I've Got The Moves Like Jagger

I have this really fabulous friend works at a gym and teaches dance workout classes.  Sometimes, he sneaks me into the classes for free.  I haven't gone to one in awhile, but he just called and invited me to come and do Zumba tonight.  Naturally, I said "yes."  He always picks good music for his Zumba classes and I need to work out more anyway.  I'm naturally sort of a sedentary creature and exercise is good for me.  

The thing about Zumba is that by about the third song, I get really into the choreography.  My friend yells "Now give it some style!" and I shake my butt like the world depends on it. 

I feel like this:

In reality, I look more like this:

Last time I did Zumba, I definitely forgot my water bottle and was one thirsty, sweaty, out-of-shape girl when it was all over.  It didn't help that I was in the back next to a large black man who seemed completely unfazed by forty-five minutes of nonstop movement.  

Watch out for my body rolls.  High kicks.  High kicks.  This is how we do it.  

I am determined to be more physically active on a regular basis, though.  I feel better about myself in general when I do.  And it's part of my new program to get in shape for my next rock show.  

I've got a pair of leather shorts in a drawer upstairs that are a little bit too tight.  I know, I know, leather shorts are supposed to be tight, but they are also supposed to zip and snap somewhat comfortably.  I'm not really into obsessing over my weight, but I think that if I lost about three pounds, the shorts would fit better and everything would be groovy.  

Basically this means more dance aerobics and less French fries.  I love my junk food, but it's for a good cause.  

You're not hardcore unless you live hardcore, boys and girls.  

The Weekly Column :)

Why is everyone looking at me like that?!

Oh hi.  I'm Lauren.  Perhaps you remember me?  I used to blog here... 

I apologize yet again for my ongoing lack of interesting posts.  Real life has been demanding a lot of my attention.  I feel like lots of things have been happening and not happening simultaneously.

The good news is that you can read about some of those things over at my new column.  :)

I ended up getting a weekly spot in the Life After College section of LAFamily.com.  It's my first time being published anywhere that isn't a personal blog, so I'm really excited about it. 

I promise I'm not going to give up this blog and I'm even going to start posting regularly again (I could give you my excuses but you've heard them all before).  In the meantime, I would love it if you checked out the stuff I've been writing for my column.  It's called "It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time" and is sort of like what "lauren vs. reality" would be if I gave myself deadlines and a word limit.

Oh, and each post is complete with a weird little video.  I'm not going to tell you what to do, but you'll probably want to watch those.  At least the one where I'm standing in line next to Yoda.  It's here.  The one where I eat peanut butter is supposedly good too. 

Anyway, feel free to check all that stuff out.  And who knows - maybe by the time you catch up on my posts/videos over there, I'll have something new up over here.  Just maybe.  :)

Peace and love, amigos.

How Did I Get HERE???

The past month has been really weird.  Actually, the past few months have been really weird.  Scratch that - everything that has happened since I graduated from college has been really weird.  Yes, I know that was two years ago.

Now that I think about it, college was probably really weird too, in it's own way.

If you spend your whole life living through situations that are "pretty weird," does that make it normal?

I digress.  I've been trying very hard lately to get my act together.  Too hard.  In fact, I briefly got so caught up in the thought that I need to make money that I acquired a full time job as a traveling mop saleswoman. 

This mop will change the way you clean your house.  It will clean your house from top to bottom and I know you want one.  You want one over there.  And I can see that you want one, too.  AND IT'S ONLY $29.99!

...Doesn't everybody go through a phase where they want to be Billy Mays???

I told you that things have been weird.

The good part of this story is that the job was so depressing, strange, and soul-crushing that I came to my senses and quit.  I told my awkward, Sarah Palin-esque boss that selling mops on commission was not my thing and got the heck out of that department store. 

Sarah Palin The Mop Boss looked slightly surprised when I did this.  I guess most people don't quit on the third day of training. 


I added "Enthusiastic Mop Salesperson" to the list of stupid jobs I've had and tried not to think about how long that list is these days. 

It's all either really funny or really discouraging, depending on what sort of mood I'm in.  And now that it's a new month and there's a new round of bills to pay, I'm back to cruising the "gigs" section on Craigslist.  Ugh.  I'm really ready for someone to just pay me to just be a rock and roll diva.  That would solve so many problems. 

Something cool happened yesterday, though...  

An online magazine out of LA published my article!  It's my first time being published in something that isn't a personal blog, so I'm really excited.  If they like the traffic/feedback I get, I might get to be a weekly columnist in their "Life After College" section. 

The article I wrote was about a particularly crappy job I found on Craigslist.  If you want to check it out (and I would love it if you did), the link is here:  http://www.lafamily.com/life-after-college/it-seemed-good-idea-time  It's complete with the standard quirky-Lauren video.  Click "like," leave comments... you know what to do.  :)

I think this just turned into a commercial.  It wasn't supposed to. 

There's probably a Billy Mays joke to be made right here but I'm having a hard time constructing it.  So I will just leave you with an existential picture of me in the woods. 

Story of my life...

Peace and love, amigos.

My Complicated Relationship With Rock & Roll Vikings, Part One: The Beginning

I've never been good with break-ups. It's hard to admit that you aren't happy with the way a relationship is going and that you would be better off without it. I never want to hurt anyone's feelings or cause a conflict. Which is why I'm currently in an awkward position. I know I need to end things, but I have been putting it off because I don't even really know how to end things.

Let me back up a little bit.

I am involved with low-budget production of a rock opera about Norse mythology.

It's not really working out.

Allow me to recapitulate...

It all started a couple of months ago when a stumbled upon an intriguing Craigslist ad: "Wanted: Musical Director For An Original Rock Musical."  Naturally, I had to click on it.  I read through the ad and realized that I met all of the major requirements (meaning I can read music, play piano, and I love rock musicals), so I replied on a whim. 

It wasn't long before I got a response from a guy who's name was strangely familiar.  I couldn't place where I had heard his name before, so I just went ahead and read his email without giving it a second thought.  He told me that he had composed a rock opera and was looking to produce it in town within a few months.  There was a link to some of the music from the rock opera, so I clicked on it to see what it sounded like.  I landed on a page with a couple of weird recordings and a picture of the composer.

I gasped.  This guy was definitely someone I went to high school with.

...And middle school. 

We were in the high school marching band together.  And symphonic band.  And middle school jazz band.  And advanced high school jazz band.  We were in the rhythm section together - he played drums, I played piano.  We practically sat next to each other in jazz band but never actually talked to each other.  He was an awkward redhead who didn't talk and frankly, I didn't really talk either.  So naturally, we were not friends simply because we couldn't figure out how to manage a simple conversation. 

Plus, he was always making out with that second-chair clarinet chick during lunch.  It was gross.  It offended me.  They needed to get a room. 

Anyway, here he was, that awkward redhead from high school, resurfacing in my email inbox six years later with what he described as "an epic rock opera of awesomeness."

I stared at the email and tried to figure out what to do.  I've really come a long way since I was a socially inept teenager and running into people that knew me in high school is generally a drag.  Maybe I should just delete his email and pretend it never happened?  After all, he was pretty weird back in the day, wasn't he?  I thought about it and realized I didn't actually know him.  Besides, the whole thing was oddly sychronistic.  Maybe I should meet him for coffee and see what's up?  

And so I scheduled a coffee date with him.  As I drove there, I couldn't help but wonder if he would remember me from high school or not.  How was I even supposed to handle that?  What if he didn't remember me at all?  Was I supposed to bring it up?  Was I supposed to act like I was meeting him for the first time?

A text message reading "Btw wearing a pea coat and have red hair" came through on my phone as I was looking for a place to park.  I laughed.  He did not know who I was.  I buttoned up my big green coat, sent him a text that said "Haha, me too!" and walked towards the coffee shop.

I saw him immediately when I entered the coffee shop.  He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room and was indeed wearing a pea coat.  He pointed at me and said, "It's YOU."

I pointed at him and said, "It's YOU."  This was awkward.

He continued to point and said "It's YOU" once again.  This time I pointed at myself and said, "It's ME!"  We laughed, made some clunky smalltalk, and I excused myself to go order a cup of coffee.  When I returned with my drink, we had to go through the whole "Soooo, what have you been up to since high school?" conversation, which was strange because (as I established earlier) we didn't really talk in high school.  Still, we had to compare notes on our post-high school experiences as well as gossip about a whole bunch of irrelevant people from marching band that I honestly forgot even existed.  It was definitely the most I had ever talked to this guy. 

Just when I was beginning to regret meeting him for coffee, the conversation switched to a more relevant topic: his epic rock opera.  Over the next hour and a half, I learned the following things:

-  The rock opera was his original composition and has never been performed before.
-  The story is based on Norse mythology.  Yes, Loki and Thor and vikings and all of that crap cool stuff. 
-  All of the lyrics/words were written by a guy he met online who may or may not live in France and speak English as a second language.
-  The script has severed heads in it.
-  The music is not "Broadway rock."  The music will "blow your f@#$ing mind."

He babbled on about how he was inspired by "Tommy" and "Jesus Christ Superstar," excitedly explaining that the music was written for a large ensemble of electric guitars and string instruments.  He said he planned to produce it in a couple of months and he needed someone to act as musical director.  Could that someone be me?

It sounded like a wacky project, but who doesn't love a good viking?  It sounded like fun.  Besides, I've got my own rock opera cooking in the back of my brain files (can't forget about good old Goat Man) and working on a project like this could give me a little insight into how it's done.  And I definitely needed an excuse to leave my parents' house and meet new people...

So I said I would do it.  I climbed on board the viking rock opera train as the fearless musical director.  And it was strange, but I was excited.

Well, I was excited until my inbox began filling up with pages upon pages of complicated sheet music...


To Be Continued...

Oh Hi...

Apparently I'm very good at waltzing into the blogosphere after going for days without posting, making a grand announcement that I am back and have so many stories to tell, and then disappearing again. So that's all strange and awkward and embarrassing.

If it's any consolation, I've been blogging in my head a lot. If that makes any sense. I even have several half-baked posts saved in my drafts folder, but have managed to abandon them all due to my highly critical inner voice.

So here I am, in my favorite grocery store cafe, staring at hipsters crossing the street and attempting to write something that isn't complete garbage.

I'll start by telling you about my new friend George.

I met George through a friend of a friend. We hit it off immediately and have a lot of things in common. We're both neurotic, we both really love peanut butter, and we both love staying up too late watching paranormal investigation shows on cable television. He's very sweet, quiet, and friendly. Sometimes he does unexpected things (like puke in the hallway), but the truth is, I like George more than I like most people.

Of course, George is a dog.


His People are in Ohio this week, so I'm hanging out with him. He's super old and cuddly. And on top of being my new bff, he's helping me make some money. So that's all groovy...

Um, in other news, there are a ton of seats open in this cafe, but this weird old guy just had to sit right next to me and eat a corn dog. He has a million packets of mustard on his plate and is giving me a weird look. Truthfully, it's creepy me out a bit. I think I'm going to pack up my laptop and do the famous Awkward Lauren Scuttle™ on out of here...

More things soon, when I'm not being ogled by a crusty old corn dog man...

You Know You've Lived In An Artist's Community Too Long When...

I know that at the beginning of this month I announced that I was going to post every single day and I have already messed that up by missing yesterday.

That's because yesterday was the sort of day that inspired me to look out for my own mental health take a brief hiatus at my parents' house in the country (which is where I am now). Nothing significantly terrible happened, it was just a combination of...

- the bed bug scare
- over-hearing the people that smell like dead hamsters loudly declare that they definitely don't have any corpses in their room
- locking myself in the basement while doing massive loads of laundry
- waiting for an eternity to get back into my apartment (the maintenance guy stayed up all night playing video games and I had to wait for him to wake up and take a shower)
- flooding my bathroom floor while taking a shower (my drain has problems).

There was definitely a point in there when I was near tears. It was the bathroom flood that did it.

So I did what any mature twenty-something would do: I cleaned up all the water on the floor, threw the rest of my dirty laundry in the car, and drove to Mom and Dad's house.

I'll go back tomorrow, armed with a supersonic cover for my mattress and a stomach full of home-cooked food. But sometimes, a mental health day or two away from the city is necessary.

I know I've talked about wanting to move out before, but this time I think I'm actually going to go through with it. This bed bug thing has made me wake up and realize that my beloved artist community is actually pretty gross.

I think I'll make a snarky list about it...

Ten Ways To Tell You've Lived In An Artist's Community For Too Long:

1. When you hear a dog barking in the hallway, you're not sure if it's an actual dog or just your eccentric neighbor.

2. Whenever ANYONE offers you baked goods of ANY kind, you ask them to recite the ingredients to make sure there won't any weird surprises an hour later.

3. All of your friends refer to you as "the heterosexual one."

4. The very thought of your next door neighbor's constant cloud of incense and marijuana makes you want to vomit all over her hemp door decorations.

5. You are the only person you know who doesn't have an event in their past that can be referred to as "the nervous breakdown."

6. "RENT" used to be your favorite movie but now you can barely sit through it.

7. You're tired of eating stinky vegan food at potlucks.

8. Your friends call you by your existential commune nickname, "Sweater."

8. The little old Asian man at the local mini-mart has a one-dollar lottery ticket ready for you when you walk in.

9. You put two 8's on this list because it is your creative right to do so. You are willing to argue with anyone and, if prompted to, will even deliver a 3 - 5 paragraph statement regarding the meaning of this artistic choice.

10. You are the only girl you know who shaves her armpits.

11. You keep a list in your journal entitled "People Who Are Likely To Go Postal."

12. One of your birthday presents was a gigantic can of PBR wrapped up in festive wrapping paper.

13. You've seen way too many naked people just by being in the wrong room at the wrong time.

14. When you're coming home and you see an ambulance nearby, your instinct is to worry that someone finally either over-dosed or committed suicide.

15. The friends you had in college now refer to you as "the hippy."

16. You know several ways to cook Ramen.

17. The very word "kombucha" makes you want to hurl.

18. Whenever you tell stories about your living situation to people who don't live there, they can't stop laughing and probably think you're making it up.

19. You can make fun of hipsters in approximately 999 different ways, despite the fact that some people mistake you for one at times.

20. Your diet consists primarily of coffee and sandwiches.

Ack. In case you couldn't tell, most of these apply directly to me. I'm exaggerating a little bit for the sake of comedy, but not much.

It's probably time for a change...

I'm not always good with change. Hmmfph.

Attack Of The Bad Art

I'm angry.

Somebody took down my "Poop In A Bucket" signs.

I'm sure it was someone from The Management. They've been showing the place to a lot of new people lately and it probably looks bad for business.

Honestly, I'm surprised the signs lasted this long.

Ironically, a new show opened up in the gallery tonight that is really just two steps away from being "Poop In A Bucket."

This is a show about eggshells.

This is beauty.  

This is art.  

This is the product of someone who had to eat a lot of omelets.  

Eggshells.  This is about eggshells.  

I will end my commentary before it becomes too scathing...  

Instead, I will show you pictures of my other favorite art show... "When A Friend Is Sometimes A Stranger."

Now, I feel bad making fun of this one because it was created by someone I actually really like.  But there's no denying the fact that this exhibit is nothing but large Sharpied outlines of hipsters on butcher paper with a pretentious title slapped onto it.  I'm going to state the obvious and say that I made that kind of art in the first grade.

The question is - if these things can pass as legitimate art, why is The Management so quick to hate on "Poop In A Bucket"??? 

I guess the title isn't artsy enough.  I should have called it "When A Bucket Is Filled With Excrement."

Contacting The Living

So things have been quiet around this blog lately. I've been out of my normal blogging routine and all the hits I've gotten in the past week have been from electronic cigarette companies wanting me to write reviews on their products because I hang out with a bunch of smokers. Even though these cigarettes can be programmed to taste like everything from pastries to cocktails, I just don't think my blog is the right place for that.

I also think that it makes more sense to just eat a pastry, drink a cocktail, and smoke a cigarette than to mess around with a nicotine-dispensing gadget that supposedly tastes apple fritters and margaritas. But maybe that's a very twentieth century mentality.

Plus, I don't even smoke, so the whole issue of electronic vs. real cigarettes is fairly irrelevant on this blog.

But I digress. I am in my favorite cafe with a large piece of pie and I did not come here to write about the evolution of smoking equipment.

Funny how I was invited out to two different clubs tonight and I chose to wear a turtleneck and update my blog in a coffee shop while stuffing my face with chocolate espresso pie instead. I don't know if this means I'm growing up and becoming more responsible or if it just means I'm suddenly a really boring person. It probably doesn't mean either of those things - it just means I wasn't in the mood to stay out all night at some scuzzy dance club and end up having to be the sober one that drives everyone home at the end.

Gah - I am the boring/responsible one. When did that happen and how do I make it stop?

Responsible or not, I did partake in some interesting shenanigans last week. I have an alliance of sorts with The Night Manager Nerd (my mother always told me to make friends with people who have keys...I don't exactly know if she meant go talk to girls at Pizza Hut for them when they're too shy to do it themselves so that they end up with a hot date and are forever indebted to you, but whatever), so I cornered him when he was outside my window drinking beer and asked him for a favor.

Me: This is going to sound weird, but I'm going to ask you for a favor...

Night Manager Nerd: What's up?

Me: Can you let me into The Chef's old room?

Night Manager Nerd: Uhhh...

Me: I know he moved out yesterday, but they haven't rented the room again yet and he asked a few of us to go in there after he left and perform a cleansing ceremony. You know, with candles and all that crap. But there will only be a few of us and we'll clean up.

Night Manager Nerd: Well, I suppose I can unlock the door and then pretend not to know about it if anything happens...

Me: Cool, thanks!

The cleansing ceremony was a story that The Poet had helped me make up before I went to talk to The Night Manager Nerd. The Chef did not leave a last will and testament that involved hosting a seance in his old room. But we were bored and we missed him, so we decided to say goodbye to him the Blue Mountain way.

Let me back up a little bit.

The Blue Mountain Institute was founded by The Chef and The Fonz last spring. Inspired by The Big-Haired Feng Shui Lady (who made color-coded maps of the building for everyone in an attempt to get us all onboard with Feng Shui), The Blue Mountain Institute was an ongoing joke that threatened to become a reality at various public events. It mocks the new age movement and is just downright absurd. For example, different branches of The Blue Mountain Institute include Eye Contact Therapy (where The Fonz stares at you for ten minutes) and Rebirthing In The Shower Room (a ceremony involving a slip 'n' slide and a lot of ketchup).

There is also a branch for Contacting The Living.

This was The Chef's favorite. He used to make us laugh so hard by sitting at the kitchen table and pretending to contact someone who was in the next room. Maybe you'd have to be there to appreciate it, but it was always hysterical.

So there we were - me, The Fonz, The Fallen Nun, and The Poet - armed with our candles in an empty room that once held an eccentric painter. We passed around a single can of Pabst and solemnly stared at the candles.

The Fonz: Can you hear us, Chef?

Me: I'm getting a reading...

The Fonz: Me too...ohmmmm...

Me: He's somewhere...

The Fonz: A train...a plane...

Me: He's somewhere and he's drunk!

The Fonz: He's drinking a six pack of Rolling Rock!

The Poet: Why do we only have one beer???

The Fallen Nun: *obnoxiously plays an accordion*

I feel as though The Chef would be very proud to know that we attempted to contact him.

I have contacted him in a more reliable, traditional way (email) and learned that he made it to Finland. He's done painting and is going to concentrate on his musical career.

An image of him screaming "LOVE, LOVE WILL KEEP US TOGETHERRRRR" out the window through a cardboard tube immediately came to mind with the words "musical career," but you've got to give him credit for going out and doing stuff. I spend a significant amount of time daydreaming about foreign countries and rock tours and spontaneous leaps of faith, but I am yet to actually make these day dreams happen.

Someday. Things will happen.

Gah. And the award for the weirdest blog post goes to... (drum roll) this lovely thing that you are reading.

Ah well. At least it's not about cigarettes.

My New Concept Album

I'm working on a concept album entitled "Seen And Heard On 82nd Avenue." Naturally, it's based on things I've seen and heard while both sitting on my front stoop and looking out my window.

Tracks include:

• "Is That Guy In The Park Sleeping Or Dead?"

• "Imma Shoot You!"

• "No I Don't Have A Cigarette And I Know That's Not What You Really Mean"

• "I Don't Care How Hot It Is Out Here - When You Look Like THAT, You Shouldn't Wear THAT!"

• "Wait Up, You B@#$% A$$ M@#$&% F@#$&%!"

• "Heyyy, Do You Folks Have Gaaanja?"

• "Somebody Get That Girl Off Of That Bicycle And Into Rehab"

• "Man With Turrets Waiting For The Bus"

• "Sorry, I Don't Have A Lighter"

• "Seriously Guys, I Do Brain Imaging For The Government!"

• "The Bus Stop Is NOT A Urinal!"

• "Here Come The Cops!"

• "Imma Cut You!"

• "We Are Not Being Abducted By Aliens" (this track is simply the sound of the bus stop being power-washed at 2am)

This album will surely come with a panoramic photo of the scenic 82nd Avenue. It will also come with a parental advisory warning.

You will LOVE it.


P.S: This is all a joke, in case you couldn't tell...

P.P.S: My neighborhood isn't really as bad as I just made it sound... I mean, I wouldn't recommend it to tourists, but I've never been beaten up or mugged.

P.P.P.S: I think I'm probably a city person, but I might be needing a break from the city soon. Can you tell? :P

Wake Me Up When September Ends

I'd like to open this post with a couple of relatively trivial news yet fun items:

1) I have finally hopped onto the Twitter bandwagon. Does that make me a Twit? Anyway, I currently have one follower and it's the guy that lives across the hall from me. Also, I don't know who to follow aside from random celebrities that I adore. So I would love for you guys to seek out my friendship in the Twitter Universe and show me how it's all done. My page is over here.

2) I'm signed up to do a live musical broadcast on younow.com at 4pm today (that's Pacific Standard time - if you live on the East Coast it's going to be at 7pm). It's a really cool site, I'm excited about it. You start with a minute and if people "like" what you're doing you get more time. So, if you're in the mood to pop over there in a couple of hours and cheer me on, I would totally love that.

In other news, my CD project is in limbo because the guy that's mixing it dropped off the face of the Earth one day and woke up in Kansas. I think I nearly cried when I got the text message with that news in it. I feel as if that one five-track disc is the missing piece in my whole rock and roll scheme. And until it's done, I'm destined to be stuck in limbo. Did you know that last week I actually wore PANTY HOSE because I was attempting to get a job as a church pianist? It felt downright unnatural. The worst part is that they didn't even hire me because they need someone who can play the organ too. But I'm over it. I've started putting up ads all over Craigslist advertising my fine skills as a funeral musician. I figure that people are always dying and in need of piano accompaniment. Sadly, I'm yet to get a response.

But enough about jobs! I love what The Poet always says to me: "Lauren, you have a job - you're a rock star. The pay just sucks right now." I try to maintain that mentality, though sometimes it's difficult.

I was talking to an old friend yesterday and we decided that September is always the worst month because everyone goes back to school except you and it forces you to become nostalgic and re-evaluate the current direction of your life. My friend just got hired as a full-time personal trainer though, so I don't really know if he understood what I was talking about. He excitedly talked about how he was going to make so much money at his new job and asked me all about my job prospects, suggesting that maybe I should just go back to school.

I really have no desire to go back to school, but I've noticed that a lot of people are doing it, probably just as a thing to do.

(from Scott Pilgrim vol. 5... yes, my love for these comics is shameless)

Anyway, I'm slipping into rambling-mode here.  I've spent a little too much time in my head lately, can you tell? 

Last night was good, though.  It's been awhile since the whole crew has gone out because Purple Hair moved closer to the river and The Fonz has been living in the woods.  But we all came together last night for pizza at Sizzle Pie and drinks at the B Side (gah... I feel like such hipster scum when I drop names of places like that).  It was really good to get out of my neighborhood and even better to get out of my brain. 

Somehow, I ended up as designated driver, which is usually a blessing in disguise.  Honestly, I have never woken up in the morning and thought to myself "Gee, I'm so glad I had all of that alcohol last night!  I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to be so obnoxious and now I feel all happy and peppy and wonderful!"  But I digress.  The end of the night was particularly spectacular, with The Mad Scientist babbling incoherently to himself in my truck and The Poet shoved between us trying hard not to laugh. 

"People gotta do what people gotta do!  I saaaaaid people gotta do what people gotta do!"

These are the words that The Mad Scientist said the whole way home.  He's my friend, but duuuude... Next time, he's taking a bus.

I did get a nice "Sorry for my drunken behavior" email from him this morning.  I'm starting to get whole collection of those.  Usually they leave his computer at about 6am and are addressed to whoever was present on the scene of his drunken strangeness.  My personal favorites include an apology for publicly groping someone and a clarification assuring us that he does not really think he's Kanye West. 

I really don't think about how strange my life is until I start typing things out like this... 

This Is Just Me Being All Neurotic (And Shooting Lasers From My Eyes)

I haven't felt very good for the past couple of days. It's probably just a combination of stress (cue lively chorus of "How are we gonna pay-ay-ay thiiiiiiis yeeeeear's reeeeeent?"), a fairly bad diet (cheese, bread, and coffee, anyone?), and living in a glorified ghetto full of lead/mold/asbestos/people that don't bathe (no one ever said Bohemianism would be glamorous). Also, when you share a kitchen with about 30 people (some of which choose not to bathe), everything becomes a germ factory from time to time (or, all the time). I'm staying off of WebMD and attempting to cure myself by taking ibuprofen, opening my windows to air out my apartment (but not wide enough for people to leap through), and eating only fruit (and pizza...and cookies...and cake...). I have no doubt that I will be totally fine.

Except that I remember being bit by an extraordinarily large mosquito one night last week when I was out on the stoop with The Poet and The Mad Scientist. It's no coincidence that I started feeling under the weather a few days later. I think we all know what that means: I HAVE THE WEST NILE VIRUS!

NOTE: I hope you know I'm being melodramatic for comedic purposes. I don't really think I have The West Nile Virus. But then again, I'm not allowing myself to look at WebMD right now, so I haven't checked the symptoms.

In other news, I did eat a tuna fish sandwich last week. And we all know that tuna fish has a recent history of being radioactive because of the disasters in Japan. That being said, I'm half expecting to wake up after several days of feeling crummy and suddenly have the ability to move stuff with my mind and maybe shoot laser beams out of my eyes.

I think it will be pretty cool once I get used to it...



























I was about to say something stupid like, "It will be just like Spiderman!"  But then I remembered two things:

1)  Spiderman is kinda lame and has a dumb outfit!  Though who doesn't love those tight pants... 
2)  Spiderman was bit by a radioactive spider and therefore has spider-like qualities.  According to this logic, eating radioactive tuna would give me, um, tuna-like qualities.

"Yo, I'm the chicken of the sea!"

This whole tuna fish-induced radioactive super powers thing is slowly going from being a live action version of the paintings The Chef graciously hung in the kitchen....

Brilliant!  Simply brilliant!  What will that man paint next?

... to becoming reminiscent of an absurd little cartoon character I created in college.

Don't ask me how my brain works.  I don't know.  I just don't know.  

Now that I took this whole thing to the weird land of talking fish sticks, I don't really remember what this post was supposed to be about.

I think I'm going to go gorge myself on leftover pizza delicately eat a piece of fruit.

Peace out, amigos.  More interesting and relevant thoughts later, I promise.

This One Comes With Ugly Drawings And Diagrams!

I'm a complete wimp when it comes to hot weather. It works out because I live in a place that's overcast and rainy most of the time, but lately it's been obnoxiously hot. It's the kind of heat that makes me want to do nothing but sit on my stoop in my shorts and daydream about icy places while drinking a variety of cold beverages. I'm not the only one who has this reaction. In fact, the porches around the building have become so populated that I sketched a lame diagram of it all. Click to enlarge.

The days here are miserable, but some of my favorite nights of the summer have happened on the stoop within the past week or so. Word is slowly getting around that my stoop is one of the more interesting places to be (after all, it is the outdoor home of the elusive Mad Scientist, who likes to smoke cigarettes out there while practicing material for his new rap career) and more people seem to be venturing over to it. Sometimes, we have little pizza parties out there. Watch the cars go by, lose track of time, try to avoid being eaten by mosquitoes, tell jokes, give each other misguided relationship advice, discuss the meaning of life. You know, things you do on a stoop.

I think they probably had a stoop in "RENT" but never used it in the play/movie because most of the plot takes place in winter.

That's all for now. The heat is frying my brain cells and I must return to do-nothing mode. If it doesn't cool down tomorrow, I just might have to spend the entire day at the movies or something. :P

Over and out, amigos.

Deady McDead Dead

The fridge in the kitchen finally bit the dust last weekend.

It was already on it's last leg when we bought if off of The Fonz's mysterious ex last fall. And it's not like anyone really takes good care of it.

Actually, I never put anything in it for the following reasons:

a) It's always stuffed full.

b) An annoying theater troop moved in down the hall and they think it's okay to eat everybody's food.

c) I have a mini-fridge in my room (flashback to dorm life, anyone?).

d) No one ever cleans out the fridge and as a result, there is a whole colony of moldy food growing in the back of it.

You get the picture. It's a big stinky mess even when it's working properly. Which is to be expected, I guess. After all, it's used by about twenty people, most of which eat a lot of weird vegan-friendly food and forget to throw it out when it goes bad. I have nothing against vegans (except that I love to make fun of them...sorry, vegans), but sometimes they feel the need to make kombucha and forget about it in the community fridge for all of eternity.

Anyway, our "FRIDERATOR OF LOVE" died about a week ago (yes, it really says "FRIDERATOR OF LOVE" on it in permanent marker...I blame The Chef). It's not only merely dead - it's really most sincerely dead. I think it's leaking freon. It needs to go away. This is an ex-fridge.

Of course, no one wants to take responsibility for this rotting corpse of a refrigerator. I probably shouldn't complain about it because I don't want to touch it either. But I never used it when it was working. I have an excuse.

And now that it officially smells like death on a stick, no one will open it. So it's still full of strange, rotting, unrecognizable food-type things. Gross gross gross!

However, people have been very proactive in the sign-making department. As you can see in the picture, there are five very ominous notes regarding the death of the fridge. And those are only the ones on the front. There are a bunch on the sides, too. The Chef even wrote a eulogy for it on one side in bright pink Sharpie.

And then there was the funeral and requiem.

Yes, despite the fact that no one will touch the damn thing, there was already an event held in it's honor last Friday evening.

Okay, maybe it was just an excuse for people to get together and drink. But still, it was a time to say "goodbye" to something that's actually still with us because no one knows what to do with it.

The memorial service was held in the courtyard outside my window during our monthly art open house. Everyone was instructed to bring either a bag full of corn or a cheap pack of beer. The plan was to cook a bunch of corn on the community grill and enjoy the warm August night as a community of kooky artists. The Chef hung up some art on nearby trees to create a festive atmosphere. All systems were go for a wonderful night in remembrance of our darling dead "friderator of love."

Except that the minute The Chef put a piece of corn on the grill, The Management went berserk. Apparently, barbecuing corn during a gallery opening is some sort of heinous crime against humanity. It wasn't long before our crazed hipster asshole of a landlord was throwing a hissy fit.

Stupid Landlord: "You guys can't do this! You just can't!"
The Chef: "Um...well, we are."
Stupid Landlord: "Well...well...I'm going to call my boss and you'll have to deal with him."
Mr. Syracuse: "Fine, call him."
Stupid Landlord: "Why are you guys doing this???"
Pretty Much Everyone: "Um...we live here."

And that's the story behind the incident we now refer to as Corntroversy 2011.

We ended up having to relocate, which was so ridiculous. People got really riled up. Even the infamously grumpy fat lady with the rat-faced dog was on our side. Usually, she sides with The Management, but on this night, she was the one raising an ear of corn into the air and yelling "FREEEEEDOM!"

In the end, we still got to eat our corn and drink our beer.

And we still had a big, stinky, bio-hazard of a fridge sitting in our kitchen.

The Poet suggested that we move it to our landlord's parking spot in the middle of the night. Preferably face down and still full of food.

I doubt anyone will have the nerve to actually do that (I know I certainly don't), but it's a completely fabulous idea.

In the meantime, Mr. Friderator Of Love is happily rotting away. And I no longer go into the kitchen because it totally reeks. I've started just making sandwiches in my room when I get hungry.

Hooray for sandwiches.

Updates And Stuff...

So I'm all done with my house-sitting job. I think I managed to get the place all cleaned up and back to normal. On Thursday, The Studio Musician came over and we turned the basement into a recording studio. I sang into a microphone for about six hours and at the end of the day we were three tracks closer to the finish line. I can't even begin to describe how exhausted and accomplished I felt at the end of that day.

I'm really excited about this little five track album and can't wait to let you guys hear it. I'm pulling out all the big guns. When all is said and done, this CD will have all of the following things:

- sound clips from old horror films

- badly pronounced German lyrics

- a song about the end of the world

- me singing back-up vocals to myself (in stereo!)

- a perfectly manicured pop orchestra (think: Abbey Road)

- a little punk guitar action

- an organ playing a cadence you might hear at church

- a cheesy, yet potentially face-melting guitar solo

- an epic five minute song with no real chorus

- the word "cerebellum"

- a chord progression that screams "grunge"

- slightly melodramatic and theatrical vocals

- a musical collaboration with the local poet

- keytar!

Dude. I can't wait till this project is actually done and I can show it off.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to make The Want Ads into a real band... I think I have people coming to audition today but nobody responded to my last email... So I don't really know? Stupid Craigslist interactions. Hmmmfph.

As for news from the commune... The Management has started raising everyone's rent. Except they're doing it randomly. And everyone has a different percentage that their rent is raised by. So that's messed up and will probably be the catalyst for World War Three around here.


Except battles with The Management have been raging before that happened. Remember a couple of posts ago when The Chef got in trouble for putting a peaceful banner out of his window?


Now they're hanging out of a whole bunch of windows. Solidarity in honor of freedom of speech, yo. Let's see The Management try to shut that down.

I think they've given up on this particular battle. So far, the only opposition I've encountered was from the guy that lives below me. I got a little carried away with my banner and let it hang all the way down the side of the building, blocking the window below me. One day, I came home to this charming little note taped to my door:


My reaction?

- There's a guy here named Tom?

- Has he lived below me this whole time?

- Oh man... I bet he was the guy pounding on the ceiling the time The Fonz and I just had to have a midnight dance party to Milli Vanilli. I'm still really embarrassed about that. I should meet Tom at some point and tell him I don't actually like Milli Vanilli.*

- I remember looking at room 207 before I moved in... isn't it tiny? Like, dorm room tiny? How on earth are there 17 house plants in there?

- More important question: Why are there 17 house plants in there? Does Tom have a obsession with jungles? Is he growing a small army of cannabis in his window or what?

- Whatever. The note was nice enough and I can never say "no" to a request that comes packaged with an awkward doodle.

So I fixed the banner, which is still proudly waving away outside my window.

Anyway, I've got to wrap this up so I can go deal with the auditions (or lack thereof). Gah. Why does finding a back-up band seem like such a daunting task sometimes?

Peace out, kiddos.


* Okay, I secretly like Milli Vanilli.

The Day I Met Fred

Do you ever have one of those days where you are completely on your game from the minute you wake up to the minute you collapse in front of the television? You know, the kind of day where everything that comes out of your mouth is hilarious and strangers constantly compliment your outfit (even though it should have been laundry day two days ago and you're wearing the exact same thing you wore yesterday)? A day where the sun seems to be shining just for you, all the songs on the radio make you scream "I LOVE THIS SONG," and the world seems not only friendly, but completely conquerable?

Honestly, I don't have these kinds of days very often. But yesterday was totally that kind of day. And it was the best.

There were a lot of great moments yesterday. I was walking Jane The Pit Bull and a car full of teenagers drove by and yelled "You two are so cute!!!" There was a guy who stopped me on the street just to tell me he liked my shoes. I spontaneously ran into an old friend from college. I ate waffles on the sidewalk with my little brother. I made friends with a tattooed man who loves pit bulls. I helped rescue a small, leash-less dog from a busy street (while singing this song to myself the whole time, naturally). I made an epic sandwich. I had productive text message conversations.

But this is not a story about any of that.

This is a story about Fred Armisen.


As many of you know, Mr. Armisen is currently starring in the show "Portlandia," which is being filmed in my city. Supposedly, they're even going to call me to be an extra in it at some point. Anyway, I had heard a rumor that there was a film crew set up a few blocks away from where I was eating waffles with my brother. So I casually walked over there, dragging my brother and my pit bull with me. I was hoping it would be "Portlandia" but was expecting an unknown indie film.

But the first thing I saw when we got there was Carrie Brownstein riding around on a motorized unicycle of sorts, and I knew we had stumbled upon "Portlandia."

I was still taking in the scene when Fred Armisen walked across the street and joined us in the shade. He was wearing a ridiculous outfit, complete with a wig and a gigantic motorcycle helmet. It was all a little bit surreal.

I'm infamous for acting like a total retard around celebrities, but talking to Fred Armisen seemed surprisingly natural. I made fun of his outfit with him and asked him about the sketch they were filming. He explained it to me and we talked a little bit about "Portlandia" in general. He commented that my brother and I look a lot alike. We laughed and told him we're related. He was like, "Oh, that makes sense. Cool. Who's older?" I told him I was by about six years and he acted surprised (in a very dead-pan, Fred Armisan kind of way).

Apparently, Fred loves dogs. He petted Jane The Pit Bull and told me I had a great dog. I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't really my dog. An intense looking bearded guy rode by on a bicycle and we made some jokes about him. Then someone walked by with a giant bag of books and Fred simply said, "Wow...somebody has a lot of books."

It was then time for Fred to go back to filming, so he said "goodbye" to us and returned to the set across the street.

It's definitely my new favorite celebrity encounter story.

Not to mention the highlight of my day/week/month.

Mad Scientist Alert

I am convinced that the man across the hall from me is a mad scientist.

I know I have talked about this particular character before. I've dubbed him "Mr. Merry Christmas Forever" because of the way he charismatically wished everyone a Merry Christmas until about March. He's a very fascinating, intelligent human and though he rarely comes out of his room, I feel like we're actually kind of friends, or at least solid acquaintances. I guess in the sitcom that is my life, he plays the role of the nutty-yet-lovable neighbor who appears in the hallway long enough to offer a profound thought or deliver a one-liner.

He's always been strange, but he's gotten weirder over the past eight months. A couple of weeks ago, I made the following list in my journal:

REASONS THE GUY ACROSS THE HALL IS A MAD SCIENTIST

- He calls his room "The Laboratory"
• He says he's writing in there all the time, but what is he REALLY doing?

- Sometimes, his door is blocked off with black duct tape
• What is he BUILDING in there?

- The silent, beautiful, mysterious woman he lives with
• Is she his lover?
• His sister?
• His assistant from a small Eastern European country who doesn't speak any English?
• The first prototype in his army of clones?
• An android robot he created?

- The Hair
• Does he put gel in it or does it stand straight up on it's own?
• Did he take a lawn mower to the back of it?

- The Walk
• He always looks like he's on his way to ring the bell tower
• Really, what's with the limp?
• Is he just being melodramatic or does he have gout?

- The way he enthusiastically greets people in the hallway
• Nothing says "I secretly have a whole room full of hideous science experiments" like a hearty "GOOD EEEEEVENING!"

- He's probably one of the smartest people I have ever personally met
• In the words of The Poet, "That man has way too many IQ points to be normal and sane."

- Sometimes, he keeps his chest full of notebooks outside of his door
• The notebooks are all FULL of crazy, illegible handwriting*
• Some have charts, drawings, and diagrams

*(Yes, I sat in the hallway one night and flipped through this guy's notebooks like the good little voyeuristic creep that I am. In my defense, I had his permission to do this.)


This guy is TOTALLY a mad scientist. I am convinced.

Have You Heard About The Turd?

I've been laughing all evening.

It all started yesterday. The Management has been on a rampage lately. An email went out informing us that we could no longer hang whatever we wanted to on the walls. The email explained that if we want to put up art, we have to get it approved by The Management. The threat is that things will get taken down if we don't play by the rules.

That's beyond ridiculous. This is supposed to be an "artist's community." We're the ones that live here, so we should put whatever we want on the walls. We shouldn't have to ask them if it's okay and we definitely shouldn't have to worry about anything being taken down.

When I was in high school, I wrote a rap song about Freedom Of Speech. I'm tempted to call a meeting with The Management and bust it out, but my rap career is far behind me.

Anyway, so many people got upset over the email that The Management sent a follow-up email in attempts to settle everyone down. This one was very long and unnecessary, but there was one part that caught my attention:


First, we want to be able to hang work that is respectful of the environment in which the work is displayed. There is some artwork that is not appropriate for public, or semi-public space. For an extreme example, work made with feces or raw meat that smells and is unhealthy would not be appropriate (I have had this happen in other art venues, so its not out of the question to happen here).


I don't think anyone here would have thought to put feces or raw meat out in the hallway and call it art. The whole thing was so ridiculous that I just had to make a bunch of signs that said this:

HAVE YOU HEARD
ABOUT THE TURD?
EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT
THE TURD IS THE WORD!
Coming soon:
“Poop In A Bucket”
A performance piece
and art installation
on the 3rd floor

I swear, I'm usually more mature than that. But if The Management is going to treat me like a third grader, I'm going to have to start throwing the word "turd" everywhere. It's just how it goes.

It started out as just a couple of signs, but then The Poet and The Chef caught on to me and encouraged me to make more. We ended up putting them all over the building late at night. I went to bed feeling radical, accomplished, and very, very amused with myself.

I woke up to a text message from The Poet informing me that all the signs were gone. I couldn't believe it.

I went into the kitchen to find The Chef hard at work on an artist's statement for "Poop In A Bucket." He read it to me and I nearly cried I was laughing so hard.

This is what it said:


A time based self generating work celebrating the diversity of open sourced sustainability into cohesive holistic creation. Reflecting much of the origins of nature and life itself, and the deconstructed consummation of unified, intentional and the chaotic into systemic absolution. An exploration and celebration literally into the acceptance and dialectic opposing denial inherent in community building designations and appropriations.

Deeply exploring the ongoing compulsion and underlying societal psychological memes in the pursuit of this intercultural expression, relating attitudes, ecological dynamics, and basic human rights, sometimes denied, like downtown, for example.

Work resulting in an vast oeuvre in a sometimes dynamic continuum from the intimate personal inner expression, into an outward manifestation with purpose, need and urgency, often with a magnitude of proportion.

These primal responses enabling the creator and viewer alike the full experience of the works denouement : in a gallery setting, a hallway, a paper bag, a bucket, an editorial, a policy statement, a broken agreement, a corporate office, a modest building of humble origins harkening back to a simpler exposition, or bravely forward with technological apps.

POOP IN A BUCKET captivates!


So the signs went back up, this time accompanied by The Chef's ridiculous statement. I couldn't believe that The Management had confiscated them already. I mean, those things were gone first thing on a Saturday morning! Ridiculous.

At one point during the day, one of my neighbors informed me that they were going to call the local paper and try to get "Poop In A Bucket" listed in there. I also heard that The Chef was threatening to send his statement out to various media outlets as a press release. I decided to wash my hands of the whole ordeal. From there on out, I would have no idea where the concept of "Poop In A Bucket" came from.

Shortly after that, The Poet knocked on my door with some news (I can always count on that man for current information). He had figured out who had taken the signs. It was not The Management at all.

It was the crazy lady that lives downstairs.

I don't think I've talked about this particular character very much, mostly because she's so absurd I don't know where to start. But here she is in a nutshell: She's in love with The Poet, she makes her own fake eye lashes, she has episodes of extreme agoraphobia in which she has to order people to bring her mini-donuts from the gas station, and she is currently reinventing her style into a look she simply refers to as "Elizabeth Taylor: The Rehab Years."

So she saw the signs last night and was outraged. And she crept around the halls at three in the morning, taking them all down because she believed a whole hoard of "venture capitalists" were going to make a visit to the building soon and she wanted it to look professional.

Of course, she did not suspect that the signs were put there by little ole me. She naturally assumed it was all The Chef's doing. And though she is usually great friends with The Chef (when they hang out, it's strangely reminiscent of 90's Brit-com "Absolutely Fabulous"), she called him and blew up at him over these stupid "Poop In A Bucket" signs. Of course, The Chef wasn't about to tell her who really made the signs, so he just told her to get over it.

Now we just have to wait and see what The Management does when they see the signs on Monday.

This is all way more controversial than it should be. Also, I have a fear that before this is all over, people will actually be pooping in buckets and I will secretly be responsible for it. But I guess that is what will happen when you try to shove censorship rules onto a bunch of artists.

Ack. I feel a rap coming on...

Free speech is important to me
Without it we would be in agony
We'd be a communistic country
Yo Karl Marx, that wouldn't work for me!

Like I said, my rapping career was short lived...

Anyway, that's all I've got tonight. Stay tuned for more drama and hilarity!

Things That Happened On The Fourth Of July

I celebrated The Fourth Of July by eating Chinese food and watching my friends use their cigarettes to light illegal fireworks out of beer bottles on the sidewalk. At one point, I was convinced that somebody was going to accidentally burn down the Mexican restaurant across the street, but fortunately all of the fire stayed in the sky.

It was a warm night - the first night in a long time where it made sense to sit outside in a tank top and shorts. The moon was a large crescent hanging in the background as fireworks exploded everywhere. It all felt very picturesque.

Though truthfully, I've never quite gotten over the irony of celebrating freedom by blowing stuff up. But it's the American way, I guess.

Somewhere in all the festivities, I checked my email on my phone and discovered that I'm going to be an extra on the second season of "Portlandia." It was already a really good night, but that email made it even better. I can't tell you how excited I am at the opportunity to hang out on that set.

I told the friends I was with and they were all stoked. They promised me that they would watch every episode of the new "Portlandia" season so they could see me, which is really sweet because most of them are hippies that refuse to watch television. I even had to text my mom at midnight to tell her the news.

Anyway, it all turned out to be a good night.

And it ended with The Fonz sneaking onto the roof of the building next door and peeing off the edge.

The Fonz: (yelling from the roof) I'm going to pee!
Me: (yelling from the ground) I'm going to write about this in my blog!

I've said it before, but I'll say it again: My life is a sitcom.

Putting The "Fun" In "Dysfunctional"

So I've been neglecting the blogosphere again.  My apologies.  I will spare you the excuses and show you my latest project instead.

You see, right this very minute, I am sitting at an art opening attempting to sell my latest creations.  Sadly, this event is extremely dead so I haven't even come close to making any sales. 

What am I selling, you ask?

Dysfunctional greeting cards.

It's something I've been talking about doing for a long time.  I finally just broke down and made some. 

There are several designs, but here are a few of my favorites:

I haven't sold any yet, but I'll see what happens.  Perhaps I'll put them on Etsy at some point. 

Hope everyone is having a marvelous Friday. 

The Mysteries Of The Universe... And Paul, My New BFF

 

As promised, here is a real post.  I apologize for the recent stink bomb known as the three-and-a-half-legged cat entry.  I will attempt to make up for that at this time.

So I've been getting my rock and roll ducks organized into a row lately.  Which means a lot of things, including the fact that I have a rather exciting, last minute gig coming up tomorrow night.  I'm not going to hype it up too much until I know more details, but there will potentially be some important people there.  You better believe I'm already nervous.

In other news, I've spent way too much time lately thinking about The Meaning Of Life, The Universe, and The Role Of Humanity In The Cosmos.  I could probably blame that on the movie I saw the other day:

I don't know if any of you have braved "The Tree Of Life" yet, but it was one big beautiful artsy mess.  I loved the cinematography and the editing.  The film felt like something that Ingmar Bergman would have made if he woke up on the French New Wave side of the bed after taking acid while reading The Bible and watching "2001: A Space Odyssey" simultaneously.  Translation:  It was really, really strange.  I'm still not entirely sure what my overall opinion of the movie is.  I think I liked it and it was definitely worth watching but I don't ever need to see it again.

But its existential journey through time and space got my mind back on all of my favorite questions.  You know, the whole "If the universe is so big and we're so small, what are we doing here and why should anybody up there care?" routine.  This is a question that a two hour montage of Sean Penn walking through the desert could not answer.

Luckily, I have a new friend named Paul who can shed a little bit of light on these difficult questions.

I met Paul a few days ago when I was out with my friends.  Being a creature of habit, I always go to the same pub with the same people and order the same thing from the same cute bartender.  I even sit in the same chair at the same table most of the time.  It's all a little bit like "Cheers."

But our favorite pub was closed for a couple of weeks due to remodeling.  And when it came time for us to partake in our weekly night of PBR, artist's pool, culture bashing, gossip, and trash talk, we had to branch out and go somewhere new.  We picked an unassuming little bar down the road.  The decor was rather charming and it wasn't at all crowded.  We found a good table by the door and launched into our standard artsy-weirdos-at-a-bar routine.

Little did we know that we had walked onto the set of someone else's sitcom.  We had left the comfort of our own playground and would soon be at the mercy of an entirely different cast of characters.


It was very strange.  Multiple people said "hi" to us as they walked in and out.  Apparently it's a friendly place.  They were weird people, too.  An elderly couple, holding hands and grinning.  And a middle-aged man with a cell phone clipped onto his jeans.  He waved at us every time he walked by, regardless of the fact that we were deep in conversation.  Finally, The Poet asked the question we were all wondering:  "Do we know you?"

"Yes, you do," he said mysteriously.  "I'm Paul, and I've been around a long time."  He then walked out the door to smoke a cigarette.

I felt as though something in the atmosphere had shifted.  I could almost hear the eerie "Twilight Zone" theme music.

We sat at the table and tried to figure out if any of us knew a guy named Paul.  We had just decided that we definitely had no idea who he was when he came back and sat down at our table.

"You guys have a cool vibe," he says.  "I'm going to talk to you, because that's how I roll."

He told us about how he used to be on commercials for a local grocery store chain that went out of business over a decade ago.  Apparently, we were supposed to know who he was because of that.  He told us about his undying love for the band Yes and we nearly got him to recite "Roundabout" in it's entirety.  He confessed that he had a giant crush on Stella, the bartender, and was upset that she had a boyfriend. 

Just when I thought the moment couldn't get any more bizarre, Paul launched into a story about his "nefarious" past.

Yes, he casually dropped the word "nefarious" into the conversation.  Then went on to tell us about the time he hi-jacked top secret government signals using an Atari and equipment he bought at RadioShack. 

"What government secrets did you find out?" we asked.

Paul suddenly became very serious.  "You don't want to know," he said, shaking his head.  "Some of them are nefarious at best!"

"Oh come on, just tell us what you learned."

"No, I can't do that to you guys, you're better off not knowing!"

"We can handle it.  Just tell us your favorite government secret.  It's just like telling us your favorite band."

He continued to shake his head.  We weren't about to give up, though.

"Don't you know anything about the mysterious of The Universe or aliens or anything?" asked The Poet.  "What about the aliens?"

Paul perked up.  "Yes...they've been here the whole time!  The government doesn't want us to know, but we are constantly being watched by The Zeta Reticuli!"

He then launched into an epic conspiracy theory involving Hitler, Ancient Egypt, the government, and Nikola Tesla.  I think most people would have written him off as a schizophrenic freak, but he was way to fascinating to abandon for a game of pool.  So I sat there with my friends and listened to Paul's twenty-minute monologue about how we are not alone.

"There is undeniably an intergalactic presence among us!" he said, gazing off into space.  "There is something watching us, controlling us, knowing about us.  Maybe you call that 'God,' but I know it's the Zeta Reticuli."

I really wanted to laugh, but I refused to let myself.  Paul was completely serious.  "I have spent my entire life trying to make sense of those secrets I learned from the government signal that day!  You are better off not knowing the details," he said, a melodramatically grave look on his face. 

It was the strangest interaction I've had with anyone in a really long time.  Once my friends and I finally ended the conversation and got rid of him, we had a good laugh about the whole thing and moved on.

He was completely crazy, but his confidence in which he believed everything was astounding.

And as I sat in the movie theater and watched "The Tree Of Life" a few days later, I couldn't help but think that we are all struggling to define The Unknown.  Most of us just don't jump straight to alien conspiracy theories.

I think I'll wrap this up before I get too heavy.  I will say that we have plans to go back to that bar and look for Paul again though.

Except our standard pub is open again.  Nothing beats a dive with an endless Jukebox of Radiohead and two-dollar Pabst.  And there's a population of the crowd there that falls into the old, plaid-wearing, pony-tail sporting, Birthers with plumber's pants category.  Why talk to middle-aged men about aliens when you can have conversations like this:


"You don't like shuffle board?  I've been playing shuffle board since I was six years old!  And now I'm fifty six, so that's fifty years of shuffle board!  You know, if you're ever putting together a kitchen and you need a cutting board, all you need to do is find an old shuffle board.  You could cut up some meat real nice on that thing.  Oh!  Or maybe the floor of an old bowling alley!  Like from them 1930's or somethin.  Nice and smooth!  Great kitchen counter top.  Good for cuttin meat!"

I really wish I was making these things up.  I swear, there must be a sign on my back that says "IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING REALLY WEIRD TO SAY, PLEASE COME TALK TO ME."

Anyway, I am off like a herd of turtles.  I hope everyone has a fabulous Sunday.  And if anyone has any opinions on "The Tree Of Life," insight on The Universe itself, or any inside information on government secrets and the Zeta Reticuli, I would love to be enlightened.

Peace out, amigos.  There will be a more normal post in the near future.  I promise.