Once again, I haven't updated this blog in awhile. I think I've been waiting for a moment when I didn't feel completely cynical. That moment is yet to come. Whatever. I'll update my blog anyway.
I've become obsessed with making salsa.
A few nights ago, I was in the kitchen making my own salsa when the phone rang. I was having an intense moment with the blender and hate answering the phone anyway, so I ignored it. Unfortunately, my dad ended up picking it up and handing it to me. "Lauren, it's for you," he said, ignoring the look of utter annoyance on my face. No one calls me on the home phone except for people doing political surveys. I took a deep breath and stepped away from my precious salsa, prepared to explain that I will NOT be voting for Mitt Romney.
But the call was not related to politics. It was a work study student from the college I graduated from. She was calling on behalf of the university's alumni relations department and politely asked if she could chat with me for a minute. Reluctantly, I agreed, thinking it wouldn't be so bad. After all, she seemed nice enough and started by innocently asking if I had signed up to receive the alumni newsletter via email. No big deal.
She then recited the address of my parents' house to me and asked if that was still where I lived. I confirmed with her that yes, that was still my address. Then she stated that she doesn't have any employment information for me and asked if I could update that for her. I told her that there was nothing to update. If I had been in a snarkier mood, I might have told her to write "Starving Artist," but I really just wanted to get through the phone call so I could go back to taste-testing my salsa.
She asked what my favorite part of going to that school was. I babbled on about a professor that apparently retired before she started going there, which made me feel old. There was an awkward pause and I could tell she was turning the page of the script she was reading off of. Then the rest of the conversation quickly packed itself into a hand basket and shipped itself to hell.
It went something like this:
Her: "Now, the second reason I'm calling is because this college is committed to offering a Christ-centered education and is collecting an alumni fund to allow other students to attend this school. Are you able to donate the amount of $50 to this fund?"
Me: "No, I'm sorry, I'm really broke."
Her: "That's alright - we understand that times are hard for a lot of people and that you may not be able to commit to donating that amount of money. However, this college is dedicated to offering a Christ-centered education and takes pride in the tradition of alumni students giving back. Are you able to donate the amount of $25 to this fund?"
Me: "No, actually, I don't have any money."
Her: "That's okay - we understand that not everyone is financially able to contribute that amount. However, this college offers a Christ-centered education and has a high percentage of alumni students contributing to this fund that helps other students attend this school. Are you able to donate the amount of $5 to this fund?"
Fiesta time.
What I Wanted To Say But Didn't Say: "You know that address you confirmed earlier? You know where that is? That is my parents' house. Do you know why I'm here? Because I have no money! Did you even look at the date that I graduated? It was a little over two years ago. I've spent that time making up for a lifetime of being 'the responsible one' by pursuing an elusive rock & roll career and living in places that don't always have hot water. If I had more money, I would use it to pay my own student loans. PLEASE NEVER CALL ME AGAIN."
What I Actually Said: "Look - I can't even pay my own student loans right now. I CANNOT GIVE YOU MONEY."
She then offered to pray for me. Which might have been sincere, but in that moment it felt like the right-wing Christian version of telling me to go @#$% myself.
I told her I needed to get off the phone and hung up after she politely said "good bye."
I returned to the kitchen and drowned my sorrows in homemade salsa.
I would have rather talked to the Mitt Romney people.
It seems like the longer I go without blogging, the harder it is to get myself to post an update. I think it's because the longer I wait, the more I feel like I need to come back with something wonderful and entertaining. I also feel like I need to explain where I've been, what I've been up to, and what my excuses are for being absent from the blogosphere are this time. That begins to feel like a lot of pressure, so I've gotten into the habit of just closing the Blogger tab on my browser and uploading more pictures of my cats on Instagram instead.
I'm a winner.
I guess no real excuse for my long hiatus. Or, maybe I have a series of lame excuses. Laziness. Writer's block. Business. Lack of motivation. Writer's block. Fear that my life has become something that isn't as interesting to read about as it once was. Unsure of what to even write about. A growing addicting to communicating all thoughts in 140 characters or less and posting them to Twitter. Also, writer's block.
It's been a weird summer. I finally got a rock band together. We've played a couple of shows around town. Both shows were completely stressful, poorly attended, and the most fun I've had all year.
A rough video from one of the shows:
Yes, there were people there but they were hiding in a corner. Sadly, I wasn't able to get a recording of the other show we did, where there was a one-armed guy named Lefty in the audience.
My life is still is a sitcom. I don't think that will ever change, in case any of you were worried.
I also spent a lot of time taking care of other people's dogs this summer.
I got way too connected to them. I cried a little bit every time I had to tell one of them "goodbye." It made me wish I had a dog of my own, but I'm still at a point in my life where I'm afraid to sign a year-long lease. I can't get a dog yet.
It's weird to see my Facebook feed fill up with pictures of weddings, ultrasounds, and babies. There seems to be a whole wave of people my age who are suddenly grown-ups. They post boring statuses about their jobs, take pictures of what they cooked their new families for dinner, and decline any event invitation that takes place past 8pm. Miscellaneous acquaintances from college are now getting married to miscellaneous men. Their last name changes and then when they pop up on my newsfeed, I don't even know who the heck they are.
Then I see the Deepak Chopra quotes and the pictures of Jello shots posted by my friends from the artist's community and I wonder where exactly I fit in among the group of 336 people I call "friends" on Facebook.
I'm going to be 25 in a little less than 2 months. I can feel the existential crisis starting already.
But I digress.
I'm trying not to make this too long. Really, the purpose of this post is just to get myself used to posting again and let you guys know that I'm not dead. Now that this post is out of the way, I can hopefully follow it up with more interesting things...
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.
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. :)
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.
Forgive me, for I have sinned. I have neglected this poor blog yet again. I have failed to post regularly.
I think it started because I was moping around my parents' house feeling like I had failed at being a successful human. Not only did I feel self-conscious about dumping even more of my quarter-life crisis onto the blogosphere, but I just didn't have anything that interesting to say.
Fortunately, the moping period didn't last very long. Somehow, I managed to get a grip on myself. We went out for coffee, actually. Myself and I. I sat myself down and we had the following conversation:
Me: Lauren, you're not actually a loser, but you're going to become one if you continue to sit in your parents' basement. Myself:But I'm promoting my musical career! Me: It looks like you're looking at pictures of your college friends on Facebook... Myself:I was taking a break! Me:Look. You are living in YOUR PARENTS' HOUSE. That's the one thing you said you wouldn't let happen and it's happening. What are you going to do about it? Myself:Tweet Perez Hilton repeatedly in hopes that he will make me famous? Me: NO! You have to actually LEAVE the house and DO THINGS. Myself: I took a walk yesterday. Me:When the Internet went down? That doesn't count. Dude, I know we both hate the idea of having a boss, but it's time to find some way to make some money. Myself:I can work on marketing my greeting cards better... Me: Lauren. Your little brother is going to come home from college this summer and if you're still living here when he moves back in, you're going to feel like you're 14. Myself:I'm not 14? Me: ...No. It's time to girl up get stuff done. Myself: *sigh* You're probably right. Me: Of course I'm right!
So I got out of my weird little funk and started throwing my name out there. I applied to jobs that sounded horrible and soul-sucking. I checked the gigs section on Craigslist three times a day, sending email inquiries to questionable sources and refreshing my inbox every five minutes to see if anything was going to work.
And slowly, things started happening. Which is the other reason I haven't been updating this blog - I've been running around acquiring funny stories faster than I can type them out.
Yes, I've been hoarding stories. It's horrible, but true. But the only thing I have going on tonight involves watching "The Bachelor" (don't judge). And now that I've broken the silence, the rest of the posts will be easier to write. I'm going to do my best to catch you guys up on the ongoing sitcom that is my life.
I promise that these stories will be everything but boring...
I'm not really into having regrets, but I've been having the thought that maybe I should have stayed in the artist's community until I had a solid escape plan. Because even though it was weird and depressing and full of fairly unstable people on strange cocktails of synthetic drugs, it was also in the city that I love and was full of creative people who understood me. And after living in that sort of environment for over a year, going back to my parents' house in the country initially felt like someone pressed a giant "PAUSE" button and my exciting sit-com of a life was on hold.
After all, it's so quiet at night out here. I'm sort of used to the constant noise of traffic. The sound of cop cars. Drunk people fighting outside my window. Turrets Guy waiting for the bus. It doesn't get much better than "Dammit dammit dammit dammit!" Out here there are no Turrets Guys. Out here there is mostly silence. And large fields.
I don't really regret leaving the artist's community, though. In fact, I think I left at the perfect time.
I learned yesterday that a pipe in my old bathroom burst at about three o'clock in the morning, flooding the entire apartment. The resident maintenance guy didn't know how to shut the water off, so the water leaked into the hallway. It also dripped through the floor and got the guy below, then kept going, flooding part of the gallery in the basement.
When I heard this news, I couldn't stop laughing. Then I just got this image in my brain of my old messy room - papers, clothes, and electronics everywhere. And for a second, I imagined that room full of water. So many things would have been toast!
Not to mention I would have had to deal with a surprise water attack in the middle of the night...
All regrets I might have had about moving out are now gone.
After all, there is no such thing as a "PAUSE" button. So, it's onwards and upwards.
So the countdown has begun. 26 days until I move on to my next adventure.
I think I would be more excited if I knew what that meant. But the truth is, I don't know what that means. I have no plan. I have about a dozen half-baked ideas and a couple fairly undesirable back-up options, but no real concrete plan.
I've been thinking so much over the past few days that I've probably given my brain a rash. It's gone past the point of productive thinking and has reached into the realm of anxiety-driven thought loops. I know I need to knock that off. Because as overwhelming as the future often seems, it's only going to get worse if I paralyze myself with stress.
I keep saying I want to leave this town and it seems like it's time. I mean, I almost punched a hipster at a vintage clothing store the other day. If that doesn't mean it's time to leave Portland, I don't know what does.
The good news is that I still have those vouchers for Southwest Airlines that I received for getting bumped in February. And they'll be expiring soon, so I really should use them. I don't even really know where I want to go, I just know I want to go somewhere. I watch the bargain flights everyday. I should probably just book one and go, go, go.
...And do what when I get there?
I can hear the phone conversation now...
Me: "Hi Mom, I'm in Saint Louis..." My Mother: "What are you doing in Saint Louis???" Me: "I'm not really sure, but I got a last minute bargain deal on the flight and I think on the way back I might get bumped!!!"
Today, I've been going back and forth between feeling completely optimistic about the future and feeling as though I'm going to throw up from anxiety. Right now, I'm leaning towards the latter of those two feelings. The level of nervousness I'm currently experiencing is probably totally unnecessary and logically I know this, but the future is a very unknown place and my move-out date will be here in a month. Somebody get me a barf bucket, please.
I'm also still heavily processing something scary that happened a couple of nights ago. I told myself I wasn't going to write about it because I don't want to dwell on it, but my mind keeps pressing the replay button on the mental video tapes. It's a lot heavier than the sort of stuff I normally blog about, but I think it's probably important to get it out of my head. So here it is...
I went to bed early on Saturday night and woke up to my phone ringing at two in the morning. By the time I was awake enough to look at my phone, I had a voicemail from The Fonz. I figured he was probably drunk dialing me or something, but when I listened to the message I was shocked by the urgency in his voice.
One of our friends was going to kill himself.
I heard voices in the hallway, so I threw on some sweatpants and poked my head out of my door to see what was up.
It was one of the two guys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes." We all knew he was having a rough time, but we just assumed he would get through it. But late that night, he posted a Facebook status that was obviously a suicide note and disappeared. He texted his roommate (The Other Gnome) to announce that he was not going to come back.
The Fonz had called because he needed to borrow my car. The Other Gnome had a wild hunch of where this guy might be and they were on a mission to go find him. They ended up borrowing someone else's car because I didn't answer the phone. But while they were out driving around, The Fonz called me again to tell me to look downstairs.
"Now we think he gave us a false lead and he's actually somewhere in the building," The Fonz said frantically into the phone. "Can you go check the weird bathroom in the basement and see if he's in there?"
I called The Poet and told him to check downstairs. I was not about to go creeping around the basement of this spooky building in search of my friend who might very possibly be dead. So The Poet went on a mission to check every hidden corner of the building and I had nothing to do but pace back and forth in my room.
I held my phone in my hand and waited for news. I checked my friend's Facebook page, read his suicide note, and swore silently to myself. It seemed hopeless. He had made up his mind and now he was dead somewhere. My friend was dead.
The minutes seemed to last forever as I waited for the phone to ring. I had to do something, so I made a sandwich. I wasn't even hungry, but I needed to do something with my hands. So I sliced up some cheese and prepared my brain for the inevitable bad news. My friend was dead. I ran a mental slideshow of memories through my brain...
The night in the kitchen when I met Gnome for the first time...
The time we sat cross-legged in the hallway together and ate pizza during and art opening...
The ironic Mary and Jesus shirt he wore all of the time just to be weird...
The night he drunkenly stole the fire hose sign from outside my door and yelled "We're all going to hell...in a hand basket, bitch..."
The way he always won at pool by hiding his opponent's balls in the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossing them in the holes when no one was looking...
The times he made me laugh so hard I nearly cried...
The constant piano playing...
The suit he wore specifically for my birthday party...
The time we had a jam session in the courtyard and it was a disaster because he can't really play guitar and I can't really play accordion...
The spiked iced tea he made for everyone, which turned out to just be straight vodka that was flavored to taste like iced tea...
The night he told me that I had the power of rock and roll...
I mechanically placed some deli meat on my sandwich and looked at my phone again. Nothing. I was frustrated that there wasn't anything I could do to help. And I was horrified at the fact that one of the most talented, funny, and brilliant people I know was miserable enough to kill himself.
I then realized that I never told him how talented, funny, and brilliant he was. This was equally horrifying.
There was a knock on the door. It was The Poet checking to see if I had heard anything new. He had found nothing in the basement. I reported that I didn't know anything and offered him half of my sandwich. So we sat on my floor and nervously ate sandwiches, waiting for news.
Suddenly, there were loud voices in the hallway. People running and yelling "HE'S HERE!" The Poet went out to catch the action but I stayed in my room. I didn't want to find my friend's dead body. I just don't know how to deal with that.
Fortunately, he was alive.
He was in the bathtub room, lying in a sleeping bag inside the bathtub. He had a backpack with him. Someone grabbed it and found three knives inside. They called the police.
The good news is that he made it to the hospital. And he's still alive. I am so thankful that he chose NOT to do it.
But I still found the whole thing unsettling. And the next night, when I found myself at a bowling alley with my gay best friend from high school and a bunch of people I didn't know, I discovered that being normal took a conscious effort. Like, "I'm just going to smile and not act like I was up all night thinking my friend/neighbor was dead."
No one likes to talk about death, especially suicide. But I'm here to say that people probably should talk about it...
Really I wish I could just write one song that would make people stop wanting to kill themselves.
Sitting in my old room at my parents' house, I wonder where that magic eight-ball is that used to sit on my shelf.
Actually, it was a date-ball. Pink and everything. Totally cool in middle school and too campy to get rid of after that. I'm not sure where it is tonight though. I'd like to ask it a few questions. I'd ask it what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, then remember it only takes "yes" or "no" questions and rephrase that. I would say, "Oh Magic Date Ball, am I going in the right direction?" And I would shake it a little too much and barely be able to read "NO CLUE" through all of the glitter.
Maybe it's a good thing it's not just right there on the shelf anymore. It was never very insightful.
Most of you probably don't know this, but I used to truly believe I could not sing.
I would try to sing, but my voice didn't sound like the voices I heard on the radio. I think somewhere around the time of middle school someone verbally confirmed the fact that I could not sing. And that was that. It was all okay because I was good at playing the piano. I didn't have to be good at singing too.
Of course, I secretly wished I could sing. But I knew that I could not. I wrote songs with the idea that someone else would sing them. I went to college, teamed up with someone who played guitar, and made him be the lead singer in our little band. We called ourselves "Good Quail Hunting," which was funny until everyone forgot about the Dick Cheney incident.
Eventually, we booked a show in a coffee shop near campus. This wasn't a big deal - except it was. I had never really performed outside of a band concert or piano recital (there were a couple of hellish talent shows in there but I would prefer not to think about them). We spent hours practicing and perfecting our set list, which consisted mostly of awkward cover songs (I think we even opened with Coldplay and transitioned into "Birdhouse In Your Soul" by They Might Be Giants...yikes). I handed my bandmate a couple original songs in hopes that he would sing them.
I don't remember if he was getting the phrasing wrong or couldn't hit the notes or what, but I do know that I landed into the position of singing these songs.
"But I can't sing," I remember saying.
"You're not that bad. It's sort of like talking but try to do it on key," my bandmate said. His lame words of encouragement somehow worked. The night of the show came, the coffee shop filled up with kids from our dorms, and next thing I knew I was singing.
I don't want to give you the impression that I opened my mouth and was suddenly Mariah Carey. I was quiet, flustered, and so nervous that I felt the need to face the wall. I was embarrassed, so naturally my neck got really red and splotchy. So not rock and roll.
Unfortunately, a clip from that night is still kicking around the Internet. If I had any common sense, I would delete it. But I'll put it up here so you guys can cringe along with me.
Yes, I know - my voice has dropped about two octaves since that performance five years ago. I'm not really sure what's up with that. When people ask me about it, I usually just tell them I went through puberty. It's a really good way to weird people out.
But I digress. The point is that I got over myself and sang. It was strange and nerve-wracking, but people clapped and gave me compliments after the show.
Five years later, I am my own lead singer. I still have moments of feeling self-conscious about my voice, but I know that I am capable of getting on a stage and belting it out. When I was 19, I had no idea I would someday have the nerve to do that.
Why do I bring all of this up now?
Because I recently overcame another psychological block. This one has to do with that six-stringed beast known as the guitar.
When I was four years old, my dad gave me an acoustic guitar for Christmas in hopes that I would grow up learning to play it and become some awesome folk singer chick. And I had lots of fun laying it on it's side and getting picks stuck in it. But every time I tried to learn how to actually play the thing, I would get frustrated because it was difficult and hurt my fingers.
So I accepted the fact that I was not meant to play guitar and embraced the piano. It all made sense throughout college, when "Good Quail Hunting" evolved into "Original Sound Trash" and there was always somebody there to add guitar sounds to my keyboard melodies. When the band officially broke up in February, I found myself on a mission to find other guitar players. Whenever a new acquaintance even just briefly mentioned owning a guitar, I would go into interview mode until I knew whether or not I wanted to initiate a jam session.*
I felt musically naked without a guitar player.** The sound I've always envisioned for my songs is bigger than just a girl with a keyboard. As many of you know, I've been working with a few different guitarists on getting some recordings done. And though the songs are turning out (mostly) how I wanted them, the process has been an absolute nightmare.
I wrote a little bit about this in an earlier post. One guy has strung me along for months. Another one is just no good at sending emails. And the other guy has a history of being really creepy towards women (of course, I didn't find out about this until I was halfway through the recording process with him...yikes***).
There was a point where a weird little light bulb went off in my head. "I should just learn how to play the damn guitar so I don't have to deal with this crap," I thought.
A couple days later, I had retrieved my guitar from my parents' house and was learning the chords to an ancient punk song with The Poet. Keep in mind that this guitar is about 20 years old at this point. I've dubbed it Old Crusty. It goes out of tune every five minutes. I still managed to figure out how to play "Whole Wide World" by Wreckless Eric on it.
I have to admit, I felt bad ass.
I even borrowed The Poet's guitar (which is significantly less ancient and actually has a strap) and paraded around town with it in the name of my new music video.
Keepin it classy in front of this sketchy building
Naturally, this is a promo for my upcoming laundromat tour of 2012
I got some really good footage too, though I'm still a little bitter about that thing that happened at the laundromat that day.
Laundromat security was not a fan of #occupymusicvideo
But let's not get too political.
It quickly became apparent that if I was really going to learn to play the guitar, I needed one that would stay in tune. I also needed one that I was excited to play - maybe even one worthy of a name cooler than "Old Crusty."
So I went to pawn shops. I haunted music stores in Southeast Portland. I pretended that I knew more than the two chords involved in that Wreckless Eric song and I tested out fun electric guitars, trying very hard to ignore the dudes there that actually knew how to play. There was a hot pink guitar that caught my eye, but I decided to wait. Logically, I knew I shouldn't be buying a guitar when there's rent to pay, but that didn't stop me from doing my research.
I kept a close eye on Craigslist. Lots of cheap, Walmart-style black and white guitars that were probably Christmas presents for bratty teenage boys at some point in time. Lots of expensive, fancy guitars that people are now trying to trade for cash because the economy is terrible. I was about to abandon my Craigslist efforts when I saw it.
My guitar.
Yay
I emailed back and forth with the guy about pricing, then stared at the numbers in my bank account until I could justify making this investment. The price was right, so I came to the conclusion that buying a functional guitar was a very practical career move and was possibly more important than buying food. I conned The Poet into coming along with me (didn't take much conning - he's been a very enthusiastic supporter of my guitar hunt) and we rode off into the night to look at this guitar.
The place was a little bit hard to find, but when we finally found it and knocked on the door, a black guy with dreadlocks answered. He was wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, which I noted as significant because it was Jimi Hendrix's birthday. The whole interaction was normal enough - he told me the history of the guitar, I tried it out, The Poet assured me that it was indeed a bad ass guitar, the guy offered to throw in a lot of accessories, I announced I would take the guitar.
"I hope to see you play that live someday," Dreadlocks Guy said as he showed us the door.
The door closed and I felt excited, musically liberated, and a little bit rebellious.
You better believe I played Wreckless Eric until my fingers were sore.
Photo taken while jamming out to Wreckless Eric with other beginning guitar players
And then I learned another chord so I could play "Blitzkrieg Bop" by The Ramones.
And then I learned another chord so I could play "Sorrow" by David Bowie.
Soon, I was noodling around and coming up with my own little songs. And when my neighbors saw me in the kitchen later, they commented that I was sounding good. This blew me away. I was sure everyone in the building was sick of my guitar playing, or at least Wreckless Eric. They were probably just being polite - except that no one here is that polite.
I know that everyone and their dog plays the guitar and that in reality it's probably not very hard. I also know that I'm still at a very basic, embarrassingly elementary level on this instrument. But I still feel accomplished. I feel as though I can and will learn to play this thing. I'm not expecting to become some sort of guitar goddess, but I do feel as though I can get to the point where I can play my own songs if I keep practicing everyday.
Mostly I'm just determined to make this rock and roll dream happen. And I want to be done getting hung up on ideas like "I can't sing" or "I can't play guitar."
And with that, I shall end this extremely wordy post.
Except I think that I should mention that I named my guitar Jimi.
And now that I think about it, I can't think of any white girls that play black guitars...
*shrugs*
Peace and love! Until next time, amigos.**** <3
* I usually did not want to initiate a jam session - way too many guitar players in Portland are into experimental noise rock. **I was also just mad that my stupid band had to break up, but that's irrelevant. ***Don't worry, Mom, I had a body guard. ****I promise I won't be so long-winded next time!
- Make my room look less like a hipster frat house
- Drink more water, especially when it's so hot
- Stop worrying so much about the future
- Give my 30 days notice
- Start stretching before practicing The Melbourne Shuffle in my room so as to avoid embarrassing one-person-dance-party related muscle soreness
- Become more organized
- Finally finish that crazy CD and do something with it
- Beat somebody at pool
- Learn how to make money off of things I do already
- Eat more vegetables
- Remember that where ever I go, I will end up somewhere
- Actually go somewhere cool instead of just talking about it
- Block everyone on Facebook that uses words like "hubby," "house-cleaning," and "having a baby" in their status updates
- Write something people want to read
- Buy a ticket for the Amanda Palmer show in November
- Just conquer the world already
The Management is building a case against The Chef. They are trying to evict him. They are taking the stance that he is crazy and shouldn't live here anymore.
Sure, The Chef is eccentric. Sometimes he's downright profane. He's a loud alcoholic who is never afraid to express his opinions. He takes up a lot of wall space with his paintings of babies shooting laser beams out of their eyes. He occasionally disrupts art openings with his noisy, psychedelic air mattresses.
But he isn't crazy. He's not dangerous. In fact, he's an important part of our community. He drives us all nuts sometimes, but the halls are way too quiet whenever he leaves. He gets in weird power struggles with people out of boredom, but he also gets stuff done. He's the reason we have a big friendly wooden table in our kitchen instead of plastic break room-style tables. He was one of the main forces behind getting us a decent refrigerator. He's also the guy who pressed a recent investigation of some pipes in the building that turned out to be full of asbestos (and we wonder why everyone is sick all the time...). He's a little rough around the edges and will tell people he doesn't like to f@#$ off. But he's got a very kind, generous spirit underneath the gruff exterior.
Actually, I think The Chef was my first official friend at this place. He gave me some soup in the kitchen the first night here and told me my music was beautiful (he had heard me practicing). A couple of nights later, he knocked on my door and invited himself in to drink beer out of a mug and eat cheese puffs on my couch. At the time, it was a bit awkward for me. I mean, it's not everyday that a chubby old guy comes into your room and starts crying over lost love.
But The Chef quickly became one of those people that always sides with me. He gets drunk and cheers at my shows. He's offered to design stage costumes for me (usually his vision involves fairy wings and too much glitter). He eats out a lot and keeps me updated on which pizza places have the cutest boys. He gives me pep talks in the kitchen when I'm unsure of where my life is going. And when I update my Facebook status to miscellaneous David Bowie lyrics in the middle of the night, he is always the one to complete them.
Really. If they need to get rid of somebody, they should evict the scary kid on the second floor that trashed the kitchen a few months ago. He's much more dangerous than a quirky old man who brings a three-eyed oil painting to a dance party as a date.
I also think they should get rid of Tweaked Out Elvis Costello if they are indeed trying to evict people who are a detriment to the community. He's gotten downright creepy, not to mention he's perpetually high on a whole cocktail of mysterious illegal substances. I really wish The Management would stop complaining about the artistic peace banners that The Chef flies out of his window and start cracking down on people who have closets full of "that new French diet drug."
I've always known life wasn't fair, but this whole thing is just ridiculous to watch.
Of course, The Poet isn't about to let them actually evict The Chef. He's going to go have a few words with The Management. Meanwhile, a bunch of us are going to figure out how to make banners and fly them out our windows in protest. If done correctly, it will be a bit of a "Save Ferris" moment.
And if that fails and they really do evict him, we'll just have to hide him as if he's Anne Frank.
A very loud, drunken Anne Frank. Hopefully it won't come to that.
"And the words of the stranger came back to me - I said 'It's hard to be a 21st century girl.' He said 'I think it's hard in any century!'"
I have so many wonderful friends. People that believe in me. People that will do ridiculous things with me, then be there to pick me up and dust me off when the ridiculous things don't go like I planned.
My friends are a unique batch of people. Most of them are pretty bizarre and some are just downright uncouth. But they are people that love and encourage me. I'm really lucky to have the friends that I have.
So why do I keep contacting the one person who constantly brings me down?
I should just accept the fact that this person has changed and that I will never be a priority. It's just hard for me to let go of everything I had (and didn't have) with this particular friend.
Facebook doesn't help. I miss the old days where you could drift away from somebody and not have to be alerted every time they are playing Farmville or eating spaghetti. Ugh.
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.
I stood up for myself in a situation where I was essentially being bullied.
If you know me well, you will realize that this is a big deal. I'm notorious for avoiding confrontation and never saying things that I need to say.
But today, I put on my favorite gold bracelet, recruited an intimidating friend to stand behind me, and marched into a room to declare the following:
"I AM NOT GOING TO WORK FOR YOU ANYMORE."
I was asked to explain myself, so I gave my reasons:
"I felt like you really beat me up this weekend and I was basically volunteering for you. I don't deserve to be treated like that."
When faced with a petty argument, I simply turned to my friend and made this announcement:
"I THINK I'M DONE WITH THIS CONVERSATION. LET'S GO."
So we left. And we left the man sitting there, his jaw dropping to the floor. The quiet redhead was not going to put up with being walked on today.
When we were on the other side of the door, I asked my friend if I was a total bitch. "No, you were a total bad ass," he said.
And once I stopped shaking and convinced myself I handled the situation appropriately, I did feel quite bad ass.
Except now I'm officially back to square one on the unemployment thing.
But I think I'm going to worry about that when my E.P. is all done. Even if I'm eating Ramen noodles on toasted cardboard by the end of it.
Hi, I'm slightly stubborn. This being-a-musician thing will work. It has to.
Not to be melodramatic or anything.
Someone told me today that the secret to life is to just breathe and keep breathing. "Everything else will just fall into place after that." Those sound like good words to live by. Breathe and keep breathing.
And with that, I should go to bed. More interesting stuff to come, I promise.
So I briefly disappeared off the face of the blogosphere, but now I am back. Sorry about all of that. It was a weird, stressful week for several reasons.
Long story short, it looks like I'm done being a book agent. And I don't think I'll be acting as The Bouncer or working in the restaurant downstairs anytime soon either. I'm back to unemployed hipster status.
That's a story I might tell tomorrow (if I actually feel like reliving it again), but for right now I have more important things to share with you guys. Like the new song I've been talking about for the past month!
Here's a sneak peek:
The music video is in the works as well. I filmed a bunch of it in my bathroom the other night and plan on shooting the rest in the hallways this weekend when all of the hipsters go camping.
A still shot from some of the footage I took in my bathroom...don't judge
Now I just have to get the rest of the tracks recorded and launch my little E.P. into the world. They are coming along nicely, actually. It should all be done sooner rather than later.
In other news, I had a really great jam session with The Studio Musician today. He texted me out of the blue and told me he was bored so he was playing through the entire Beatles catalog. It was only a matter of minutes before I was playing along with him. I know it's cliche, but you can really never go wrong with The Beatles. And it turns out that today was one of those days where I just needed to belt out "Let It Be."
It's amazing how completely rejuvenating music can be. Especially when you make it with someone else. Though going solo is empowering, I truly miss being in a band.
But at least my new recording sounds like I'm in a band. That counts for something, right?
And with that, I think I'm gonna go to bed. Goodnight, my darling blogosphere. <3
Oy. This blog has been a bit of a dead zone lately and I apologize. I've let real life get in the way of my standard blogging routine and I'm beginning to hear crickets because of it. I think I owe you guys a legitimate update.
After all, I just spent two hours of my life watching "America's Next Top Model," so I think I have time to give you guys the 411 on who drop-kicked who.
Here's the low-down: I've been out of comission for a couple of days due to a digusting cold/sinus infection. Probably made myself sick from stressing too much, honestly. A couple of weeks ago, I cooked up a deal with the guy that owns the restaurant/venue downstairs. As a result, I've turned into a booking agent of sorts and have been frantically trying to fill this month's calender with shows and events.
It's all very exciting but totally nerve-wracking. One minute, I feel like I'm totally capable of providing the neighborhood with quality entertainment (and making a killing off of it). Then I'll check my email only to discover that one of my headlining bands has to attend a funeral instead of playing a show (people need to stop dying, it really messes things up). I'll get this gnawing feeling of dread (a feeling I'm all too familiar with) and I'll suddenly remember that I've never done anything like this before. And then I'll have to convince myself yet again that life is a learning curve, I am totally capable of this, etc.
This weekend is my "debut" of sorts and I'm terrified. The monthly art open house is on Friday night and I only managed to book two musical acts: a guy that plays the banjo and some dude who makes techno with a macbook. I had a third band lined up but they fell through. So now I just have the weirdest line-up of all time.
And yes, I've been scrambling to find a third band. It's gotten to the point where I've started sending Facebook messages that look like this:
I haven't talked to you in a million years, but I'm currently booking acts for a new venue in town and am scrambling to fill the calender for May. I don't even know if you are in a band, but you are playing a musical instrument in your profile picture, so you are getting a message. Anyway, ARE you in a band?
That approach was unsuccessful. Surprise surprise. Looks like Friday is going to be techno-folk night. And it might end at 9pm.
In addition to good ole techno-folk night, I've got an 80's night planned for Saturday. Naturally, I'm the DJ. This shouldn't be scary, but it is. I haven't even tested the sound system yet. It's going to be held in a space that was once the chapel of an old folk's home. The pews are still perfectly in tact and I'm not sure how to move them! Once I get my laptop plugged in and get people dancing, it will be great. But until then, I'll probably be one high-strung kid.
Maybe I'm in over my head. Or maybe I'm onto something really cool. Maybe I can keep this up all summer and avoid getting an obnoxious minimum wage job.
In other news, the recording process is still going really well. The Studio Musician recently emailed me his latest cut of the new track. I think it's just about done! Hopefully I'll have it up here in a couple of days so you guys can listen to it. It's so exciting because it sounds like an entire band. In reality, it's just me and a guy I hired to play a bunch of random instruments. Shh, don't tell anyone.
Anyway, those are the most significant things I have to report. Well, other than the fact that people still refuse to stay in the categories I think they belong in (I know, I said I was going to stop putting people in boxes, but sometimes I do it without thinking). And the awkward moments in my daily life are getting so professional that they sometimes announce themselves (i.e: "Would you like to have an awkward moment, Lauren?" I said "no," but the moment was awkward anyway...).
But I will save all that for another post. I should probably go to bed. It's not even midnight yet, but I need to kick this sinus bug by the weekend. There is nothing hot about a DJ with a stuffed-up nose and a plugged-up ear.
Peace out, amigos. This is DJ Lauren, signing off.
Today I was talking to a friend on the phone while sitting in a grocery store cafe.
"Life is weird," I said. I think I was about to verbally replay a very bizarre awkward situation that happened to me earlier in the day, but I quickly became distracted.
Because at that moment, a large older woman in a motorized scooter/shopping cart began backing into my table (complete with beeping sound effects).
"Oh man, life is really weird," I said into the phone.
My friend was stuck on the other end wondering what the strange beeping noises were.
I feel as though this moment sums up my entire day/week/month/existence.
That was slightly exhausting. I just spent two hours refusing to show somebody a song that's been in my notebook forever. Finally, I cracked and showed the song. It was painful. And awkward. It only took him a couple of minutes to read it, but it felt like an eternity as I sat there feeling completely self-conscious. I regretted putting so much effort into saying "NO, YOU CAN'T READ THIS ONE" because it built it up way too much and there was no easy way out of it.
There really wasn't that much wrong with the song. In fact, my friend convinced me that I should put it into my repertoire. I guess I'm just not used to unleashing songs that have very many emotions in them. Or songs that are about specific people. I feel like the meaning of a song is obvious and am therefore totally embarrassed by that song's existence (especially when the lyrics are no longer relevant). In reality, it's difficult to tell what the song is about unless you live inside my brain.
Finally playing this particular song for someone other than my radiator was like ripping off a big messy band aid - it felt unnatural and a little horrific but it was alright in the end. Actually, I feel really good. And baffled that someone in this universe would spend two hours of their time in the middle of the night trying to talk me into taking old discarded songs out of my metaphorical oven. That takes the whole song-writing group thing to a whole new level.
As I type this, I'm staring at a mound of notebooks full of songs that no one has ever seen. It's bad. I write things and hide them away. Over half of my songs are just rotting in those unseen pages. A lot aren't finished and many of them have never even seen the light of day. The Poet has recently challenged me to dig those songs out and let them be heard. Naturally, I was very reluctant.
But tonight, I got one of the more embarrassing ones out into the atmosphere and lived to tell about it. Actually, the most embarrassing part of the whole process ended up being the fact that I was so afraid to let anyone read it. It made me realize that I'm ridiculous and I need to just get over myself. Open the notebooks and let people that I trust dive into my music so I can listen to their honest opinions.
After all, this is what musicians are supposed to do, right? I can't spend my whole career writing love songs about zombies and intestinal parasites. And writing songs for my own personal fulfillment is nice, but after a certain point it makes sense to just open the flood gates and let the world in on that stuff.
Because maybe someone will relate to it. Or like it. Dance to it. Sing along to it. Paint their walls to it. Drive around to it. Maybe someday it can all be music that will be of use to other people.
Or maybe I'm just being hopeful and idealistic. But I don't think I really have anything to lose by singing about things that are real to me. I always thought I probably did. I always put my lyrics through so many filters to keep them from being too introspective or revealing.
"Wouldn't it be so much more satisfying to just get all of the stuff in your notebooks out there?" said The Poet, grinning behind a late-night cup of coffee. "I know you're a rock and roll girl who sings about monsters and aliens, but you're a real girl too."
I think he probably has a good point.
Gah, I'm surrounded by people who probably believe in me more than I believe in myself. Which I'm endlessly thankful for, but I need to get over myself. I'm working on it. Tonight was liberating. Song-writing group tomorrow will be liberating (that is, if I actually bring a song out instead of just saying "Pass" yet again). Baby steps out the front door. Baby steps down the street. Baby steps into the elevator.
Hi, I'm your friendly neighborhood neurotic songwriter, reporting for duty!
They say it's because I'm a Scorpio. I thought it was probably more of a general personality flaw, but we can blame the stars anyway.
Aaaaaand that's all for now. Wow, boring entry! Sorry guys. Just had to spew all of that, I guess. I really do have stories to tell, I've just been unintentionally hoarding them. Will spill them soon. Promise. <3
(Apparently I have an affinity for text hearts now? One could even say that I <3 them...)
