Yes, I Am Alive

I've been a terrible blogger lately. I apologize. I could probably come up with excuses but instead I will just you know that I am indeed alive and eating unrecognizable vegan Indian food cooked by the clone of Chaz Bono.

Scene: Community kitchen Sunday potluck
Me: *staring at gloppy brown stuff* So...What is this?
Clone Of Chaz Bono: It's gluten-free and eco-friendly!
Me: *thinking to self* I think I'm talking to a girl but she has a beard...I'm so confused...

I will admit that I ate a very meaty sandwich in my room when I left the potluck. It had cheese on it and everything. Don't tell anyone.

More interesting and relevant updates to come...

Not So Hippy Dippy After All

I recently had a profound realization:

I am not a hippy.

Yes, I believe in peace and love. I live in a commune. I just had feathers attached to my head as hair extensions (see picture). I dream of making the world a better place through music. It bothers me when people don't recycle. I own the original Broadway recording of "Hair." I have friends of all ages and I identify these friends by the type of art that they make. I've participated in a Solstice celebration. I think that reading Walt Whitman aloud by candlelight is a legitimately fun group activity.

But I am not really a hippy.

I have no interest in growing my own vegetables. I am okay with shopping at grocery stores. I enjoy eating meat. I have nothing against the organic movement, but I'm never going to sit and complain about artificial flavors in my ice cream. I have a deep respect for woman who don't shave their armpits, but I personally need to on a regular basis. I believe in feminism (to a certain extent), but I also believe in wearing a bra.

I have no desire to ever be openly naked among others. I never want to go to Burning Man. I'm not into drugs. The constant smell of marijuana gives me a headache. Though I sometimes look at my horoscope in the paper, I don't make assumptions about people based on astrological signs. I have never practiced any Eastern religions.

I own multiple fur coats. I drink a latte at Starbucks occasionally. Daily bathing is important to me. I hate camping. I could never live in the woods. When there is a spider in my room, I mercilessly kill it. Sometimes, I listen to totally processed, auto-tuned pop music. Sometimes, I disregard the fact that cars are hard on the environment and I drive to a place that is close enough to walk.

Six months ago, I packed up my life and naively moved into this "artistic community." Six months later, I feel like everything has changed completely but I know that isn't true. I am still Lauren. It just so happens that this year's model of Lauren comes equipped with a love of granola and a fear of brownies.

At least I have finally recognized this simple truth: I will never be an actual hippy.

But that's really okay.

I guess it's time to face reality and get a job of some sort. Hmmfph.

Slightly More Hopeful Than My Previous Post...

It's been quite the week.

Rain storms.  Rejections.  Car problems.  Never-ending headaches.  The end of a project that I loved dearly.  The growing fear that something in my very own room is constantly making me sick.  The reality that being an unemployed hipster brat is not as fun as it looks on "Portlandia."  Unattractive moments of self-doubt.  Loads of uncertainty.

Encouraging words from my wonderful neighbors.  Never-ending support from my family.  Love from you guys out there in the great big blogiverse.  Late-night emails from the commune's unofficial concierge urging me not to give up on The Rock Star Dream. 

New goals scribbled down on the tattered pages of my journal.  Comprehensive step-by-step plans of action, some more practical than others.  A bucket full of cleaning supplies and a brain full of ideas.

This is my time, my golden age.  This is the part of the show where I decide not to let myself mope around and get stuck in the mundane mud.  This is when I figure out how to completely go after everything I want to be and totally own it. 

Easier said than done.  But it's all worth a shot. 

In other news, I've been having these kinds of verbal exchanges with the people I meet lately:

Me:  I live in an artist's community...
Random Person:  Oh, I think I've heard of where you live...isn't it a retirement home for hipsters?

Me:  I live in an artist's community...
Another Random Person:  Oh cool!  What's that like?  Is everybody, like, sleeping with each other and painting pictures about it?

I should just start telling people I'm a freelance hippy.  I actually thought about putting that down on my taxes but somehow I don't think the IRS shares my sense of humor...

That's all I've got tonight.  Peace. 

Melancholy? Leonard Cohen Can Help!

I was a zombie this morning. I did not sleep very well at all last night. I stumbled into the kitchen with a cup of coffee and was enthusiastically greeted by The Chef and The Poet.

"Good morning kid, how are ya?" says The Poet.

"I'm alright," I say. We talk for a little bit and they soon realize that "alright" means "totally melancholy." The Poet tells me I'm a rock star. The Chef prescribes listening to folk music. The Poet even brings the following CD by my room later (The Chef's orders, of course):

"Melancholy is easy to fix," he says, handing me Leonard Cohen's Greatest Hits. "Here, listen to this."

As you can imagine, listening to Leonard Cohen did not make the world much brighter. At least not at first. I had my moment with the song about trying to be free like a bird on a wire. I stared out the window into the rainy mess of the outside world and thought about how we're all just birds on wires and drunken midnights choirs. If I wasn't so determined not to be cliche and cry, I might have cried.

Then I couldn't take it anymore so I put on some David Guetta remixes and danced my way out of my momentary slump. Maybe I'll just start there next time.

Anyway, the night has gotten away from me once again so I will make this a short one. Tune in tomorrow for something extra special. ;)

Over and out.

Last Night

The other day, I ran into The Chef in the kitchen and asked how his day was going. He thought it would be hilarious to launch into a monologue detailing every little mundane thing that had happened to him that day.

"I went to buy squash and it was on sale so I bought more of it than I was intending. The cashier put it in a bag and said have a nice day. Then I road my bike back here and now I'm eating some bagels in the kitchen and there's a plate of butter on the table, and some candles, and some salt and pepper..."

I didn't really get what he was doing at first and listened intently, waiting for his story to have a punchline. Instead, he continued to describe irrelevant objects in the room. It was really funny, but it kinda made me never want to ask him how his day was again.

Anyway, I feel as though this post may be a little bit like that - a lot of little mundane snippets with no real punchline or moral to the story. You've been warned.

I wasn't feeling very good yesterday. I stayed in my room for most of the day, bundled up in layers of blankets and sweatpants, alternating between writing music and watching reruns of "Arrested Development" on Hulu. I let myself think too much about life as I know it and found myself falling into a bit of a slump. I tried sleeping it off but I only woke up feeling grumpier. No amount of Tylenol could make my headache go away and my throat hated me. I contemplated going back to bed, but instead I decided I should probably eat something. I put on my slippers, pulled a hat over my messy hair, and stumbled into the kitchen to toast a bagel.

The kitchen was full of people drinking wine and eating popcorn. They cheered when I walked in the room, greeting me enthusiastically and proclaiming that they hadn't seen me all day. They asked how I was. I said I wasn't feeling very good. Lego Guy and his wife set me up with some herbal tea. A girl that moved in a few weeks ago offered me some vitamins. I took a seat at the table and was instantly cheered up by the colorful banter taking place. Lego Guy was doing his weird cartoon voices. The Chef had everyone singing his latest musical composition (elegantly titled "The Hamster Wheel of Bullsh*t"). My mood improved dramatically after just being in the kitchen for a few minutes.

I'm going to remember this next time I find myself being reclusive and come out of my room a lot sooner.

The night quickly became one of those nights that could have ended three times before it actually did. I seem to have those nights a lot. I think it's because the world I live in tends to come alive after 10pm. Whenever I announce that I am going to bed and act as though I am going to put my pajamas on, something more interesting comes up.

The first time I said I was going to bed, I ended up running into my friend TMBG Girl. TMBG Girl just moved in at the beginning of the month. We previously had the following moment of bonding:

Me: "Hey, I like that They Might Be Giants bumper sticker on your laptop! I have one just like it!"
TMBG Girl: "Thanks! John Flansburg handed it to me at the end of their show last year!"
Me: "No way! John Flansburg handed one of those to me too at the end of that show!"
TMBG Girl: "OMG NO WAY!"
Me: "We both own something that was touched by John Flansburg!"
TMBG Girl: "OMG JOHN FLANSBURG!"

I think I've been waiting my entire life to meet someone who's love for They Might Be Giants matches mine. It's pretty rare to meet someone who knows who they are and appreciates them. It's even more unlikely to meet someone who has seen them in concert multiple times, can quote the documentary, knows the names of all the band members (past and present), and understands that they are much more than a novelty band. Actually, I've never met someone like that in real life (it's easy to find those people on the Internet because they creep around in the same forums). So my new found friendship with TMBG Girl has been mind blowing. We had a really good conversation last night that started out being about They Might Be Giants, evolved into a broader discussion of music and life, then ended with us vowing never to date boys that did not share our intense love of They Might Be Giants. I have a feeling we will both be single for a very, very long time.

I decided to go to bed after that conversation, but I barely made it out of the kitchen when I ran into my neighbor, Purple Hair! She's been hard at work turning an old pair of my shoes into wearable art and announces that the shoes will be done very soon! Intrigued to finally see what my old Chinese flats have transformed into, I decide to stay up. It was definitely worth it, because soon she emerges from her studio with my magical new rock star shoes:

Yeah, you're seeing that right - they are now knee-high and equipped with bells and veils. Kinda looks like something that escaped from a Tim Burton film. I don't think I've ever seen shoes quite like these before.

I am in love.

Naturally, I had to spend some quality time prancing around the hallways in my new shoes, jingling like a little elf and showing them off to people that hadn't yet gone to bed. Purple Hair even did a small photo shoot of me in my new shoes. She then went to go smoke with Mr. Syracuse and I decided that I was really going to bed this time.

But I didn't go to bed. I ended up talking to a woman who's visiting town from Montana and is staying in her friends' piano studio across the hall from the kitchen. She's a friendly, middle-aged hippy who took the liberty of decorating the piano studio in blue Christmas lights, candles, and little figurines of Buddha. She finds out I'm a musician and gets really excited. Next thing I know, I'm giving her an impromptu concert by candlelight.

I played a song about the end of the world. It's one I wrote in January and I've played it a million times since then. But last night just may have been my best performance of that song yet. It figures that my best performance would happen in a dark, closed room with only one other person listening. But I guess that music is music is music is music, no matter when and where you make it. For three minutes, nothing really mattered except for the keys of the piano and the song I was singing. When I finished, my new hippy friend stared at me and smiled.

"That was wonderful," she said. "Can you play it again but play quieter so I can hear the words?"

I played it again, but this time only played each chord once with a single hand, singing the words clearly so she could understand them. She learned some of the words and sang along.

"We don't know how it's ending," we sang. "We don't know how the world is ending."

The song came to it's quiet conclusion. "You know," the woman said. "I don't think I'm afraid of the world ending. I've been trying to live everyday like it's my last anyway. I think when it's time for the world to end, I'll be totally okay with it."

We get into a discussion about the end of the world and what it means to be ready for it all to end suddenly. We talked about fear and love and the importance of living each day as if it might be the last. We talked about cats and rock music and Chinese food and Nostradamus. Finally I left the glow of the piano studio with the intention of really, really going to bed this time.

And I really did go to bed. I crawled into my cold nest of blankets and promptly fell asleep.

I awoke first thing in the morning to a rapid knock on my door.

To Be Continued...

So Nervous! AH!

On Sunday night, one of my new hipster friends from downstairs messaged me on Facebook to see if I could play an opening set at their show tonight. I guess their other opener bailed and they needed somebody last minute. I've been wanting to try doing a solo show, so I said "yes." I spent all day yesterday trying to assemble a set list. The show is in about eight hours. I'm freaking out here a little bit.

Once I get on that stage, I'm sure I'll be fine. But right now, I'm a nervous wreck. I could barely sleep last night. Aside from belting out three songs in the restaurant on Halloween, I've never done a show all by myself before. And tonight, I've got a whole 30-45 minutes to entertain an audience with just me, myself, and my keyboard. Just thinking about it makes me pee my pants a little bit.

My friends from the commune are all really excited for me. A lot of them are coming to the show for moral support. Sometimes I get really freaked out when people I know and love show up to watch me perform, but it's kinda comforting knowing that I'll have a small army of hippies/hipsters in the audience that will get drunk and cheer anyway if I do a terrible job.

I was so anxious last night that I didn't really know what to do with myself. I was trying to practice a lot, but I was being too critical of myself and it was becoming counterproductive. I drifted in and out of the kitchen, distracting myself with the presence of others and making tea in attempts to calm down. At one point, I announced I was going to bed and had every intention of sleeping, but ended up dominating a giant piece of cake instead. Oops.

It was a bit after midnight when I went back to the kitchen to destroy the evidence of the cake. The Chef was in there with all of the lights off, reading the paper and eating cereal in a corner.

"Lauren! How are you doing, girl?" he says, smiling warmly.

"I'm doing okay. A bit nervous about tomorrow night," I say.

"Aw, Lauren, you don't need to be nervous. This is what you're going to do: You're going to stop worrying about everything, you're going to go there, you're going to bring your beautiful little soul in there and get up on that stage and do whatever the hell you wanna do and it's going to be great. Just tell your story and make your music and have some fun. And kick ass. Yeah, kick ass! Just kick it. You have my permission. Just be your bad ole self and KICK SOME SERIOUS ASS, GIRL!"

At this point in the pep talk, The Poet enters the room. He had witnessed my neurotic pre-show antics in the kitchen earlier. "You're still freaked out?" he says.

"Oh completely!" I say.

"Why? We've been over this - you're a rock star!" he says.

"Yeah, you just need to kick some ass," The Chef chimes in.

They both look at me. I'm smiling now but I'm sure I still looked like an incredible ball of nervousness. The Poet gets a smirk on his face and lowers his voice.

"Do you need drugs? Because we can totally set you up..."

The Chef nods knowingly in agreement, then takes another bite of cereal.

I laugh. "Thanks, but I think I'm good with tea tonight, guys."

I went to bed eventually, then woke up this morning in a fit of "What-am-I-gonna-WEAR?!" I'm still not really sure what I'm going to wear. Probably the standard skinny jeans with something black on top. I've got some pretty outlandish things in my closet that I've dubbed my "performance attire," but I don't think a pub down in the hipster part of Portland is the place to pull that stuff out.

Anyway, I've got tons more to write about (you better believe it was a crazy weekend...dancing and car problems and hipsters - oh my!), but I should go practice a little bit more and take my traditional "rock star nap" in preparation for tonight's show. That is, if I can even concentrate on practicing and sleeping in this state of intense pre-show anxiety. Ack.

Over and out, amigos. Tune in tomorrow to hear how the show went.

Let Them Bleat Cake

I snuck into the attic tonight. It was quite thrilling.

For those of you who are just now tuning in, I live in a big artist's community that used to be a retirement home. It's a fairly creepy building and they keep the attic locked at all times. When I was moving in, the door to it was left open when I walked past it at one point, but I was too chicken to go up there alone. I'd be lying if I said I haven't been curious about it, though. I mean, it's the attic of an ancient building that is a little reminiscent of "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." Of course I wanted to see what was up there.

So tonight, when the second floor hipster crowd was walking around the third floor (where I live) looking for secret doors, I gladly showed them the door to the attic.

It was locked, naturally. Luckily, this guy who just moved here from New Jersey was with us. He knew how to pick the lock with a screwdriver. He did it a little too effortlessly, then just kind of shrugged and said, "Hey, I'm from New Jersey."

While Mr. New Jersey was picking the lock, Theater Lover and The Poet walked by and became instantly intrigued by what we were doing. A couple of other people heard us and came out of their rooms to see what was going on. By the time the attic door was open, there was a good group of almost ten people anxious to go inside.

Among those people was the really pretty guy who is potentially a gay porn star. Oh man, he's all kinds of gorgeous. I need to find out if he's actually gay or if he just has impeccable fashion sense. I should also find out if he's actually a porn star or if I just interpreted a conversation wrong. I think I'll be moving that investigation up farther on my priority list.

Anyway, back to the adventure of the evening. It was a pretty great attic - really big, dark, wooden, and creepy. Going up there with all of those people felt like the beginning of a horror film. Fortunately, no one died that I'm aware of. I really want to make a horror film up there, though. Or at least light a bunch of candles and have a poetry slam while sitting cross-legged on the floor. Now that sounds like a good way to burn the place down.

When we were done exploring, we went back into the third floor kitchen to tell Purple Hair and Mr. Syracuse that we had been in the attic. I expected them to be impressed and maybe even a little jealous, but it turns out they had already been up there. The nerve.

Everyone was in a much better mood tonight than last night. The vibe was really off last night. I blame it on the horrific community meeting that took place in the kitchen. It started out as thirty people bitching about things that aren't really that important and slowly evolved into being a meeting about how to have a meeting. It went on for two hours and I kinda felt like walking over to the oven and sticking my head in it.

Afterwards, I ventured into the second floor kitchen. The atmosphere down there is totally different than the cheery, welcoming sanctuary of the third floor kitchen. I've gotten into the habit of referring to the second floor as "Hipsterville." Their kitchen feels like a break room and lacks personality. I've recently befriended a few more of the hipsters down there though. They invited me to come down for dinner. As much as I love my hippy friends, I figure I should at least attempt to hang out with people my age.

It was a good time. And by that, I mean I'm not really sure if I had fun or not. Everything that people cooked was vegan and fairly weird. There was a ton of alcohol but no one really wanted to share with anyone else (this probably isn't that unusual, but I've gotten used to everyone drinking everyone else's wine in the third floor kitchen). There wasn't a ton of conversation, but it was completely acceptable and even expected to mouth the words along to Radiohead songs being played from a MacBook in the corner.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little bit. It was definitely a hipster scene, but I did have a good time. Well, I had a good time until Tweaked Out Elvis Costello showed up and spontaneously threw cake against the wall. I think he might have even said something like "LET THEM BLEAT CAKE! BAH!" It was funny, but that was definitely the moment when the party started to go downhill.

The Poet came in the room when Tweaked Out Elvis Costello was attempting to scrub cake off of the radiator. The meeting from earlier came up, specifically the topic of performance spaces in the building. It's petty, political, and probably not the interesting. Though it is an issue that I do have an opinion on and it does affect me, I'll avoid going into it at this time. All you really need to know is that the night ended with The Poet and Tweaked Out Elvis Costello yelling profanities at each other.

There are very few things that I hate more than yelling. Plus, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello was saying some stuff that was making me angry. It wasn't directed towards me, but some of his "The show in the kitchen was terrible" and "There aren't any good bands in this building" comments were making me feel a little attacked. So I awkwardly excused myself from the room and ran to the safety of the third floor kitchen, where I made a giant cup of Moroccan mint tea in attempts to calm myself down.

Gotta love commune drama. Gah. Most of the time, this place is a bohemian paradise. But every once in awhile, I swear there are cameras hidden somewhere and we're all on reality TV.

And with that, I should go to bed.

Goodnight, amigos. More stories to come, I am sure.