I fully intended to post.

Funny how intent and execution have very little to do with one another.

Gonna go away for now.

-Eric

And the Lord spake, "Eric: Thou shalt get thy shit together."

Here is an artist's representation of my life right now:



As you can see, the Earth itself appears to have opened up beneath (a drunk version of) me, ready to swallow me deep into its fiery core to struggle, fail, and die an ignominiously (PLUS FIVE FOR UNNECESSARY VERBOSITY) horrible death.

Have to edit a paper for "The Seven Technical Sins of Undergraduate Writing" tomorrow by 5PM, read all of Turgenev's Rudin and compose a 4-page paper on it tomorrow night as well as do a write up for my stupid Anthro 9 project.

And, naturally, I'm on the internet. Why is my work ethic so fucking dazzling?

My friend Jane is currently asking me questions about applying for Campus Events for next year. Talking to her made me realize how much fucking fun CEC is. We're such ballers. I don't really want to imagine life without it. Ok, maybe I would:



Man, Photoshop kicks my ass.

And to wash away the wormwood of photoshopping mediocrity (DING DING), shove some Akron/Family in your ears. Much love to Lee for the recommendation.

Peace, bitches.

-Eric

What the hell? Titles are "required fields" now? Fuck that.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT. BLOGGER JUST ATE MY REALLY HUGE UPDATE.

It was probably more self-important than any of you cared to read anyway. The gist of it: I'm a douchebag to annoying strangers. I hate annoying. I hate strangers. Put em together and somehow the sum is greater than its component parts.

I suppose these things (Blogs. We're done with annoying strangers.) are all about self-revelation and the sharing thereof. If such is indeed the case, allow me to direct your attention to Exhibit A: I have not updated in a few days. Old self-revelation that I'm sharing with all of you lovely people: I am fucking lazy. (Two colons in adjacent sentences? Something about that makes me cringe. But fuck it, I'm lazy.**)

Don't be put off by the (cue motherly voice, i.e. Kathy's Eddie Bauer voice... ask her about it if you haven't heard it before) "pottymouth." I really am so lazy that it requires an emphatic expletive.

Went ice blocking by Janss Steps tonight with Nish, his sister visiting him, and Ryan Houck. Cameo apperances by Ravi and Rhiannon (sp? ex-Mormons and their ridiculous names make me want to vomit with rage). Absent parties: Jenn Wong. Berate at earliest convenience.

It was fun. Cease-and-Desist by Officer Jenkins (his name might have concievably been Jenkins, good work Eric) led to a 45 minute tour of Boelter, searching for the perfect spot(s) for rooftop ice block hurling. Smashing mine a few yards away from an overtime (I would hope) construction worker on a ciggy break was fucking priceless (expletive also emphatically necessary).

It made me think of high school, making homemade explosives with the guys, and midnight excursions to the paseos to rattle some stuffy old folks from their upper middle-class dreams ("'All the spics and niggers are out of America?' The Genie says yeah. '...I'll have a Coke."). And the subsequent running from the authorities that be. Almost makes me miss home.

Nostalgia is misleading. And fucking irritating. (That f-bomb was just for fun.)

Read an old review of From A Basement On A Hill. Missing him all over again. I'm such a dork.

Wan an. (I googled the pinyin for that, so fuck off if you're Chinese-literate.)

-Eric

** Plus twenty points for demonstrating my previous statement.

P.S. You are all lovely people, I'm sorry I forgot to post my Multimedia Present of the Post. Elliott Smith Bootleg.

Afterthought: Important Lesson

Dear friends, let me impart unto you an important lesson I learned tonight.


This is a mandolin


This is a banjo

The former is smaller, shorter-necked, and possesses a thin twangy sound. The latter is larger, longer, and has a more resonating twang.

Both make me want to find guys to play the jug and the washboard and start up a deep-south bluegrass band.

-Eric

Post titles are for bitches.

Just got back from seeing Regina Spektor at the Roxy with Janny.

It was beautiful.

I haven't really dedicated myself to listening to either of her two albums which are in my posession, so when she started playing one of her songs (The Flowers, in case you give a damn), I didn't immediately recognize the piano melody. I half-remembered it-- like something out of an old dream-- and familiarity slowly, slowly snuck up on me. I think that stretch of some thirty seconds was the highlight of the show for me. Not due to any particular musicality (though I was entranced by the way that, though she would kind of sing through her teeth, her voice came out just as richly-- like there was nothing that could stop the song from pouring out) but more from my own (oh boy, time to use The Word**) mediocrity as a listener. For once, being less-than-adequate worked out for the better.

Which reminds me. Janny is my favorite concert buddy ever. She's so fucking passionate about the little details. The Decemberists and her vagabonds line, tonight's show and that line from that one song that (surprise) I'm not wholly familiar with. I really wish I were able to connect my music and my emotions quite so viscerally (Colin Meloy will make that girl cry at the drop of a fucking hat... maybe not exactly as viscerally).

But I suppose that would require me to have a heart. Instead of this rusty tin box of mine. Sometimes I wonder if there's anything left inside it that hasn't turned to rot.

Calling this off before I get anymore needlessly abstract.

Bon soir.

-Eric

** I have an unhealthy fixation upon the word "mediocrity." It's become something of a self-definition for all things personal. Which I'm sure will become evident (The fixation? Or the self-definition? He's so deliciously vague!) as time goes by, if I actually post on this thing regularly.

So I figured why the hell not. At least it's not a Live Journal. (Delicious trivia: I actually DO have a Live Journal. From all the way back in high school. I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to discern its whereabouts.)

A few orders of business:
1) Pardon the Murakami fanboyism; this was not a first choice situation. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, splendid. I hope I sound creative.
2) I guess that kind of wraps up the business, sorry.

It's about 4:30AM as I type this, and I'm avoiding my RUSS 25W paper re-write.

I had all these wonderfully pithy quips cooked up to impress you, to make me seem witty and substantive. Raw deal, though, all you get is a burned-out boy typing in his underwear.

I suppose I can offer you some party favors, though. (Didn't you hate it when kids didn't give party favors when you were young? Call me materialistic, but they fucking owed me, man.)
Eric's Anti-Gravity Morning Hair.
Lo-Fi Portland Rock and Roll.

I guess I should be consistent and say goodbye to you, now.

Bye. (And the endless binary data streams were not phased whatsoever.)

-Eric