Bumbling Joy. Forthcoming. Blood, Calamity, And Other Unpleasantries.

Oh my god. Oh my god. I just spun my mouse around in circles for a few minutes trying to remember how to navigate to my blogger to update. JOY.

American Analog Set is (finally) ready with their forthcoming album, set to release on North America last September. Fucking Europe gets it on September 6th. Which, the cleverest of you clever little beavers will recall, is my birthday. It's not fair, man.

What IS fair, however: the lovely Amanset crew have released a tasty morsel of a sample track. Which I am currently playing (again).

And more than fair: they will be touring (!wASGL:JAS:Slhaga!) in support, and will be on the West Coast in late fall. <Oh MY GOD!3. Yup, that's an exclamation within a heart, people.

If I cannot convince them to play at UCLA, I will be a sad and petulant child. But if I do not get to see them perform, period, well-- your mortal tongues and brains cannot even begin to fathom the amounts of blood, calamity, and other unpleasantries that I would require in order to be satiated. And the crowd laughs nervously as he stares blankly back at them.

By the way, I'm excited.

Mean Girls. Catch Phrase. Conundrum.

I realized something while chatting with the lovely Cindy Koh just now.

I just watched Mean Girls with Kathy and Megan. Meant to see that for the longest time.

So the gay guy in the movie used the phrase "I know, right?" a bunch of goddamned times. It was like a homosexual catch phrase.

I like to use the phrase "I know, right?"

I picked up said phrase from my brother, Josh, who happens to be gay. He also happens to love the movie Mean Girls.

My life is such a goddamned conundrum.

And because I know that you, dear reader, are one of those snivelly, bookish types, I double-checked the definition of "conundrum" on OED (*boi-oi-oing*) and can explain to you, in depth, how the word applies to the situation at hand.

If you-- you know-- really want to get that technical. Nitpicky sonofabitch. And stay away from my sister!

P.S. There is a hair lying on my desk in between my splayed forearms as I type this. It's about my length. But it is completely silver. I will keep you posted as details surface. *suspicious*

Home. Miles And Miles. To Be Able.

What is it about being Home that makes me so depressed?

God help me, I really just want to be happy when I'm here. I'd even settle for neutral. Anything but this relentlessly self-critical, self-consuming something.

This is what I get for keeping everyone at an emotional distance. When I really just need a fucking hug, I've pushed you all miles and miles away.

I want summer session to start. I want to be back in LA.

Scratch that, I want to be able to deal with this place. And not have to run away to LA everytime it starts to pull me under. Twenty years, and I've only learned how to run away from this house, this city, this goddamned context. I want to be able to deal with this fucking place.

I don't know why it does this to me. Everytime. But I want to be able to deal with this fucking place.

Gone Enough. Self-Delusion. Really, Really.

Within the space of some twelve-plus hours, I went from slovenly roommate to lonely shut-in.

All I know is that when I woke up at 11AM, Junho (as well as a shitton of his family and friends), Cat, and Tuyet were staying in this loveable little mess.

By midnight, everyone had cleared out. Not completely gone, but gone enough.

I woke up this morning (afternoon) expecting a shirtless Junho programming or some such, Tuyet watching bad daytime television, or Cat being just, well, loud. Instead, it looks like a fucking crackhouse. Junho's matress is still on the ground in the living room. Bags and scattered odds and ends are everywhere. The girls' room is empty, save for a box of tools and some folders.

I've been trying to adjust to this newfound turn of events by arranging my personal belongings in neat (read: not-so-neat) little piles. So I can "pack them into boxes soon." Ah, self-delusion my old friend. You are so kind.

Long story short, I miss my roommates. I really, really do.

Sincerity. Wind-Blown Drizzle. Nothing Else.

Cat's ACA Hiphop kids are in the other room right now, partying after Undie Run.

Not that I'm irritated. I'm glad they're all having fun. (I know you, you clever little beaver, are reading some fifteen metric tons of sarcasm into that last sentence. And understandably so; I don't blame you. But that really was sincere. I promise, I won't make it a habit.) It just makes me wish that I were somewhere else.

Somewhere a damned sight better than drunken banter forcing its way through the walls of my strangely humid room. In the dark typing quietly in one window, reading out-of-print Murakami in the other.

It makes me wish that I had gone up to Carpenteria to see Marc and Miranda, and whatever other wonders of modern society San Luis Obispo saw fit to belch out of its agrarian wastelands. Not that I really want to kick it with my old buddy, however. Though that would be nice.

It's more that I really, really wish I could sit on the beach right about now. I'd sit on the sand as the night-time overcast starts to coagulate into a wind-blown drizzle. And the sand gets damp around me. I'd put The Microphones on my iPod because I'm lame and oh-so-very bourgeois. I'd sit as long as I could before the tide formally annexes the territory, as it is wont to do. I'd be cold and getting rapidly soaked. It feels like such a thin mist, but it would be surprisingly thorough. I'd probably get sand everywhere, too. Cold, gritty sand. The worst kind to get in your shoes and down your pants. That feeling I hate.

But nothing else would make me happier right now.

Facebook. Useless Imagery. Self-loathing.

God, FUCK. Facebook puts me in such a foul mood. Something about thousands upon thousands of kids painstakingly crafting a few kilobytes' worth of text into some stupid image starts to really get to me.

And I totally just de-friended Justine. Passive-aggressive burn, ladies and gentlemen.

Fuck, I hate Facebook.

But mostly I hate myself for checking it every few weeks.

Fuck, I hate Facebook.

On that pleasant note, time to go take a final.

Fun Fact: I almost forgot to include the article "a" before "final." This bodes well for my English (I just misspelled "English." Fuck me backwards.) Exam.

Epilogue: I guess it ain't all bad. Ryan Houck's current Facebook photo



If you don't at least chuckle at that, you are not human.

Egocentrism. Empirical Data. Worrisome.

Brief foreword: I feel kind of shitty turning Erica's accident into some self-centered rant. I hope it doesn't come off as selfish, but I suppose that wouldn't be too far off the mark would it? In any case, I apologize if it seems a bit self-involved. Not that it changes anything. I'm a bad friend. But I'm talking in circles now, so let the post resume.

After much zen-like contemplation, I have determined that I have some anger management issues. In the spirit of our great country, I'll let the evidence speak for itself. I suppose.

Thursday (might be an exception, given the enormity of the context):

1) Staring at that motherfucker who hit Erica, I really wanted to throw him onto the pavement and not stop kicking until I Erica was okay again.

2) Listening to the driver's dumb cunt of a passenger blabber to anyone and everyone who was around how they "weren't going that fast" (Which is why we found her shoe some thirty feet away, right bitch? Right? You fucking disgust me.), I wanted to deliver a firm, open-palmed slap across her filthy mouth. And then, start punching her for being such a tasteless waste of consciousness.

3) I sucker-punched a vending machine at the hospital after yet more bad news. And it felt damned fine.

Friday:

1) After waiting thirty damned minutes for two slices of cheese pizza at some shady pizzeria (replete with a confusing poster from the 80s which read, "GYROS!" and featured a scary girl with eyebrows halfway up her fucking forehead), I leaped over the counter and shoved both the lazy fuckers' heads into the oven until they begged for forgiveness. Just kidding, I sat there and bitched. Then ate my pizza. I guess that's not so much a failure of anger management as much as it is run-of-the-mill passive-aggressive LA douchebaggery.

Saturday:

1) Visited Erica at the BCU, and despite her being fully cognizant (And still a snippy bitch, might I add. I'll show YOU who's a Jesus Whore! She's lucky she was already in a hospital. Or I would have put her there with my fist. So relieved she's okay enough to get back to butt-raping my dignity. =P), I wanted more than ever to find out that asshole's name and take a hammer to various body parts.

2) Watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith with Diana, Kathy, and Mickey. In the theater, some dumb bitch answered her cell phone and carried on a rather loud conversation with her friend. I told her to shut her shit off. Ten minutes later, her friend gets a call as well. She also picks up. At which point I turn around and ask them what the fuck their problem is, and that they are being extremely rude. We can ignore, for the sake of me looking noble, that by yelling at them I was being just as loud and obnoxious. They make "pffft" sounds and the husband makes the "shoo" gesture to me. After the movie, I stand up and show them that there is indeed a "silent" function on a cell phone. The dumb bitch tells me in her Mexi-English that she was waiting for an important call. Yeah, right. Then don't come to a fucking movie then. Man gives me more shoo noises. I continue to curse at them, while the rest of White America pretends not to notice and walks by uncomfortably. Thanks a whole lot, you cowardly motherfuckers.

3) I sucker punch yet another inanimate object after we have left the theater. This time it is a tiled pillar. It felt pretty fucking fantastic, too.

I consider myself a pretty timid person. Which is why it concerns me that I tend to focus in on how pissed off I am by things. But it's not like I get angry at inappropriate or mundane things, right? I feel like the things that I've angrily latched onto lately have been shitty enough that I am justified in doing so.

But I'm a little worried at just how much I enjoy being that angry for that long. Maybe enjoy isn't the right word. Or maybe it is. All I know is that the burning feeling in my chest and sucker punching inanimate objects make things feel less awful.

I never want to hurt anyone or anything (I am a gigantic wussy), which would be a really scary sign. So that much is a plus. But I guess I'm prone to wearing my emotions on my face, because Alex kept telling me that he wanted to hit the driver too, but that we shouldn't because it wouldn't help anything. And Megan kept telling me to calm down.

I honestly didn't think I appeared that belligerent, regardless of what I was thinking.

I don't really know if that really was the case, but it's kind of worrisome.

?!

Care of the illustrious Diana's blog:



Despite what it may seem, thos ear eactually where my nipples are located on my chest. I shit you not, dear reader.

I know, I know. I completely agree with you. WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY SO LOW ON MY CHEST?!

20 years of age, and only now am I noticing the depths of my nipplage. I'm just gonna play it safe and chalk this one up to yet another artifact of my fatter days.

God damn.

Irritation. Irritation. Irritation.

Dear Sons Of Bitches Next Door (heretofore referred to as simply "Bitches"),

You stupid Bitches cannot sing. Ordinarily, this would pose no problems whatsoever; I am no musical gift from God, either. Bearing in mind, however, that it is fucking four thirty in the morning and I am honored by the pleasure of hearing you and all of your most-assuredly brilliant friends drunkely slur your way through "Say It Ain't So," I am inclined to believe that you Bitches are in fact the most irritating cuntrags in the history of our fair nation.

Well, you and Gwen Stefani. But let's not get caught up in semantics.

I'm going to let you dumb pricks in on a couple of secrets that the world has been keeping from you, kay?

1) Despite your apparent beliefs to the contrary, we are not in fact living in a Jim Belushi movie; no one wears sweaters emblazoned with "COLLEGE" in big block letters and no one wears a goddamned toga.

2) You'd better fucking believe that no one chants "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! WHOOOOOOOO!" No one who amounts to anything more than an insignificant blip on the giant radar screen of life, anyway.

3) You all fucking lose at life.

I've got a deal for you, though. How about you all shut the fuck up, put on your respective sweatshirts emblazoned with a string of capitalized Greek letters that-- hold on, you might want to sit down for this-- no one except your rapidly-aging 'Bros with beer guts, shitty white-collar jobs, and alimony payments will remember or care about just a few short years from now, and head back to whatever desperately-veiled dens of homoerotic tension you sleep in?

In return, I won't walk my ass over there and tear out your beer-swilling, kegstand-hooting, Weezer-slurring throats out with nothing but my clawlike bare hands, a tremendous lack of sleep, and about fifteen metric tons of searing hot rage. I've been tallying up the minutes, and each one is redeemable for an extra puncture wound at no additional cost.

I know, I know; I'm a giver. It's what I do.

But enough chit-chat. Daddy needs to sleep, before he gets earnestly homicidal. Now run along you adorably unavoidable coagulations of tangible mediocrity.

FUCK, I hate you Bitches.

Luv,
Eric

Funsies. Nostalgia. Crazies.

I've got a joke for you.

Where I cannot muster the gumption to substantiate my English (Fun Fact: The first thing that came out was "Ensligh." I should have kept it in for kicks.) Paper from the realm of Theory and Conjecture into the corporeal realm of Hard Copy So Eric Can Go To Sleep, I somehow feel the burning desire (this time not in the urethra!) to update this motherfucker. Such is my dedication to you anonymous masses. "Masses"? I take my liberties too freely, sometimes.

For funsies, here's what I have written of my paper so far:

Eric Chao

English 10A

Professor Jager

06/01/05

TITLE TITLE TITLE TITLE TITLE

I) Thesis: Sonnet #4 has two different readings

See that vast, blank space in between the temporary "outline" and the (lovingly-crafted) title, "TITLE TITLE TITLE TITLE TITLE"? Yeah, that will soon be filled with refined and uncut AWESOME.

Despite having 150% of the typical weekend, it breezed by all too quickly. Tom made it across the continent (What's that now, four trans-America drives now? Or six?) and took a brief pit stop in the LA area before heading to Berkeley to become a prostitute. Or intern for some laboratory or something. I didn't really listen closely. (We're all hoping for the prostitution, though.)

In any case, it was good getting to kick it with him for the first time in a long while. Like I was telling him (while he was a little intoxicated, I think) on the way back from (wack-ass) San Diego for (equally wack-ass) Muni's birthday, I honestly don't give a shit for anything in all of Santa Clarita. I suppose I rather enjoyed the scent of jasmine on my street that signified summertime. But there are delicious pockets of the very same aroma on campus (I won't tell you where. Nostalgia is in short supply round these parts.), so I don't even need to go back for that unless I get a case of the brain-worms again.

The only thing I really miss are a select handful of people from that (sprawling, suburban wasteland of a) context. I won't waste my breath (fingertips?) enumerating exactly to whom I refer, but you motherfuckers are priceless. Here's hoping some of you are reading this. Don't get me wrong, fuck high school. But I miss having (most of :D) you people around. Here's hoping there's something left in Jeff after he comes back from Mormon Re-Education in Paraguay. I suppose I'd settle for the crazy eyes of anger. Rumor has it that those things were crazy. And anger-related.

Re-reading what I've just written, I kind of want to shoot myself for the fucking nostalgia. Since when is the internet about feeling good? The past should stay in the cold, cold ground.

Whatever, it's not worth the effort of editing.

San Diego was a big fucking bust. The part we were in wasn't even San Diego in the strictest sense of the term. It was some horrible suburban blight that attached itself to the ass of San Diego. I swear to god, it was like Santa Clarita. Only more spread out. And with, ostensibly, more Bros in trucks. It felt good to drink that douchebag's good beer. I mean, put the Newcastle and Blue Moon with the Tecate, and guess what I'm gonna pick? Now get back to doing kegstands so we can all forget that you weren't even good enough to get into the frat. "Bro."

Hung out in Palos Verdes (henceforth known as "PV," because I can't get Diana's voice out of my head whenever I think those letters) for the holiday. Rich, rich town. Huge, huge houses. I want to kill Selina's brother and wear his face around specifically so I can live in her family's new house. I named it Gigantor McHugeyHuge. I've seen bigger. (<--- THIS IS A LIE. IT IS THE BIGGEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN. DIDN'T YOU READ HIS NAME?)

Helped with Concerts staff interviews today. Cute girl was less cute than Facebook foretold. Cool girl was less cool than my expectations had hoped. Hip hop guy was less hip hop than anticipated. (I know there's a pattern here somewhere. But what? And where?!) It was weird sitting in on Jane's interview. I did my best not to snigger and talk to my friend and instead to try and interview (intimidate?) her. As is so often the case, my best was something less than superlative. But I suppose it was sufficient. We shall see.

I was dreading that one crazy chick who applied to Films Staff. Whateverthefuck her name is. When she picked up her app, she lingered in a very creepy way and asked everyone his name in a more creepy way. When she brought her app back she repeated Operation Creepy Linger-Fest 2005 with more gusto, refusing to leave until I gave her a hug. After many awkward arm maneuvers, I managed to escape without physically touching her. For God, thou art a good God, a just God. Yea, in the midst of mine creepeditude, thou art mine Savior.

She didn't get an interview today, because Kathy is fucking awesome. She might get one later, because Kathy is fucking nice. I'll make sure to wear something pointy that day. Scary bitch.

She even Facebooked me. Thanks a lot, psychopath. You get to be the first person I've ever rejected on the Facebook.

Hmm. I have my screenname listed on Facebook.

And my profile has a link to my blog.

And the link to my blog leads to... my blog.

If you're reading this, crazy girl: Yeah, you're bonkers. It takes a shit ton of weird to creep me out. Congratulations, I think.

I lied in my last post. It's only been a few days, so it's definitely more frequent. But it's not significantly less gigante. My apologies. This one felt kinda nice coming out, but doesn't really read so well.

I don't even know if you people give a shit about these, but I suppose I'll keep putting them up. Some old ones, some less old. All wonderful to put in one's ears.

Later days and brighter futures.

-Eric