Weekend Blahs

It's 12:14am on a Monday morning, and I'm listening to John Coltrane. I have been following the piano solo of this particular piece and am greatly intrigued. I want to say that the pianist is Herbie Hancock, but I can't say anything because the song came off a compilation CD and I wouldn't want to be wrong about such matters. That piece is past and I'm listening to a new song. Coltrane really knows how to solo, especially when he's trying to convey emotion rather than technique. The other day, my thesis director and I had a discussion on the use of music as a transporter of complex emotion. She notioned that music had a way of hitting primal emotive centers. that make feeling distinct from language. That is not to say that music is beyond language, or that it isn't a form of language. It is quite certain that music is language, using chained notations rather than certain staccato cracks, as speech is wont to be. Surely, music and language are too entwined to separate. My thesis director, however, emphasized that certain elements of music are sub-language. That is, they exist on a different level than language and affect primitive areas of the brain not subject to linguistic dissipation.

The whole conversation came about because my thesis is on Susanne Langer's theory of symbolic expression. Really, I won't go into detail on that right now, but rest assured that there will be plenty of inferences to this particular theory of art because I have a forty-page paper due on her in a few weeks. Yeah. In order to graduate, I need to know art theory front and back. Not bad for a guy who can barely manage to produce coherent stick figures.

Some have tried to teach me how to draw. Each met with miserable failure (Sorry, Rosencratz). I remember my psychology teacher in high school telling me that everyone can draw. Somewhere along the line, though, we were told that we either could, or could not draw. If we were told that we could not draw, then our art skills crystallized at that moment and did not evolve further. Well, I drew for him and even he had to admit that whatever art skill I had died when I was a very young kid. This is kind of odd, because when I was a child, I drew all the time. I even had my own comic series. I had the amazing Splat, and Captain Banana. Captain Banana was my favorite. Most strips with him involved some kind of puns relating to Bananas. Of course, there was the Bananamobile, and the Bananaphone. Often, he had to Banana split, before getting his Banana-assed kicked by bad guys. It's strange, you know, how an eight-year old kid has an anti-hero for a comic strip character. But, occasionally, while doodling in class, I draw Captain Banana. The sad thing is I think that I drew him better back then than I do now.

I find it interesting that most of my drawing pleasure came from drawing comics. I wasn't a really big comic book fan. Sure, I enjoyed them, but I never liked the idea of lack of continuity. I like stories to begin and to end. I don’t want a story to begin, and then end five years later. That's probably one of the main reasons I wait for trade paperbacks. I get my comic, but I get it with beginnings and ends included. I have of late been collecting Hellboy comics. I have the first and last, but nothing in between. I shall have to remedy that. Also, I am interested in purchasing an indie comic collection called Flight. The comic geek in me revels.

Rosencratz and I half-started our own comic series earlier in the year. It was kind of amusing, and I played with philosophical terms such a dualism, by having my mind escape my body, only to be leashed. It was funny. Seriously.

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The weekend wasn't very interesting. I spent most of it attending parties and exercising. The most exciting thing that happened to me, other than ending up in a good friend's bed, was that last night, while quite inebriated, I accidentally pulled the bathroom door off its hinges. Now, people have been telling me that I've been bulking up, and that I've been getting stronger, but I had no idea that I was strong enough to pull a fucking door off the hinges. After it happened, I was wont to check my skin for green tinge. There, however, was no urge to go rampaging around the apartment shouting such gems like Jon Smash!, or warning people not to make me angry because then my pants would split at the seams and everyone would see my angry beast. Of course, Rosencratz cannot deny himself the opportunity to mock me for my mishaps.


Concrete Hipster: I'm reminiscing, badly
Rosencratz: "I kissed her passionately on her lips, and felt her hard knob, which was now warming up to my touch. She quivered and I touched her flat chest, then ripped her off the hinges."
Concrete Hipster: "She splayed succinctly across the bathroom wall, exposing her naked holes for my visceral pleasure. I ran my fingers alongside the cool, metallic sheen of her skin and then cursed her for falling. I was not a man for coming undone."
Rosencratz: We're sick :-D
Concrete Hipster: That we are

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Tomorrow is a day unto itself. I shall do laundry because quite frankly, sniffing my socks for garment approval is becoming annoying. I am tempted to simply go out and buy another bag of socks, but I am also running low on underwear. While the idea of going commando does not bother me, it does not appeal and therefore should be prevented at all cost. I will also clean my room because it is becoming cluttered with different apparatus and I am starting to feel cramped by the effuse of my life. I shall also send another card to my Latvian pen pal. She has written, asking for a bit of cheerfulness. The knight complex in me is rearing and I fret over what I might do for this apparently helpless girl. Que sera sera?


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The Eagles have not landed. Millions of fans in Philadelphia attempt suicide by Cheese steak. In the morning, bodies are found next to two, or three empty sandwich wrappers, depending on the deceased's tolerance for heart-attack inducing foods. By the end of the week, amid mounting casualties, President Bush calls in the military, and then promptly chokes on a pretzel or something.

In Boston, people go about their daily business, muttering about chowdah and damnyankees.