wet wood, lighter fluid, and paper stolen from the fraternity phone book.

A few swigs from one of the bottle, a few curses, and a whole lot of lighter fluid got us a nice little fire. It was a beautiful thing. We felt like primordial man. We dance around the fire a bit, quaffed out bottles, and shouted manly man-things at the night sky. For all our posturing, the fire died within a few moments. I seethed, drenched the fucker in lighter fluid, and toasted the night again. This time, we didn't celebrate. We simply drank, light our cigars, and watched the sky.

There wasn't much to see. Occasionally, a white streak would punctuate the silence, but for the most part, the stars remained resoundingly resolute. Had we been sober, we would've been quite upset. We, however, weren't. The Mad-Dog had done it's job, ghetto style. And, we were doing out jobs, R. and Jon style. We flung lies and stories at each other, at a rate per minute that would have been the equivalent of a meteorite shower.

Some parts of the night are blank, and I suppose it's best left that way. At a certain time, we decided to call it quits. The smoke from our coated paper had created a cloudy cover that palled over most of the northern sky. Consequentially, we were unable to see meteorites. Besides, it was time for us to go inside and continue drinking. The fire was still going and it needed to be put out.

I decided to piss the fire out. The plan worked for a short time, but the alcoholic content of my urine actually caused the fire to come back stronger than it had been when it died. The flames were such that I leapt out of the way and found it in myself to kick the fucking thing over. Heated embers created new meteorite streaks, and one found itself on the couch. It decided to start smoking. We didn't notice it for a bit because we were busy being amused at my explosive piss, but the smoke coming from the couch was a siren's call we couldn't ignore.

I flung myself at the couch and quickly stomped about in a furtive attempt to quench our created fallen stars. R. busied himself stomping out various embers glowing in the grass. Our plan worked, until the fire caught on an unlit paper and burned bright on the ground. This required drastic action. I whipped it out again and urinated on the fire, again. This time, the fire stayed dead. The frat-yard, however, was a mess of ash, dead embers, empty Mad Dog bottles, and stubbed-out cigars. The carnage required big men who weren't afraid to clean. R. and I fled the scene and flopped on a hill about a block from my home.

I don't remember what we talked about, but I did see a few more meteorites fling themselves into the atmosphere. Really, every outing should be a drunken affair.

Post-Script

R. has since informed me that we didn't burn paper from the fraternity phone book. We actually bured a huge pile of plastic-sheened valu-pak advertisement papers that, according to him, gave off weird blue and green smoke. Apparently we managed to kill what few brain-cells we had left with this smoke and ran around babbling nonsense and threatening to wash the naked bottoms of cocky-roaches.

If that is the case, I'm stockpiling Valu-pak and opening my very own witch-doctor shop, a-la the Oracle of Delphi. I'm sure people would pay to see me spasm on the ground while sprouting valuable bits of Jon-wisdom.

(The Oracle of Delphi sat over a hole from which smoke emerged. The smoke caused the Oracle to enter a trance. The gods spoke through her only when she was in this trance-state.)

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I have the weirdest tendencies to alliterate. Let me illustrate:

Concrete Hipster: Willy Wonka Wacks Wieners Well Worth Wailing Words Why We Want Willy Wonka's Wonderful Whacking
R: What? :-D

K: why were words written watchfully? whimsy?
Concrete Hipster: Wearily we wove weirdness while westerners watched, wearing wracked wonder.
K: you guys are such nerds

R: Alliteration Hell
Concrete Hipster: My quota of Ws for the day has been spent
Concrete Hipster: I had to borrow deeply to finish some words. But, the W deficit is really good for the economy and we can just borrow more Ws to make up for the Ws we owe
R: You're an apt presidential candidate, friend
Concrete Hipster: I learned from the W

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.

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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.

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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