Guilt. Haterade. Breakbeats.

Wow fuck. I haven't updated this thing in ages. Sincerest apologies; I know you all hang on my every word. Cough cough.

Lots of stuff that's worth recapping, but let's be realistic here. I don't want to take all the time, and I'm sure it won't really impact your life in any meaningful sense anyway. ("But we want to know how many times you've shit this past week!" That's a solid six times, for reference.)

Only three things in this wacky Universe of ours can guilt-trip me so cosmically and completely that I start to doubt my unmitigated awesome:
1) The Bible
- They may have killed his ass, but damn it if Jesus didn't learn a thing or two from them about guilt before they finally got him.
2) My mother
- And she's Chinese. Yeah.
3) The inevitable approach of Finals Week.
- Because I am a hulking monolith of pure academic progress. As final exams get closer and closer, I'll slowly morph into a sweatshop full of Vietnamese children when Kathy Lee Gifford comes to visit. And you will wonder at the vastness of my terrified productivity.

Started to get guilty for not being as engrossed in my classes as one would imagine that, ideally, I should be. Don't get me wrong. I love my classes. Well, Russian and English. As for Anthro, hm. I always wondered what it would be like to be stuck in some crazy parallel universe wherein trite observations and fucking obvious traits are balled up into a horrifying mass of restated terms and recycled definitions. And then celebrated as science.

I'm totally kidding; I've never wondered that at all.

Fuck you, anthropology. If I wanted to be emotionally and mentally underwhelmed, I would have taken another Communications Studies course. I would say with all confidence say that Anthropology is the most revolting pseudo-science I've ever had the pleasure of stumbling into except for the fact that it doesn't deserve the superlative qualification. It's like that band Third Eye Blind. To say that it is the worst would be to imply that it is, at least, really good at being really fucking bad. I mean, it's entirely conceivable that there is crap out there that's more worthless than Anthro (And, since we're still here, Third Eye Blind too. I cannot fucking stand that motherfucker's speech impediment. Learn how to fucking talk, let alone sing.) but you'll understand if I don't really want to imagine anything quite that depressing until I refill my prescription for some more goddamned MAOI Inhibitors. Fuck you, anthropology. (I was gonna Google up the singer's name so I could single him out for a snack-sized serving of invective just for him, but I don't want my computer to have their web address floating somewhere on its hard drive.)

Before you flail your hands in righteous indignation Janny-- and I know probably already have, damn the binary and damn the internet-- I still think you're a great girl. Horribly misled, but at least you're good at what you do. Not that it takes much to be good at it, so use all that leftover brainpower to telepathically burn things or something. At least fire is cool.

I think I'm done with my hating for this post.

The last of the Campus Events applications should have come in today. It's exciting looking through all of them and wondering which of those wrinkled packets represents a new staffer. More specifically, which of the applicants are hot hipster chicks looking to join Concerts Staff. Look at me, I'm all goose-bumpy.

This one bitch, though. (I fully intended to be done hating... Hah. Hah. Oh well.) Turned in a shitty application scrawled lightly in pencil. Under the section asking which of our events she had been to and why she would like to join, she writes something to the effect of: "None. I was hoping that getting on staff would help me get back my love of music, which I have lost because of college."

Don't let me rain on your sympathy parade or anything, sweetiepie, but did I miss the memo informing everyone that Campus Events has now become a psychological rehabilitation group so you can get back to jamming along with KROQ? Fuck altruism, fuck Clear Channel, and fuck you. (Oops. Started sounding like that awful short film that we screened for Shorttakes. "Oh noes! He started drinking again?!?!~!~") Come back when you want to book some damned shows.

Just so you can all hate her morally if not personally, she wrote down, for two of her top five albums of 2004, one by Adema and Iron Maiden. Yeah, she loses. She loses even more than that dude in the marching band who likes Incubus. The sheer amount of suck embodied in that application... the... the sh-- Fuck. I can't even finish the thought.

Ok, seriously. Gonna stop filling up the internet with more closed-minded anger. But they suck so very, very much that it's hard to-- Sorry. Stopping.

I left Shorttakes early last night with Daniel and Nish to go catch Chris O'Reilly (pretty sure that's A. spelled correctly B. actually his name) at Royce Hall. He's a guy who does piano arrangements of Radiohead and Elliott Smith songs. Wow, seeing that in writing makes him look really really lame. But I promise, he's pretty damned good. They aren't just cheesy piano covers of the songs. He rewrites them into lush piano arrangements. Personal highlights: "Waltz #1 (XO)" and the last track of Heatmiser - Mic City Sons, which I always thought was untitled like the *ahem* copy of that song that I have in my possession but he said was entitled "Not Half Right" or somesuch. His takes on "Paranoid Android " and "2+2 = 5" were pretty awesome too, though Elliott beats the snot out of Radiohead any day of the week in my book. And I rather like Radiohead.

Afterwards, we made it back to Ackerman in time to enjoy the catering provided for the filmmakers from Shorttakes. And greedy piggy staffers like me. We were trying to figure out what we wanted to do, since most everyone didn't really want to go home. I really wanted to get fucking tipsy.

I think everyone kind of invited themselves over to Daniel's place (Let's face it, Daniel is fucking cool.) and Megan took a few people to pick up the libations. They got a bunch of cheap wine and champagne, which made me a happy panda. Aiko gave me a pint of her personal favorite, Boddington's Ale. The fucking can had a widget inside of it. It was delicious. Smoked a bunch of ciggies, which helped the wine blossom into a wonderful little bubble in my brain (which can help us to ignore the fiberglass in my lungs). Or maybe that was the weed. Sorry about your piece, Daniel =( That's what you get for trusting that half-Jap. In any case, it was relaxing fun. I felt like we were bothering Daniel's roommates, even though they were all really cool. Lap even came out and broke open a bottle of their own wine with us so I don't know if the guilt was simply in my head.

I'm excited to live with Bob, Daniel, and Nish next year. The place is cool, the people are chill, and none of my roommates are gonna be chicks. Cat broke up with Junho so I will (hopefully) never be forced to listen to the Girlfriend Voice ever the fuck again. Short of some horrible joke at my expense care of that classy broad Fate, that is. Oops. Looks like I spilled that little secret to a bunch of strangers on the internet, roommates of mine. Maybe next time you shouldn't presume that I am retarded, blind, and fucking retarded and just let me know that you two have something going on. Call me petty, but some freaking disclosure feels awfully nice every once in a while.

That felt kind of nice. God bless you, apostrophe. At least I hope it was apostrophe, because that was written much more spitefully than I would actually speak to either of them. Shrug. Internet and anonymity make Eric a harsh boy.

Got my mitts on a couple of sexy new Drum n Bass mixes recently. Tech Itch partnered up with... some other DJ and formed a new label. Technical Freaks. Who knows about the other dude, but Tech Itch is absolutely raw. So far, their new mix is pretty good. Not a mindfuck like Killabites, Vol. 2 was though, sadly. The second disc made me want to scribble the word "breakbeat" on the next person I saw and just have sex with it. Gender notwithstanding. I also got the latest LP from Violence Recordings, home of Hive, Gridlok, and some other DJs who I don't have as fierce of a love for. Motherfucking Hive, man. It's awesome. The sampler for the LP has a crazy remix by Dom & Roland of Hive's "Neo." Rocks my pants off. Then my underwear, too. And since I know most of you dumb fuckers will not enjoy the awesome DnB track I just linked, here's a neat track off of the single for Electrelane - The Power Out.

This entry is getting far too long. Apologies. I'll do my best to make posts more frecuente and less gigante, as they are wont to say south of the border. Fetch me a sombrero and I will do a dance for you, too. Oh shit raincheck on the hat dance, Pancho Villa's coming.

Gotta fly. Ever really, really wanted to feel there was something in common with someone even though it always feels forced when you hang out? Yeah, gonna go indulge in some desperately wishful thinking.

-Eric

Interlude

Tom: by the way
Tom: your blog is hillarious
Me: *grin*
Me: i just updated it
Me: because i am a tool
Tom: it sounds like either 1) you spend days writing each paragraph
Tom: or 2) you just have some crazy natural talent
Tom: and I know how goddamn lazy you are
Tom: so congratulations
Me: LOL
Me: i hate to break it to you
Me: but i average about 40 minutes for each post
Me: whoooo
Me: Operation Letdown 2005
Tom: well, the one I read was long as shit
Tom: so you haven't let me down yet

This is how you buff my ego.

Let's hear it for Tom Schilling everyone. If you have a vagina, offer it to him in adulation. The minute he returns to LA, the hell with all the rest of you lollygaggers.

Until then, however, I loooovevveee yoouuu!



-Eric

P.S. I just farted. And as soon as it came out, Junho snored at about the same tenor and tone. That pleases me at an hour like this.

Savor. Odyssey. Defeat (Times Two).

If you only knew how eagerly I check for and how much I savor comments on this thing... I dare say that you'd stop leaving them, you would.

So I skipped class on Tuesday in favor of trekking out to Amoeba in search of a specific album that, for reasons unknown, was completely impossible to locate on the intern-- uhh... legally legitimate avenues of locating music. So, based solely upon a single track that Janny put on a mix for me I left to buy the fucking CD.

The next three hours proved entirely fruitless. The horrible hike to retrieve the Grey Goose all the way in Lot 32 (Why the fuck is Kinross so far away from my lazy ass?). The equally taxing push across Sunset Boulevard around noonish. The two lectures that I skipped in order to ramble on as I did. A bit of an odyssey, really. Completely fruitless.

As you might have gathered (But never to have concieved...! Read on.) the album was nowhere to be found in the entirety of Amoeba Music. (See what I mean? How the fuck does Amoeba not have it?!) Even the kindly chubby, pink-haired clerk was unable to entice her magical box (The computer, you fucking perverts.) into spewing forth any insight onto the whereabouts of my prize.

So I gave up and bought the fucker on iTunes. Children's Hour - SOS JFK, as well as their Self-Titled EP.

I have been defeated by the internet. Thirteen some-odd dollars of the most bitter of Wormwood.

And here's the punchline: it's not even that amazing of an album. Occasional spurts of beautiful instrumentals, but something about the vocals doesn't seem to jive properly on most of the tracks. The previously-linked track is probably the best one on the disc. God damn it. Defeat times two.

*Hugs pile of autographed albums obtained through Campus Events Geekery* It's ok, my sweet, sweet treasures. You make everything ok.

I wish to be alone with Colin Meloy's signature now. ADIEU!

-Eric

Inevitability. Laundry List. Disconnection.

So I've consigned myself to a single inevitable fact of the Universe: I will never, ever do anything academically productive on a weekend. Ever. Ever. Ever.

Things I did instead of schoolwork:
1) Saabir's birthday. I stopped by. Shot some Jack. Fake-smoked some Vanilla cigarettes and felt girly. Had my penis grabbed at by some guy named Anthony and felt less girly by comparison. (And yet, of the two of us I'm the one without a girlfriend. The Good Lord is one ironic motherfucker.) Left an album on someone's computer desktop so he'd listen to it when he sobered up (I am hereby the MP3 Fairy). Was quizzed on my ability to drive home by reciting the squares from one through ten. i.e. One squared is one. Two squared is four. Three squared is nine. Etc. I passed. Then started feeling genuinely intoxicated as soon as I got through my door and into my bed. High five for good timing.

1) Started a gang with Annie. Art and Crafts (NO IT'S NOT NAMED AFTER THE RECORD LABEL... unless it is...) fo lyfe, beeyatch.
1a) Started a gang rivalry with Annie. Her Adidas shittery is wack-ass Track and Field, yo.
1b) Learned the standard operating procedure of dealing with Canadians: spit in their fucking faces. Either Kathy or Annie (Give me a break, they're both Asian. How am I supposed to tell them apart?) favored me with that little gem.

2) Went to the LA Zoo and had my wallet brutally raped. Bearing in mind my ancestry, wherein money = everything, it was the equivalent of being paralyzed from the waist down. 3.25 for a 20oz bottle of Aquafina? It's times like these I really wish the Ruskies had cauterized this infectious blister of a free-market economy from the face of the Earth with a salvo of thermonuclear bleach. (Attn Government Filters, CC to Donald Rumsfeld: JUST KIDDING. I OWN AN AMERICAN FLAG.)

3) Assisted my father in achieving the Chinese Ideal: The Three-Generation Family. Had dinner for his momentous day of birth with my grandparents at their place in San Gabriel. AKA China 2.0: You Can Drink The Water Without Cholera Here!
3a) Met up with Kathy and Megan (I actually re-ordered the names for the sake of alphabetization. Why am I so fucking cool?) for Operation Second Dinner 2005. Bacali Cafe ("Bacarri Caw-Fay") on Valley Blvd. ("Varree Boo-ree-vahrr") confuses me more than the way I feel when I look at pictures of David Hasselhoff in his Baywatch days (he make my pee-pee tingle funny). The food is fucking good. But so... much chinky... people. So much... chinky.
3b) Finally picked up some of that Chinese BBQ Sauce (fake pinyin: Sa-tza jyang) from 99 Ranch. There will be much delicious fried rice in my near future. Yours too, if I like you enough.

4) Chipotle with the CEC crew. Their guacamole is like Creamed Jesus Christ. On a transubstantiated sacramental wafer. It's worth the blasphemy. Seriously.

5) Complete emotional withdrawal. Head has been in the clouds all day today. Don't know what's going on. Everyone asks me if I'm sad. Don't know how to answer that. ("Omitting first-person pronouns? That must be genuinely sincere!" quips the annoying asshole in the back of my skull.)

6) Dominated the ever-loving shit out of Diana, Kathy, and Megan (alphabetized again) in Trivial Pursuit with Jason. Boys versus Girls? Sorry, looks like the Penis flag flies high tonight. Vagina is back in ignominious suppression.

7) Received spam e-mail from the name "Cunnilingus A. Stumpier."
7a) Cried because spam-mailer bots-- the effective unwashed buttcrack of the internet-- are so much more clever than I will ever be. That is the greatest fucking union of words that I have ever read in my life. Don't understand? "Man I could go for some stumpy cunnilingus right about now." If you still don't understand, you are a humorless machine. You'd get along famously with my father. ("Happy birthday, Tien-Hsin Chao! Your son is taking potshots at you behind your back!" I earnestly pray to God that I never have a son like me.)

That about covers the major points, whether feigned, forced, or genuine. And since we're blogging here, we'll keep the real thoughts obfuscated because They will read it. And I really can't let that happen because I am, after all, the same awkward boy I've always been.

Warmest regards from up here in the clouds. I'll find a way down soon enough.

-Eric

P.S. Ever the forgetful one. Delicious musical treats for you to delight in. Maybe even shake your booty to.

Oh. Yeah. This thing.

Roight. The blogger. I wish I could say that I abandoned you for something ambitious and life-altering. Sorry. Midterms kind of ate my soul and any desire to actually update this sucker.

Which is not to say that I was, by any means, particularly studious. Simply that in my frenzy of fuck-around-so-I-don't-have-to-study, I kind of went hog wild everywhere else except the blogger.

So. Back to business.

Yesterday was absolutely owned by the Walkmen. It was the second and by far larger show I've handled. Almost frighteningly so. From about 4:30PM and pretty much straight through until showtime, there were so many fucking balls in the air. (Nobody doesn't like a sports metaphor!) It doesn't matter how anal-retentively you plot out a timeline or plan out your schedule, once everything gets going shit just kind of piles up until you're up to your chin. Every moment that I needed a breather, everything felt like it was coming down.

But I'll stop it there before I get too dramatic. And I won't bore you with the minor details of the day (which, in hindsight, was ridiculously horrible for just about two straight hours-- nothing seemed to go right from load-in until soundcheck). Suffice it to say that UCLA Parking Services is unimaginably inept at their job, and Sarah Smith is a bitch who, judging from her professionalism after the fact, deserved to get her ass fired. Thanks for making me look ridiculously unprepared the minute I meet the band, you retarded motherfuckers. Next time I put in a req for parking how about you get your thumbs out of your asses and do what you're paid to do? And next time your band fires you, how about you inform me that you're sending a truckload of (completely superfluous) equipment my way so I can cancel it ahead of time, since you're too good to do it yourself? Gahd.

There was so much stress. So much stuff to run around and take care of. I swear I must have gone between loading dock and event services and AGB a thousand times. Big fucking ups to everyone who helped me out with the legwork. Especially Brian Kuzma. I threw that boy onto Hamilton and his ladyfriend while I was stuck figuring out parking bullshit and he showed them around like a pro. Then Ryan Swauger, Lee, and David were awesome being my pack-mule bitches and lugging equipment up to the ballroom. Not that any of those four are ever going to see this, but I'm so glad they came to help me out. Concerts staff is rawk. And, to a lesser degree, Web staff. There. I said it.

Oh my god was it ever satisfying, though. When I stood back and watched the five guys get up on stage and start their soundcheck, it was one of the most gratifying experiences I can recall. Ever. (Kindly ignore, for the sake of drama, that my memory is absolutely horrible when it comes to anything except pointlessly minute details. Like my kindergarten teacher's one yellowed front tooth. Her name escapes me, however... See what I mean?) As soon as I heard Walt kick in on the organ and Pete start tearing into the chords and from Little House of Savages in a then-empty ballroom, I was struck by an epiphany.

This is fucking amazing. I am organizing a concert for a great band. In that moment, all the bullshit was completely neutralized. And with help from some friends, I pulled it off. This is why I joined Campus Events. I love my job so much.

And shit yeah, you KNOW I worked the geeky angle. I got a free copy of their first album (and made a rip of it ASAP to replace the kind of shitty... otherwise-obtained... copy that I've been listening to for two years) and had all five guys sign it. Then we got them to sign a poster. Then we took a staff photo with them. God, it was dorky.

The subtext to all of this: Yes, the Walkmen are all ridiculously nice guys. Hamilton, Walt, Paul (who all the girls had a crush on, apparently... he is kinda sexy in an Interpol-flavored sorta way), Pete, and Matt are all such great people. So, so nice. I don't now what I would have done if they had all been a buncha diva motherfuckers (see: Hot Hot Heat).

Small tidbit that I was fucking pleased about: Hamilton, regarding The Walkmen being played on The O.C. and subsequently featured on the soundtrack, "Man, I hope we're the band that brings down the fucking O.C."

If there were a way to communicate just how much that made my heart (and genitalia) throb for the dude, I'd totally do it. (Google Image Search for the win!)

And now a drunken Kathy Kim is IMing me:

mrsewan: ERIC!!!!!!!!!
mrsewan: eric!!!
mrsewan: omg eric
mrsewan: eric dude
mrsewan: eri c man
mrsewan: jesus christ eric
mrsewan: eric eric eric
mrsewan: eric!!!
mrsewan: eric-san.
mrsewan: eric xian sheng.
mrsewan: mr. eric.
mrsewan: ericy
mrsewan: e-r-i-c/
mrsewan: EEEEEEEEE!!! ric.
Chaodoom: o.O
mrsewan: tERIfiC
Chaodoom: HAHAHAHAHAHA
mrsewan: kee kee keeee
Chaodoom: WIN
mrsewan: you are the MAN!!!
mrsewan: eric chao RULSE!!
Chaodoom: o... k
mrsewan: RULES!!
mrsewan: AWESOME!
mrsewan: forever awesome!
mrsewan: FOREVER!!!
mrsewan: MAD SKILLZZZ!!!

That would be my cue to leave. (<3 Kathy. Even if I'm gonna get yelled at for this. *MARTYR*)

-Eric

Why do I let you hurt me like this?

Why indeed? I let you into my life, and for a while things were good. You often made my life worth living. Which is why it hurts me so much to see you the way you are now. Not that you're completely dead to me. I can still see glimmers of what I used to love in you. But now it's buried underneath so much shit, muck, and mucky shit that you're forcing me to do something that I prayed I would never have to do.

I loved you. And I'm going to miss you so badly. But it really has to come to this.

We (Say it!) can't be together anymore, Weezer.

I'm so sorry. I really am.

Please don't make this any harder than it already is, Weezer. Just let me break it off cleanly with you. Please. I'm willing to forgive the Green Album. I'm even willing to forget Maladroit. But I really just can't take anymore. If I have to go through the motions with Make Believe, my heart will really, truly break.

You'll find someone else. I'm sure you will. You're still a great band. You're catchy. You rock out when you need to, I suppose. You'll find a nice niche of high school kids. And college kids who wish they were still in high school. You'll tour for Make Believe, and kids will still pack the arenas. You've got your life ahead of you.

I just can't be a part of it anymore.

I loved you, I really did.

Goodbye.

-Eric

This is stupid.

It just hit me how stupid blogging is. I'm sure as hell not going to publish my most personal thoughts in public domain for all to read. That would defeat the purpose of those thoughts being-- you know-- personal. So what it comes down to is that this is just another scheme to grab attention for myself.

Or maybe I just have the rules of the game entirely wrong. I don't know. But this all seems like such a waste of time.

Whatever. Waste away. Self-aggrandize to your heart's content. Slash some forests, talk about yourselves unnecessarily loudly; continue blogging, America. At least we'll be staying in character.

Don't take me the wrong way: I'm totally buying into it, too. It's just that it finally hit me what a showy facade this whole thing is.

Anyway, time to talk about me.

Went to Matt DeCuffa's party last night. It was pretty wack, though. ("Wack"? Oh no he didn't.) I really wish this wasn't his last quarter at UCLA. I (almost) feel bad for taking his spot on staff at the end of last year. Or so the rumor goes. Anyway, I showed up way early with a few CEC people and was kinda bored for a while. When I get back from taking Kathy home, it was like a bomb exploded in there. You know, a bomb filled with stupid, uninteresting Asians with a faint hint of Greek (the Rush Week and keg-stands Greek, not the black olives and Fat Weddings kind) to them. So I wrangled the rest of the CEC folks who showed up into the apartment under renovation next door where we all chilled and drank in the dark. And dust.

It all made me feel ridiculously anti-social. But then it occured to me: I, and the people close to me, am better than those motherfuckers. Not that I didn't appreciate the invitation and the drinks. It's a shame that we didn't get to talk to Matt that much.

So we ended up going to Daniel's place to look up guitar tabs and lyrics to a bunch of songs, drunkenly slur along to them, and then smoke what I later found out was a half marijuana, half tobacco hookah. It was tasty.

I think I might still have been pretty intoxicated when I drove Diana back to her car. But we can sweep that delicious fact under the rug.

Had dinner with Janny tonight. Sushi Mac. Surprise. Going to miss her a whole fucking lot when she's in Hong Kong.

Had dessert with Nish, Ravi, Jenn, and her roommate Shelly (I think that's how it's spelled... as if anyone who reads this will be in any position to take offense to my misspelling). Jenn is such a goofy girl. Bums me out to see her when she's sad, which somehow happens to be a lot of the time. The hell with that Sahadeva (a thousand pardons if that's not how it's spelled... whatever) guy.

Non-sequitir: my Russian TA is confusingly hot. As in, I think she's fucking hot. But I can't pin down why. She's not particularly beautiful. Nor is she a particularly effective TA. I'd say I'm attracted to the power, but what power? Oh shit, she'll mark me down on my paper. And the mystery continues. I don't know why I thought about that.

Cryptic statement more for my own catharsis rather than any real meaning: I could really be doing such a better job than he is. God, that bugs me.

That didn't make me feel any better.

Fuck catharsis. Repression, you're back on the menu.

Instead of more unrelated tangents, we'll get back to stuff that you, dear reader, can enjoy without having to decipher or interpret.

Fuck you, I am not a fanboy. He's amazing.

And these guys make me happy they're so gorgeous to listen to because fuck, are their lyrics ever cryptic.

I don't know why I feel like I have to say goodbye every time I post.

Goodbye.

-Eric

P.S. Nothing would make me happier than to edit those links on the right side of the window for you, Kathy. And if it weren't for my overwhelming capacity (this is where we snort like cynical livestock) for navigating webpages, nothing would be in my way. But as it stands, I can't seem to figure out how to modify them. Nor can I muster up the motivation to actually fill out my extended profile. Sorry, I hope you can still look me in the eye.