THE HAPPENINGS OF APARTMENT C
My apartment is beginning to resemble a space, finally. I forgot to check my lease before I started hammering nails in everywhere; I'm also horrifically terrible at hanging all the frames straight so there are triple the amount of holes there ought to be. My walls have also, in the resulting madness, lost any cohesiveness to subject there might have been before. Jeff Buckley hangs above my bed, next to a couple of extremely odd lithos by Wayne Coyne (he used a paintball gun to depict a guy's head exploding into a beautiful mess of turquoise and yellow), and at end the end of the wall is a blown up vintage reproduction of The Beatles from the Beatles for Sale album. Down the hall, Bob Dylan hangs out near Monty Python and through to the kitchen is my relocated art swirl of photos, a collage of my favorite pictures from the concerts I've attended since about 2004 or 2004. I love the view of my Hokusai from bed. I still have to hang all my Shepard Fairey prints, which are my favorites. One of my Christmas presents is an art piece Fairey did for the Syracuse Cultural Workers with one of my all-time favorite slogans: "Make Art, Not War"; it's going in the kitchen where, ironically, there's more of a war being fought than art being produced.
The Shins are performing a secret show tonight at Amoeba around six. I guess I'll head over there after class gets out around three. Now, it's time for a late breakfast and to catch up on some work, since I stupidly missed class this morning.
The Shins are performing a secret show tonight at Amoeba around six. I guess I'll head over there after class gets out around three. Now, it's time for a late breakfast and to catch up on some work, since I stupidly missed class this morning.