Click Here To Be Grossed Out!

I am freaking out right now.

It was bad when I knew one of my neighbors managed to grow maggots in her room.

An actual conversation I found on her FB page after the incident

It was bad when a lady and her son moved in and somehow managed to make their entire hallway smell like hamsters.

The weird thing is, there are no hamsters in their room. Only one conclusion is logical: They ARE hamsters.

But now, a guy just a couple rooms away from me has BED BUGS.

I hear about those in the news all the time, but I've never personally known anyone who has actually run into them. They've always seemed like somewhat of a distant, unimportant threat. But now, knowing they have made it into THE BUILDING WHERE I SLEEP, I'm freaking out a little bit.

Naturally, I became psychosomatically itchy the minute I heard the news (which was about an hour ago). I checked my mattress. I changed my sheets. I checked everywhere that they could be hiding. Luckily, there was no sign of them, but I'm still edgy about sleeping here tonight. Maybe I'm being overly neurotic, but those things can travel fast.

I feel a cleaning rampage coming on...

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.

Printer Jams (And Other Relatively Boring Late Night Thoughts)

This is probably really stupid, but I always feel like an accomplished human being whenever I replace my printer cartridge without fumbling around in there for an hour or getting ink all over my hands.  I've always felt that printers were probably put on this earth to personally torment me.  The one I have right now seems to like me most of the time, but I have a long history with printers that live to eat my important documents.

I've contemplated starting a rapping career and basing the beats off of the sounds from old school printers.  I'll call my first album "Printer Jams."

Maybe that will be the thing that I become famous for.  Okay, going down in history as "That White Chick That Raps Over Samples Of Printers" would be slightly tragic.  But it would be better than never being famous at all.  But maybe I could get an appearance on "Oprah" out of it.

I know she's retiring soon, but I still fantasize about going on her show.  I watched this video today and it only increased my fantasies:



Yes, it's true - I want Oprah to scream my name. 

(...On her television show.  Get your mind out of the toilet.)

I'm probably going to have to settle for dancing with Ellen DeGeneres.  Which is not as great as having Oprah yell my name, but it would still be pretty cool.  Though I haven't watched Ellen's show in a long time and I heard a rumor that she doesn't make her guests dance anymore.  Disappointing. 

Look at me - counting my chickens before I even know if my hens are capable of laying eggs. 

I don't really have a need to be famous anyway.  I just want to be able to make my music, share it with other people, and maybe even be able to live off of it.  That should be do-able, right?

My E.P. is still in the works.  I think it's going to have five tracks.  I'm quite proud of my titles (some of which have very little to do with the lyrics they're associated with):

1.  We Don't Know How It's Ending
2.  Something Wrong With Me (Part Two)
3.  Notes From My (Nonexistent) Confessional Booth
4.  Greatest Thing Since Yesterday
5.  TBA

That's right - I'm still trying to figure out Track #5.  I've been leaning towards sticking a ballad in there to show some range, but I have such a love/hate relationship with my ballads.  Mostly because they are ballads.  I hate admitting that I am capable of writing things that are slow and emotional.  Which is silly.  Some of the greatest songs in rock and roll history are ballads.  It's a mental block I need to get over.

So I think I'm going to record a slower track called "Mice and Men" if I can stomach it.  I worked on it today and finally quit because I couldn't get the piano part to sound right.  I even took a break to eat a frozen dinner and blast some classic Mika for inspiration.  I'm sure my neighbors thought something was wrong when they heard "Happy Ending" and "Any Other World" being blasted on repeat. 

Anyway, I'm totally babbling.  And I'm not even babbling about anything that interesting.  I've had so much on my mind lately and yet all I can muster up for a blog post involves printer cartridges and my E.P. that you're probably all sick of hearing about (but you are all going to get free downloads of it, so be excited).

I think it's time to put my accordion case in front of my door and fall asleep.  Yes, I have been sleeping with my accordion case in front of my door ever since the maintenance man barged into my room last week.  If that's not neurotic, I don't know what is.  It's just one of many signs that it's time for me to make other plans and move on to the next part of my life, whatever that looks like.  I'm not entirely sure what direction this sitcom I'm living in is supposed to take.  I guess I just have to move forward in some direction and find out.   

More relevant and interesting stuff to come, I promise.  Gold star if you made it through this one.  I have a sneaking suspicion it's a little bit snooze-worthy.  Ah well.  Not all of my posts can be stories about ex-drug dealers flying through open windows.

Goodnight, amigos.   

Is It Just Me, Or Can You Hear Crickets Over Here???

Lauren in her natural habitat

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. 

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

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

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

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

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

Not my finest fashion moment

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

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

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

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

Blah Blah Blah...

Meeting Mike Mills (less blurry)

NOTE: I've been trying to write this post for several days now. Maybe the words will finally fall together the way I want them to this time. Read at your own risk.

R.E.M.'s new album came out yesterday. Kudos to Allison for reminding me to buy it. I downloaded it on Amazon last night and have probably listened to it five times since then. "Collapse Into Now" is the R.E.M. I fell in love with when I was a socially awkward 15-year-old raiding my dad's stereo cabinet. It also helps that I had the experience of going to a listening party with Mike Mills himself.

Still waiting for him to email me, by the way. Haha. My homemade demo CD is probably sitting in a pile somewhere on his desk. Or maybe he sat on it and broke it while it was in his back pocket. It remains a mystery. I'm not really expecting THE Mike Mills to contact me regarding my amateur demo, but it is cool to think that he has that option.

Oh man, was it only two weeks ago that I was in San Diego? I was so ready to conquer the world when I came back. What happened? Today I've been stuck in a bit of an emotional slump (with R.E.M. as the soundtrack, of course...it's like 10th grade revisited...). I know that I sometimes come off as the girl that can put on a sparkly mini-dress and power through life, but this crazy post-college adventure isn't without moments of intense self-doubt.

I found a note from The Poet under my door this morning, reminding me yet again that I'm not crazy. It found it's way under my door just when I was thinking of going back to bed. Last night I confessed to him that I felt stuck and I hadn't played the piano in four days. This alarmed him, as it probably should have. Making music is usually a daily thing for me.

I guess my groove got thrown off last week when I got weirdly sick while driving to my parents' house. I had been feeling sick like that throughout the week but this time it was really bad. I felt dizzy, my head ached, there was a weird tingling feeling down my spine, and half of my body felt like it was about to go numb. After taking a mental inventory of all the baked goods I consumed in the past 24 hours, I ended up going to urgent care and taking a series of evaluations that felt like sobriety tests. The doctor was really nice and did a good job at convincing me that I was not dying but rather just experiencing a really bizarre migraine headache. Then again, I could be suffering from intense anxiety or chronic carbon monoxide poisoning. The building I live in is ancient and full of fumes, so that last one seemed probable.

When I was calmed down and about to leave, the doctor told me I might have HIV. He followed that up with the following sentence: "And syphilis is making a comeback. You don't want to rule that out."

I nearly laughed. Did he know that my neighbor just had a melodramatic syphilis scare because of a weird rash on her foot?

Also, I feel like I would know if I had syphilis. I think there is some sort of gross rash involved, but I don't think it starts on your foot...

Anyway, I don't think any urgent care doctor should ever be allowed to mutter the words "You might have HIV" unless they plan to do some serious blood work or have decent evidence to back it up. Even if the patient casually mentions having set foot on the continent of Africa at one point in time (yes, my trip to Egypt came up somehow).

I think Jack White wrote the song "Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine" with me in mind. But I digress. After spending some quality time with WebMD and Wikipedia, I convinced myself that I do not have HIV. Instead, I became convinced that something in the building I live in (the pipes, the radiators, the chemicals the construction workers are using downstairs, etc.) was slowly eating away at me. For the first time, moving out of the commune seemed like a possibility.

I went to see a neurologist and he couldn't really pinpoint the cause. He suggested changing things about my lifestyle and environment. Not a bad idea. So I'm on a mission to eat healthier, get on a regular sleep schedule, and exercise more.

Though I can't help but be a little paranoid about my apartment. I plugged a carbon monoxide detector into the wall and it hasn't beeped at me yet. But what about the water that goes through those crusty old pipes? What about the fumes from construction? Antique mold hiding in corners and crevices?

I hope I'm just being neurotic. But a couple of my friends here have experienced milder versions of my symptoms. Maybe I'm the canary in the coal mine and we're all destined to go down in history as those hippies that all died from lead poisoning/syphilis.

It's all been a bit of a wake-up call. Right now, I'm really not feeling that well physically or mentally and I'm realizing that my days in the commune come with an expiration date. I'm calculating my next move. Or trying to, at least.

I've noticed that other people are beginning to talk about what they are going to do when they move out of the commune. One of my friends (TMBG Girl) already moved out. For most people, it's not the toxic fumes. It's a whole number of things - the ever-changing group dynamics, the petty politics, issues with The Management, the lack of consistent hot water and laundry facilities, etc.

A guy that lives on the second floor had a frightening nervous break-down a couple of days ago. It was Magic Butter Guy. Not someone I really hung out with but not someone I expected to snap and trash the kitchen. He is best known for playing the pan flute and reading poetry from a scroll. The sudden burst of violence freaked everybody out a little bit. I didn't witness it and it wasn't even my kitchen that it happened in, but it's still weird. I guess when you put a bunch of artists in a building together, it makes sense statistically that somebody is going to have a scary melt down. It's still unsettling though. And it's changed the vibe around here.

In other news, I'm trying to let go of something that's been an important part of my life and my identity for nearly half a decade. I think that's a big part of why I've been in the mood to mope around and listen to R.E.M. instead of making my own music. But I'll get over it.

On one of my first nights in the commune, The Chef invited himself into my room and ended up crying on my couch while eating shrimp-flavored cheese puffs. It was rather moving but also fairly awkward (there was a strange old man crying on my couch...). I will never forget what he said: "The only thing we ever really have is the ability to love and the ability to create. We may think we have more, but that's really all we have." I think there's a lot of truth to that statement.

So I'm not going to let this slump get the best of me. The thing about having a day where you stare at the blank pages of your journal and play the same album on repeat is that when it's over, you can consider that part done and move on (theoretically). That being said, I've already got the next insane plan in my head and tomorrow I'm coming back with full force (theoretically).

Sorry this post hasn't been the funniest. I usually try to avoid these kinds of entries and I'm debating whether or not I should click "PUBLISH." I think I'm just going to click it and if I'm unhappy with that decision in the morning I can delete it.

Stay tuned to hear about my adventures at a vegan potluck. I promise you that will be actually entertaining, not just a jumble of whiney, self-reflexive ramblings.

Gold stars to anyone who made it this far. Love you, bloggy friends.

Oh! I almost forgot!

The Fonz left this at my door shortly after our gay club adventure...

Peeps singing a Fat Boy Slim song...

That's all I've got. Over and out.

Trash Rock and Twinkies.

Ryan and I have a show tomorrow night.

Naturally, I'm already nervous.

It's ridiculous. It's getting to the point where people laugh when I mention being nervous. "Lauren, haven't you done this a million times?" they say.

Yes, I've done the performing thing a few times and usually everything feels natural and under control when I'm on stage. But there's always that weird 48 hour period beforehand where I don't know what to do with myself. I freak out about my outfit for a couple of hours. I worry about the set list. I'm even infamous for coming down with a terrible sore throat before shows. It must be psychosomatic because it happens almost every time.

We've done a lot of practicing in the past few days. We know the songs inside and out. We're ready. And I am fairly confident that we will rock it. But there is still this freaky cloud of nervousness lurking around my brain. What if our music goes horribly wrong somehow?

Then there's my own little wardrobe issue. I'm going out on a limb and wearing a strapless dress. It's the kind of dress I tried on for fun and knew immediately that it was made for me. I'm really excited about it, but I don't typically wear strapless dresses and am paranoid about having some sort of wardrobe malfunction onstage.

I'm so paranoid that I've been practicing in the dress. That's probably not the type of thing you should admit on a public blog, but it's true. I've been putting on my dress and heels before band practice these days. I've also spent way too much time practicing my keytar stance in front of my mirror when I'm alone. Don't judge.

But aside from being awkwardly nervous, I'm just plain excited. It's been way too long since Ryan and I have done a show at a decent venue. I know we're going to have a blast.

I also know that the crowd will be full of my friends and neighbors from the commune. The Poet is organizing a massive field trip. Nobody here drives, so it sounds like there's going to be twenty people taking a Trimet bus across town to cheer me on as I pretend to be a rock star.

I know I've probably said it before, but I'll say it again: The people I live with are absolutely wonderful.

Sometimes I feel like we're the brats that have refused to grow up and that's why we all get along so well. If you don't believe me, check out these pictures from Sunday night's art installation:

Yes, those are Twinkies. Yes, they are wearing loin cloths/thongs and hanging from the ceiling.

It all started on the kitchen whiteboard with a weird cartoon war between The Fonz and The Chef. It escalated to The Poet buying two boxes of Twinkies at the store and handing them to The Fonz, Purple Hair, and myself to decorate. We hung them all from the ceiling in the middle of the night. It was glorious.

I think we all missed the memo that we aren't in college anymore. But right now, that's okay. I'm having more fun than I ever did in college anyway. I'm definitely making a lot more music, which is what I need to be doing.

And with that, I'm off to go make more tea. I've got to make this stupid sore throat go away by tomorrow night, even if it is just psychosomatic.

Peace out, amigos.

Things Are Getting Steamy Over Here...

Note: You are about to read an incredibly embarrassing account of something that happened today. Enter at your own risk.

Today it was announced that the hot water problem in my building has been fixed. Well, it's almost fixed. The hot water works now, but you have to let it run for at least ten minutes first. Naturally, I was skeptical. But I had spent the morning planting trees in the mud with my environmental activist friends and was in the mood for a hot shower. So I turned on the water, felt how cold it was, and let it run while I replied to a couple of emails. Then I went into the bathroom, shut the door, and got ready to take a shower.

The water was indeed HOT. It felt like Christmas! That shower hadn't been hot since the 22nd of December! I was so excited that I washed my hair twice. I stayed in the shower for a very long time and finally emerged feeling totally happy and refreshed. I dried off with a towel and went to open the bathroom door.

The bathroom door would not open.

Sometimes the door sticks a little bit, so I yanked on it like I normally do. But this was no ordinary case of sticky door syndrome. This door had managed to steam itself shut.

I spent several minutes pulling on the door handle. This was unsuccessful. I realized that the wood had expanded because of the steam (this is probably why so many people have bathroom fans...). Fortunately, my closet is in the bathroom, so I got dressed and tried to think things through strategically.

Being the slob that I am, I keep various dirty dishes on the window sill. Among these dishes was a knife I used to spread cream cheese on a bagel last week. I grabbed it, rinsed it off, and attempted to pry open the door with a butter knife. The door was so swollen that the knife wouldn't even fit in the crack.

I tried a few other odd utensils and eventually reverted back to just pulling on the door handle. No luck. It dawned on me that I should open the window to let some of the steam out, so I did that.

It was at this point that I realized that there was nothing else I could do. So I sat down and tried not to think about how powerless I currently felt. I painted my toe nails. I put on make-up. I even thought about cleaning a little bit, but then decided to check the door again.

The door was still stuck. I had been trapped in there for about a half an hour and was starting to get a little bit paranoid. What if the door never opened for me? What then? Sure, my neighbors love me, but if they don't see me in the kitchen they're just going to assume I'm locked away in my room on purpose, maybe frantically working on Goat Man and eating microwavable chicken pot pies. No one's going to come looking. How was I going to get out?

I started looking out the window, thinking that if I saw the right person taking a smoke break I would yell at them. The only person out there was Merry Christmas Forever Guy. I like him and I know he'd probably help me, but I don't know him well enough to yell at him from the third story window and tell him I'm stuck in my bathroom.

And even if I had been able to yell at him and get his attention, it wouldn't have done any good because the door to my apartment was locked. Someone would have had to pick the lock or call the building manager and then it would have been a big, embarrassing ordeal.

So I tried to wait it out. After I had been in there for a good 45 minutes, I vowed to break free once and for all. I yanked on the door like a crazy person for several minutes yet again.

Finally, the door flew opened and I was free after spending nearly an hour locked in my own damn bathroom. I felt like I had just lived through the ultimate neurotic single person's nightmare.

All I can say is this - I don't think I'm ever going to close that door again.

Aaaaaand that's all I've got for tonight. Peace.

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.

I'm Having A Hard Time Coming Up With A Coherent Title For This One...

There's a moment in 30 Rock when Liz Lemon mentions she went to see an obscure art film on the weekend.  It then cuts to a shot of her buying her ticket at the movie theater, lowering her voice and saying "One for 'Hot Tub Time Machine,' please." 

I totally felt like Liz Lemon last night.  I was in a bit of a slump for several stupid reasons, including (but not limited to) the following:

-  The water in the building was turned off for repairs yet again.  I think there was a memo about that somewhere but I missed out on it.  I discovered this issue when I unsuccessfully attempted to take a shower.

-  The reality of being twenty-three.  Cliche?  Yes, completely.  But birthdays always bring along this realization of how quickly time passes and how unknown the future is.  Allow me to stop before I become too depressing.

-  My ongoing failure to write a decent song from start to finish.  Just call me Roger from "RENT."  Sometimes, I'm really prolific when it comes to writing songs.  But right now, I'm stuck in the mud.  I want my one song glory and I want it now! 

-  Frustration with the general male population.  Between awkward guys from high school resurfacing five years later to suggest we "grab lunch or coffee sometime," hipster boys disappearing into the night after promising they'll return when they've smoked a cigarette, and Facebook constantly reminding me that my ex-boyfriend is having a jolly good time on his own planet, I think I'm ready to become a nun for a little bit.  Except I'm not Catholic.  At all.  So there goes that plan. 

Anyway, those are all fairly silly things, but they can be the cause of a slump when thrown together as a combo pack and left to simmer in my brain for awhile.  Fortunately, I live only a few blocks away from the fabulous Academy Theater.  And last night, they were playing the movie that both of my husbands are in.

Naturally, I am referring to "Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World."  I got married to Michael Cera AND Jason Schwartzman when nobody was looking.  Don't feel bad if you didn't know.  I don't bring it up a lot because Michael likes his privacy and is a little embarrassed about being involved in a polygamous marriage. 

Hi, this post is taking a turn for the weird.  Let's return to real life, shall we?

I'm not going to geek out about "Scott Pilgrim" today (mostly because I've already done that).  Instead, I'd like to note that going to the movies alone can sometimes be a very satisfying experience.  Some people might think it's kind of sad, but I think it's the ultimate independent woman thing to do. 

I even treated myself to pizza and root beer from the snack bar.  I was about to order PBR (to go with my new-found hipster persona, of course), but then I remembered that I was by myself and therefore could shamelessly indulge in root beer.  Root beer > PBR (that's a "greater than" sign, for those of you who failed seventh grade alegebra).  Don't tell the hipster police I said that. 

Having a cheap theater within walking distance of me is probably a bad idea.  I could see myself turning into a character from a Woody Allen film and spending too much time at the movies during the day. 

Heh, now that I think about it, I'm probably already a character in a Woody Allen film.  I've got red hair.  I own a typewriter.  I can play the clarinet.  I'm awkward, anxious, and neurotic.  I think rabbi-related humor is funny and always appropriate.  The list could go on and on. 

Crap.  I am a character in a Woody Allen film.  Does that mean Woody Allen is God of the world I live in?  If so, I'm doomed.  But at least that would explain why I often have the uncontrollable urge to be obnoxiously witty. 

This post is weirder than most.  Congrats if you made it this far.  You are a blog-reading warrior.  Gold star for you. 

That's all I've got.  Peace out, amigos. 

Mildly Freaked Out

I shouldn't be awake right now. My phone might ring at 6am, and if it does, I should answer it and go tackle whatever subbing job is thrown at me. I need the money. It will enhance the quality of my rock tour experience. Also, I can't live at my parents house forever. Money is a good thing to be acquiring right now.

But I'm watching all my friends get sucked into the relentless world of work and I have no desire to join them.

Ryan is in that world now. I can tell he doesn't enjoy that much, especially on the days where I strut into his garage wearing his girl pants and talk about how I spent the whole day writing blogs and eating nachos. But he's making more money than I will make for awhile, so I guess it's good for him.

Since I've had a lot of free time lately, I've started up a new blog - a musical advice column of sorts. It's an idea I've had bouncing around my brain for several months but have never had the time to put into starting it up. You can check it out here. I've been having a lot of fun with it so far. Weirdly enough, it's been getting tons of hits.

In other news, the infamous Someday Lounge show is in four days. I'm honestly nervous. Our ticket sales aren't what they need to be yet. I'm also feeling like we need to practice more. I'm even skipping out on the Amanda Palmer show to work on perfecting our sound. It's lame, but the great AFP will come through town again. If I sound awful on Sunday, I won't forgive myself easily.

I should end this post and go to bed before I completely descend into the land of neurosis.

Ack. We need sell 10 more tickets. Or something like that.

Being onstage at a rock show is one of my favourite things ever, but it always stresses me out. I need to get a grip on that if I'm really going to do this for a living. Or at least for a summer. I have no idea what I'm doing for a living. Maybe I'll come live under your bed and write musical advice for you whenever you're having a bad day? I'll be like a little leprechan, but not very little and a lot less Irish.

Okay. Must be bed time.

Peace and trash rock, amigos.

United States of Neurotica

I ride the elevator up to the 18th floor, clutching the bag with my hard drive in it. I hate elevators. I get in and out of different elevators three times just because I cannot bear to ride up 18 floors in one straight shot (and because an assortment of awkward strangers kept getting in with me).

The 18th floor is full of offices and cubicles. I immediately feel stifled. I quickly find the people I've been doing an internship for and get them the video they need from my hard drive. "Sorry it's not entirely edited," I say. "I was going to go to the lab and edit it this morning, but somebody spilled some chemicals in the science building and the whole campus was shut down." (And yes, that really happened.)

They are nice people. They like the work I've done, or at least they pretend to. It's a dreadfully boring video, but it's what they wanted. They help me finish it and get it exported and out of my hair. "Great work," they say. The man gives me a high five.

I take the elevator down 18 floors and spend several minutes attempting to locate my car in the parking garage. I do not relax until I am on the freeway.

I never, ever, ever want to work in a job that requires me to sit in a cubicle. I never want to have an office. I don't know if I ever want a proper desk. The idea of offices and cubicles and giant corporate buildings with over 18 floors terrifies me. It's enough to make me want to run away and make music.

Well, I guess I want to do that anyway. But you get the point.

Two weeks of school left. Two weeks, and then finals. After that - BAM! Graduation. The official launching into the universe. I am excited, but at the same time, I am totally stressed out and not even sure how I'm going to make it through the next two weeks. I know I will somehow, but it still throws me into anxiety land whenever I think about all the things that need to happen between now and then.

I tried to go to bed early tonight, but it didn't work out. Too much on my mind. I went into the kitchen and ate jello with a fork (the spoons were dirty). Then I puttered around the Internet for a bit, as I often do on nights like this.

Tonight, I found myself on Omegle. I hadn't been there in a long, long time and most of my conversations looked like this:

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You: i dont want to have cybersex
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

I did manage to have a decent conversation with a polite, music-savvy teenager in Brooklyn. The convo ended with the girl adding Original Sound Trash as a friend and promising to come to a show if we play Brooklyn. I gave up on Omegle after that. The odds of having two good conversations in one evening are too slim.

I should probably go to bed. I am not going to want to get up in the morning. But I probably wouldn't want to get out of bed even if I fell asleep three hours ago.

Man, I can't wait until rock tour. It's quickly become something that I not only want to do, but that I need to do. I need to get the heck out of here for awhile. I need to travel and meet all kinds of interesting people and have crazy experiences and make loud music.

That's all.