All Caffeinated And Prepared To Be Awkward

Uh oh. I'm having a work party with a couple of friends in a coffee shop. We're all typing away on our laptops, jamming out to the Queen they're playing and generally minding our own business when in walks this guy I haven't seen in about three years. Were we friends back in the day? Totally. I think so. We worked on a lot of student films together. I thought he was cute but he always had a serious girlfriend. Anyway, he's sitting in the shop now. I think he saw me? I have no idea if he recognized me. I think he did? He's with that girl that he's now married to. I don't think she ever liked me. Probably because I spent a lot of time with him during the production of our various films. Gah, at one point I was going to hang off of a cliff with a camera for this boy. I wonder if he remembers that. I think he's one of the few people who actually got jobs in the film industry after college. He graduated a year before I did so it's been an eternity since I've even thought about him. He's sitting at the back table with his wife and some other chick. I'm being so neurotic about this. I should just go say "hi"? I want to say "hi." But I don't want to have to talk about what I've done since college. Heck, I'm probably not even the same person I was in college. Maybe he didn't recognize me. After all, my hair is longer. And here I am on a couch between The Fonz and The Poet next to one of the Hipster Gnomes in the comfy chair. I'm completely out of context. Maybe he really doesn't recognize me. He's sitting next to the bathroom. I sort of have to pee. Okay, that's a lie. I really do have to pee. I just drank a bunch of coffee and now I legitimately have to pee. Do I walk to the bathroom and casually say "hi" on the way? What if he stops me and we have a conversation and by the end of it I almost pee my pants? I'm being way too neurotic about this... The Fonz told me to just do it and get it over with. "In my experience, it's always awkward running into people," he said. "You just have to acknowledge them and move on." The Poet came late to the party so he doesn't know what's going on. I feel like I've already over-talked it so I'll tell him the story later. Hipster Gnome is engulfed in his headphones. Gah. I wish that guy would just recognize me and approach me. But I probably look intimidating over here with my menagerie of artsy fartsy friends. And he's married. "There's no reason for him to talk to you very long if he's married," The Fonz stated. He does have a good point. Though it's not like I'm going to proposition him or anything. I just want to be like, "Hey, we went to school together..." Maybe I don't need to do that. Maybe it's time to leave all of that college stuff in college. Besides, I can't for the life of me remember his wife's name. I could probably find out by Facebook-stalking him right now, but what if he walked by and saw his Facebook page up on my screen. I'm sitting against a wall, he can't possibly see what's on my screen. But still. It's the principle of it all. Which leads me to the realization that if we are friends on Facebook we should probably at least wave at each other in real life. I assume we're friends on Facebook. I've deleted a lot of people post-college but I don't think I would delete him. Maybe he deleted me. After all, I have been known to get carried away with band-promotion and that's totally grounds for deletion. Right? I should check and see if we're still Facebook friends. But that involves looking at his page while he is in the same room. I refuse to do that, as I mentioned earlier. In other news, I still have to pee. I have to pee with increasing urgency. It's a long walk home, I'm going to need to use that bathroom. Maybe I'll just awkwardly walk right to the bathroom and then greet him on the way out. Pop out of the one-person unisex stall and announce that we went to college together...DON'T YOU REMEMBER ME??? This is ridiculous. He's going to leave with his entourage soon and then I'll just have to feel really awkward. Yep, there he goes...he's getting up, clearing his table...scratching the back of his head, walking to the door, opening the door... The Fonz is leaving too. He's talking to me just as this guy exits the premises. Now The Fonz is laughing at me. "You missed your chance! How awkward! There he goes!" The Poet is clueless. I told him he can read all this when I'm done typing it. Ack. Sometimes, I feel like the female reincarnation of Woody Allen. Except he's not dead yet. But still. I'm too neurotic for my own good. Maybe I just need to move to another town and then I won't have to deal with these kinds of scenarios.
Okay boys and girls, I still have to pee like a race horse. I'll post this first. Wam BAM!
*End transmission*

The Parade (An Awkward Cartoon Brought To You By Yours Truly!)

So I decided to turn a funny moment from my weekend into a badly drawn cartoon.  If you like this, let me know and I might start illustrating my life on a semi-regular basis. 

Note:  The images will get bigger when you click on them.  Hopefully the writing is at least somewhat legible.  I apologize if it isn't. 

And with that, I leave you with the following comic: 

Let's Talk About Texts, Baby

I woke up this morning to a strange text message from a friend informing me that I have super powers.  I wrote back and said something like "Haha, too bad I don't really have super powers."  I got a reply that said, "You really have super powers."  So I'm glad I have that cleared up. 

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a text message from my dad.  This message simply contained the first line of a very dumb joke:  "Two penguins walk into a bar..."  My dad recently learned to text.  I thoroughly enjoy his creative ways to say "hi" over text messaging, but waking up to a penguin joke at 9 a.m. cramps my Portlandia lifestyle.  But it did give me something to laugh about for the rest of the day, so I have no right to complain.

After all, I have experienced far worse offenses in the area of text messaging. 

This is the part of the show where I'm going to seem like a major bitch...but this guy just doesn't get the hint:

There are several things wrong with this picture:

1)  He was an acquaintance I had IN HIGH SCHOOL that popped out of the woodwork in October.  I hung out with him ONCE.  It was fun, but I was put off by the fact that he texted me five times a day after that.  So I casually quit responding.  I had no idea that by doing so, it would only make things worse.

2)  I do not know how to respond to a text message that says "hey."  If you're my best friend or something, you might be able to get away with it.  But if you're a guy I don't really know, you have to give me more to work with.  You need to at least pretend like you have something to say, even if you don't. 

3)  This person has texted me for a good SIX MONTHS without a reply.  It's a situation I really should have dealt with back in December because now it's just awkward. 

Isn't there an unspoken rule among boys that if a girl doesn't call you back after the second attempt to contact her, you need to move on?  Shouldn't that rule apply to text messaging too?

And then there's THIS trainwreck:

This one is a sad story.  I actually really liked this guy until he sent me an extremely tactless Facebook message in the middle of the night.  This message was sitcom-level bad.  It was just short of saying "I'm a total player...want to have sex?"  It was disappointing, but I deleted the message and moved on.  Of course, we live in a universe where there are about five different ways to contact a person.  So when picking me up on Facebook didn't work, he switched to text messaging. 

And for some reason, he thought it was cute to call me by some twisted version of my last name.  Pair that with a "whatup" and you have a bona fide trainwreck.  Newsflash:  I'M NOT YOUR BRO.  If you can't use my first name or be grammatically correct, you have no chance with me. 

Maybe I'm too picky and I'm destined to be that crazy lady with a bunch of cats and lawn gnomes.  But I think I would prefer cats and lawn gnomes to a boy who doesn't understand text message ettiquette. 

In other news, my phone just dinged.  I got a text message from my dad.  It reads "I like turtles."  Definitely the best text I've gotten all day.  Even better than "You really have super powers." 

Text messaging makes the world a weird place sometimes.  But I don't think I'd have it any other way. 

Boys and Girls

Let me start this off by saying that I have no problem with homosexuality. Personally, I'm a girl that likes boys, but I think that people should love whoever they want to regardless of genders. If you want to be gay, be gay. If you want to be straight, be straight. If you want to love both boys and girls, go for it. No judgment here.

That aside, I find myself continuously frustrated at how ambiguous sexual orientation can be these days. I think I used to have decent gaydar, but lately it seems to be broken. Maybe it's all the blending people seem to be doing. Polyamory is even acceptable these days, especially in the weird little hipster universe that I live in (I still don't really get polyamory, but that's a whole different topic).

Anyway, it's impossible to tell who's gay, straight, or otherwise. Like I said earlier, I don't care which way you swing. But it's nice to be able to know.

I guess I have a habit of putting the people in my life into boxes. I categorize them based on the behavior they exhibit and then I interact with them in an appropriate manner.

This would be a good system if people stayed in the boxes I put them in. I'm learning that people don't do that. People are too complicated to be sorted into brain boxes and they rarely stay in the category I think they belong in.

For example, if someone is going on dates with boys and giving me occasional fashion advice, I'm going to put them in the "gay best friend" box. I'm going to invite them over for disco parties. If they suddenly start showing interest in becoming more than friends with me, I'm going to be totally thrown off. Why? Because that behavior does not fit my expectation of how a boy in the "gay best friend" box should act.

I think I should stop pretending that everyone can fit neatly into a box. No more compartments. No more predetermined ideas of what my various friendships should look like.

The next part of this word vomit parade harks back to the age old question brought to you by our friends Harry and Sally (specifically when they met): Can men and women ever just be friends or does sex always get in the way?

If you know the answer to this question, please tell me.

I've spent my entire life trying to believe that platonic friends are possible. But the truth is, every platonic friendship I've ever had has been weird at some point in time for one of the following reasons:

a) He likes me and it's not mutual.
b) I like him and it's not mutual.
c) We like each other, it's mutual, it doesn't work out, and then it's awkward.
d) I don't like him but I think he likes me even though in reality he doesn't.
e) He doesn't like me but thinks I like him even though I don't.
f) He gets drunk and says something weird.
g) He gets a girlfriend and then has no room in his life for other girls.
h) A jealous party misinterprets our platonic friendship and starts 7th grade-style rumors.

I'm going to stop before I go through the entire alphabet.

Of course, friendships aren't always ruined over these things. Some of my greatest friends are of the opposite sex and we've totally moved past any weirdness or sexual tension. But I have also lost friendships because of these things. Though it should no longer be unexpected, it's always somewhat surprising. Not to mention disappointing.

I want to live in a world where men and women can be friends without having to worry about love or sex or what people think. Sadly, I don't think a world like that exists. I think the fact that one person has a penis and the other person does not is always going to come up in some way, shape, or form.

It's only taken me a little over 23 years to realize this. Go me.

This doesn't mean I'm giving up on platonic friendships, but maybe I can begin to view them more realistically. Maybe next time I can have a little foresight and I won't have to listen to all of my neighbors say "I told you so."

Grumpy Lauren Is Grumpy

I should probably be asleep but I'm having a difficult time winding down. It doesn't really help that my next door neighbor has about five people smoking cigarettes out of her window with her right now. Nobody sleeps around here.

There was a big event going on here tonight. Art shows, live music, Bollywood dancing, etc. The mayor of Portland was even there. And the restaurant/bar downstairs finally opened. I worked a five hour shift as The Bouncer.

Yes, The Bouncer. The term "Door Security" works as well. Basically, it was my job to stand by the back doors and make sure nobody brought alcohol in or out of the room.

You are allowed to laugh. When I first found out I was going to be The Bouncer, I could barely keep a straight face. Hello, I'm a skinny white girl! Even when I wear all black and pile on too much eyeliner, you can bet there's not much that's intimidating about me.

I did wear all black and too much eyeliner though. I had to at least try to be intimidating.

At first, I felt fairly bad ass. I had a wall in the corner that I expertly leaned against. When someone walked too close to the door with a beer, I would casually tell them not to take it outside. Easy.

But then the crowd came. Everyone had alcohol that was either going out or coming in. As the one and only alcohol monitor, it was impossible to keep track of all of it.

And then I got stuck talking to the old drunk guy I got trapped in a room with in February. The Poet could not save me because he was busy having a spontaneous reunion with someone really awkward. Eventually, the drunk guy went away and was promptly replaced by Magic Butter Guy. He gave me an uncomfortably long hug and went on to talk about things that didn't really make sense.

When he left, I found myself conversing with Man With No Personality Who Purposefully Parts His Hair On The Side. It was about then that I noticed a certain boy walk in. This is the boy who loves French cinema and knows all the words to "Total Eclipse Of The Heart." I was having a hard time determining his sexual orientation and then just gave up on him. I hadn't seen him for about a month and apparently he acquired an attractive collection of facial hair...and a girlfriend. He walked in with a chick on his arm and the two of them came over to talk to me.

It was terrible. He was legitimately interested in knowing how I was. He even asked about Goat Man. I went through the routine where I refer to Goat Man as a real person and he genuinely laughed. His girlfriend was unamused. She was hungry. He wanted to dance. He was sad that I was stuck in a corner and could not join in on the dancing. He suggested that the three of us go do something after my shift. She waved the idea away and pulled him upstairs to get food. I watched them walk away hand in hand and tried not to have a totally disgruntled expression on my face.

The old drunk guy returned.

The novelty of being The Bouncer had officially worn off.

The night ended with my new boss handing me an old rag and telling me to clean tables. Touching a wet rag was the last thing I wanted to do in my bad ass bouncer attire, but it wasn't worth fussing over. Next thing I knew, I was cleaning and bussing tables with my new coworker, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello. He was as annoying (and drugged up) as ever:

"It's a pleasure to work with you, Lauren!"
"Hey Lauren, I am putting this rag on this table and I am cleaning this table!"
"Lauren, are you going to work here a lot? I work here all the time!"
"Look at my neck Lauren, I have a rash from wearing an apron!"
"See you tomorrow, Lauren!"

I was so grumpy at the end of my shift.

But I'm getting money and future sitcom material out of all of this, so it's okay. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

Now excuse me while I go pound my head against a wall...

I Can Be Bad, But I'm Perfectly Good At It...

The other morning I was reading The Portland Mercury while drinking my first cup of coffee. As usual, I glanced through the "I Saw U" ads on my way to read the horoscopes. One ad in particular popped out at me.

There, in bold letters, are the words "RED HEAD IN BLUE TRUCK." Guess who has red hair and drives a blue truck? That would be me.

The ad goes on to describe a gorgeous, fair-skinned, red head in a blue truck that apparently mouthed something at a guy with dreadlocks while at a stoplight. It happened at an intersection I've been to fairly recently, though I can't remember the specific day I was there.

I do not remember a man with dreadlocks, nor do I remember purposely mouthing anything at anyone, but I definitely sing in my car and have accidentally hit on strangers before. I have a fairly traumatic memory of some teenage boy crossing the street as I cluelessly got way too into an 80's song once. Thank goodness the light turned green.

I've been trying to think about what songs I've been hooked on lately and what words I might have accidentally mouthed to a stranger. The possibilities are horrifying. I like a lot of legitimately good, tasteful music, but when I'm alone in my car I sometimes bust out the Top 40 hip hop. Don't judge me, it's a guilty pleasure.

And I know it's a terrible song in many ways, but I have to crank the radio up every time Rihanna's stupid new single comes on. I can't explain it. The lyrics are monotonous and replusive. The song itself consists of about three chords. But it's got a beat that I can't resist. Not to mention the whole song just makes me laugh.

Anyway, I have this strange fear that I may have accidentally mouthed something about chains and whips to a random man with dreadlocks on the street corner.

From now on, my car should be an "indie rock only" zone.

That is all.

This Is The Part Of The Show Where Lauren Exhibits Cringe-Worthy Behavior...

They say that Portland is one of the most passive aggressive places on the planet.  I don't think about it very often because I've lived here forever and I'm used to it, but it's totally true.  As a city, we have mastered the art of being indirect to the point where Lorne Michaels made a TV show about it.

I hear a lot of my girlfriends complaining about how wimpy the men are here.  It's true - the average Portland boy will not approach a girl he doesn't already know.  Instead, he'll just adjust his thick, black, plastic-framed glasses and attempt to make eye-contact with her from across the room.  Then he'll spend the next two months reading the "I Saw U" ads in the Portland Mercury or cruising the "Missed Connections" page on Craigslist in hopes that she posted a vague description of him. 

I might be exaggerating a little bit, but you get the idea.  If you are of the female persuasion and you want to actively date in this town, you have to be the one to make things happen.  Of course, since I am also from Portland, I am extremely awkward and non-confrontational.  Plus, dating isn't a huge priority for me right now.  That being said, the closest thing to a date I've experienced recently was the night in October when Tweaked Out Elvis Costello bought me French fries and told me all about the time he tried to start his own religion. 

But I digress.  Something happened to me today that completely threw off my groove. 

Not my finest fashion moment

I was hiding in my favorite coffee shop, as I often do.  I was sitting at the table in the back, staring at various things on my laptop and drinking the world's strongest cup of coffee.  I wasn't necessarily dressed to impress - I was wearing the hat that The Chef gave me, my worn-out black Jackpot Records t-shirt, and zero make-up.  So it was a little unexpected when a guy at a nearby table complimented the bag I had laying next to me.

My bag has a map of Vancouver B.C. on the front and this guy thought that was really cool.  Turns out he loves Canada.  So we had a weird conversation about Canada, which somehow turned into a conversation about film.  I learn that he's from L.A. and does videography work for a living.  I tell him that I'm a writer, musician, film geek, etc.  He's intrigued, especially when it comes out that I have a scriptwriting background.  He tells me about his projects, I tell him about mine.  We discover that we have a mutual friend in common.  We share a good laugh about a town where every one in five people is a midget.  At one point, he moved over to my table.  It was all very natural, yet strange because I'm not used to strangers being that interesting and conversational.

It got to the point where he motioned to the bar across the street and offered to buy me a drink.  I should have probably gone with it and said "yes," but I was so thrown off by the whole interaction that I told him I had to be somewhere and made a less-than-graceful exit.  I spent the drive home yelling at myself. 

Stupid automatic defense mechanisms.  Portland girls aren't socially equipped to handle boys from Los Angeles.

Boys, Wolves, And Free Music For YOU

Well boys and girls, it's Valentine's Day. It's really not my favorite holiday, but I can't completely ignore it. This day has a history of making me really cynical and I'm sure this year will be no exception. It is very possible that I will spend the evening eating Chinese food take-out while watching the "Kill Bill" movies, but I am totally okay with that.

I guess Valentine's Day hasn't always been a Hallmark card mush-fest. Apparently it originates from an ancient Roman festival called Lupercalia. The Romans used to dress like wolves and run around. A friend and I attempted to throw a Lupercalia party last night, but it was surprisingly unpopular. Most of the party was just my friend and I drinking wine and blasting Duran Duran while wearing homemade wolf costumes.

Just when we were beginning to think the party was totally a dud, the boy I may or may not have a crush on showed up with a couple of his friends. Okay, the party was still a dud, but at least now there was a cute boy there. I had a lot of fun dancing with him. Afterward, we collapsed on the couch and spoke to each other in fake Italian accents, discussing our favorite eurodance songs and French New Wave films. Turns out we both love the movie "Breathless" and we both know all of the words to "Total Eclipse Of The Heart" (the 90s remix).

So I've established that he's brilliant. But there are some things I don't know...

a) I don't know if he's interested in me.
b) I don't know if he's interested in women.

I was hoping to at least figure out the sexual orientation bit last night, but it remains a mystery.

Ah well. I guess crushing on boys with ambiguous sexual preferences is all part of the hipster experience.

I've been thinking that maybe I should do something nice for someone on Valentine's Day this year instead of just eating Chinese food with myself. It doesn't even necessarily have to be something romantic. I mean, I could give that boy I mentioned earlier a Valentine that looks like this:

But I don't really feel like that's necessary.

Instead, I would like to show my love and appreciation to all of my blog friends by putting up some free downloads!

I don't know if any of you guys will even want this, but I thought I would throw it out there anyway. Here is an exclusive live album by my band, Original Sound Trash. It's from the show last Wednesday, so it's still hot off the press and all of that. In attempts to spread joy and music around the blogosphere, it is available right here for your listening and downloading pleasure.

Original Sound Trash Live At The Hawthorne

1. Ride On. This track features the keytar. Huzzah!

Download it here.

2. Mesozoic Age. I love how it sounds like we're playing to a full venue when in reality there were about 20 people there.

Download it here.

3. Two O'Clock In The Morning. We wrote this one at two o'clock in the morning.

Download it here.

4. The Greatest Thing Since Yesterday. We've been playing this song since the dawn of time it seems.

Download it here.

5. Mannequin. My personal favorite. Not our best recording of it, but we had a ton of fun with it.

Download it here.

6. Mein Herr. Just having a Broadway moment. Sing/clap/stomp along if you like.

Download it here.

7. Emily. Ryan wrote this one. It's about Emily Dickenson. I think.

Download it here.

8. Giardia. I can't sing this with a straight face.

Download it here.

9. We Don't Know How It's Ending. The end of the world is our favorite topic.

Download it here.

10. Join The Army. The encore song about zombies. My favorite part about this track is the guy in the crowd at the very end.

Download it here.

Anyway, there are some songs you can munch on if you're interested. Enjoy! Thank you for being fabulous blog friends and readers. I wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day, whether you're happily in love, cynically single, or somewhere in between.

I feel like the only way to properly end this post involves a cheesy text heart...

<3

Memo To Human Resources

Note To Self:

- Next time I start to feel crazy for writing a rock opera about an existential goat man, I am going to just ask the writer across the hall to tell me about his latest comic book involving "clones living in vast Tantric omniverses."

- I should never write a love song for anything other than inanimate objects and fictional characters. Or, if I do ever write an actual love song, I should retire it when it is no longer relevant, regardless of how catchy it is. Otherwise, practicing it will just make me really sad.

- I should get my gaydar retuned. Seriously. I think I just spent a couple of months having a little bit of a crush on a gay guy. Of course, he has to be one of the nicest, smartest boys I've met in awhile. And he can dance. Crap crap crap.

- Vegan butter is not the same as real butter. It should be avoided when making cookies.

- Perhaps blogging should be an activity that can only happen before midnight. Maybe deleting this post in the morning will be a good idea.

That is all.

Fiesta Time

I can now cross the following item off of my bucket list:

Salsa dance in the kitchen at three in the morning with a sweaty, shirtless boy wearing skin-tight leather leggings.

(That wasn't actually on my bucket list, but now it doesn't have to be...)

That is all.

Oh Hi, It's Just Me Again...

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

I ended my last post with a "To Be Continued" and then neglected the blogosphere for a week.

I think I was merely going to tell you a story about the day I kept getting unexpected visits from random people.

There's a college kid from the second floor who's a poetic genius. He had come to remind me to go to the writer's group that we're both part of. I wasn't really feeling awake enough to partake in any sort of intelligent writer's critique, but I pulled a hat over my messy hair, grabbed my laptop, and went down the hall to meet the group. I worked up the nerve to read a short script, listened to Lego Guy go on about how I'm "just not that funny," then went back to my room to take a shower.

Another knock on the door.

"Who is it?" I yell, emerging from the shower. There's a cartoonish noise from the other side of the door. I throw on some clothes and go to see who it is. I see that someone slipped a note under the door.

The note said this: "EAT. PEAR. WAFFLE. TWEAKED OUT ELVIS COSTELLO. ART."

Except it said Tweaked Out Elvis Costello's real name, of course. He's not really aware of the fact that he has that cute nickname on the Internet...

Anyway, I opened the door to find him scuttling down the hall. He informs me that he's making waffles in the restaurant downstairs and that I should come eat one.

I'm not one to pass up waffles, so I wandered downstairs and promptly ran into the guy that owns the restaurant. He asked me to play a set this Friday. I said "yes." BAM. Got myself a gig.

A gig that is sneaking up on me. Tomorrow is Friday.

And yesterday, I found out that I'm no longer the opener...I'm one of the headliners. So that intensified my pre-show freak-out a bit.

I called Ryan and he's going to come do a few songs with me I think. We'll see how that goes.

Sometimes, I don't know why I insist on performing. The anxiety that happens in the 48 hour period before I get onstage is ridiculous. You better believe I'm a little ball of nerves right now.

Anyway, it's time to rock and roll, kids. Over and out.

(More coherent post to come later, I promise.)

And remember - you are not hardcore unless you live hardcore!