Before The World Ends...

According to The Mayan calender, the world is going to end this Friday.  Now, I don't believe it actually will, but just in case The Mayans were right, I figured I should update this blog.

I don't have any grand life updates or excuses for you this time.  Instead, I have a video I recently made.  I had a lot of fun putting this together and I would love it if you took three minutes to watch it.  And if you like it, feel free to share it on whatever social networks you use these days. 

 

What do YOU want to do before the world ends?

More Reflections And Stuff...

Oh man. I'm currently at Peets Coffee inhaling a pumpkin spice latte and it's the best coffee-related drink I've had in ages. It officially feels like Fall now. It's weird to think that just last week there was a major heat wave. The air has shifted since then and that distinctive Fall smell has returned. The infamous Portland rain has made a few cameos in the weather report and I've even felt the need to wear sweaters a couple of times.

Personally, I'm glad it's fall again. I'm a true Oregonian in that I secretly hate sunshine and live for a good gloomy overcast day. And I would always rather be too cold than too hot (because really, you can always put on more clothes to warm up when it's cold but can you only take off so many clothes to cool down when it's hot), so breaking out my long sleeved shirts again was sort of exciting.

Also, Fall is by far my favorite of all the seasons. Winter is too depressing, Spring is too optimistic, and Summer is just too darn hot and frankly overrated. But Fall contains a sort of delicate beauty that makes me want to drink too many lattes and write bad poetry about leaves or something.

Fall does bring a certain element of nostalgia along. Maybe it's one of the things that is packaged in that crisp autumn air. It's undoubtedly a season of change, but it's also a season with a distinct set of memories.

This year seems especially nostalgic. A year ago, I was getting ready to move to the city and live with a bunch of wacky artists. I was meeting everyone for the first time. I was building friendships, making alliances, learning who to watch out for, and feeling completely accepted and supported as a creative individual.

A year later, I'm still here, existing in this big bohemian mad house made of brick. And it's been quite the year - I think I have enough material for one thousand sitcom episodes and a few feature films. But the times are changing. People are changing. People are leaving. I keep saying I want to leave too but I don't know where I want to go.

We had The First Of The Last Suppers last night in the courtyard. It started at dusk and we lit everything with candlelit. It was a good night but slightly strange. A handful of my favorite people are sticking around until they develop better plans, but many people are fleeing on October 1st.

The Chef is moving to Finland. He was my first friend here and is one of the most unique people I've ever met. I think I'm in denial over the fact that he's leaving. I'll still have The Fonz, The Poet, and The Mad Scientist (who's been coming out of his room more often and gracing us with his lovably odd personality), but none of them are going to stick train whistles in an air mattress or organize community Solstice celebrations.

And, of course, no one else is going to get drunk and sing "One Night In Bangkok" while spontaneously yanking on The Poet's nipples. Yes, that is a moment that happened last night and yes, i am still laughing about it.

But I digress. A bunch of other people on the third floor are moving too. It's a mass exodus, I guess. Feels like the end of summer camp, actually. You know, it's emotional and seems unfair and you don't want to move on from the fun you had in the woods, but you know deep down that you need to join the real world again and you look forward to bathrooms with running water.

I'll be honest and say that I don't always like change. But I guess that's just something that often comes with Fall.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This One Comes With Ugly Drawings And Diagrams!

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

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

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

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

Over and out, amigos.

Late Night Love/Hate Lists

I love it when...

- A friend introduces you to someone you've never seen before but that person pretends to have a history with you. It's best if you play along. Example: Friend: "Lauren, meet my friend André." André: "Oh, I know Lauren - we traveled across the country together back in 2001." Me: "Oh yeah, that was crazy! Especially when the car broke down. Nice to see you again, André."

- My friends and I have picnics on the stoop over-looking 82nd Avenue and pretend it's somewhere scenic.

- The coffee finally kicks in and I write about twelve pages of a theoretical sitcom episode over the course of a couple of hours.

- I realize that I am absolutely surrounded by people that believe in me and my various creative projects.

I hate it when...

- I realize that probably at least half of the people I hang out with only invite me places because I'm the one with the car.

- The smell of the dead fridge wafts down the hallway.

- The noise from 82nd Avenue keeps me awake when I sleep with my window open.

- It becomes clear that I need to move on from this Bohemian mad house and do something slightly more responsible with my life (don't ask me what that would be - I don't know yet...).

Mad Scientist Alert

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

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

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

REASONS THE GUY ACROSS THE HALL IS A MAD SCIENTIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Have You Heard About The Turd?

I've been laughing all evening.

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what it said:


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

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

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

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

POOP IN A BUCKET captivates!


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

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

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

It was the crazy lady that lives downstairs.

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

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

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

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

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

Ack. I feel a rap coming on...

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

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

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

Your Daily Dose Of Commune Drama

I'm angry.

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.

A Tuesday Night In June

Roll the days up into an endless montage of coded words and coffee cups. This is the summer that happened when I was twenty-three.

Sitting under a tree as the sun set on Tuesday night, illuminated by an array of Christmas lights and sparkly fabric, I played music for my friends and neighbors in honor of Solstice. Encouraged by the drunken cheers, I belted out song after song until somebody from upstairs filed a noise complaint. It was the most fun I've had in awhile.

There had been a rumor that I was going to open for a friend of The Chef's who was visiting from out of town and was previously in a well-known alternative band. Just when I was starting to get excited about that possibility, I was informed that the guy wasn't answering his phone and would not be gracing us with his presence. So I became the headliner and the opening act became The Chef's infamous sound sculpture (an air mattress with train whistles and pan flute parts shoved into it so that it makes a shrill and obnoxious wheezing sound when turned on).

I've had some strange opening acts in my short time as a performing musician, but it doesn't get much weirder than the singing mattress. I feel as though I have finally arrived in The Land Of Rock And Roll.

There was also a nice moment before the show when The Chef was attempting to cook a chicken on a beer can under the grill and completely forgot about it. The result? A large cloud of smoke and one very black chicken.

Fortunately, it was set up as a potluck and other people brought food. Mysterious, vegan-friendly food, as one might expect from a Solstice celebration in an artist's community. But at least this time, we didn't have to go around and announce the ingredients used in each dish just in case somebody had a food allergy (yes, I have been to a potluck like that...it felt like a "Portlandia" episode...).

It was a pretty good crowd of people. Naturally, the usual crew was there - The Fonz, The Poet, Purple Hair, The Fallen Nun, The Chef, Jack, The Dancer, The Jewish Guy From New Jersey. The old guy that makes weird photoshop art involving floating baby heads. The Feng Shui lady with hair that belongs on The Trinity Broadcasting Network. The silent Canadian guy who generally only comes out long enough to bake special brownies. The woman with a dog that looks like Wishbone. The grumpy old lady who makes tassels for a living. The man who has been known to wear a dress on occasion. The Cute Poet Boy and his strangely butch girlfriend. The resident lesbian folk singer. The hipster who has dedicated his life to painting well-known cartoon characters holding cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The guy who aspires to go to butler school. The duo of sexually ambiguous hipster boys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes."

And me, in my summer dress, playing songs about love and giardia under a light-up tree.

All the rocks that society hands to us in boxes and backpacks become irrelevant in that moment. The elephants that have crept into our rooms over the past eight months go into the corner and drink too many tall boys. In the morning, we will once again face the reality of being starving artists in the twenty-first century. But in the garden, breathing in the music and laughter with the warm June air, that reality is unimportant. And life suddenly seems so very simple.

One day I will look back on all of this - this moment in time, this summer that happened when I was twenty-three - and I will laugh at the absurdity of it all. I'm laughing now and I'm still in the midst of it. But I wouldn't have any of it any other way.

Happy Summer, boys and girls. <3

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

The Things I Do To Avoid Getting A Normal Job...

I'm a little amazed right now.

We had our monthly Friday night open house and I made $50.

I made $20 by selling a duct tape purse with a Bob Dylan-themed collage on the front.

I made $30 by putting the following signs in front of my door:

I then opened my door, set up my keyboard, and sang songs to my microwave until someone walked by.

I thought I would have a few takers, but I didn't expect the tip jar to look like this at the end of the night:

I lost track of how many songs I spontaneously wrote for random people tonight, but I know it had to be at least 15. Naturally, I am completely drained right now. I just spent a good three hours pretending to be far more extroverted than I really am. But it was a lot of fun and it seemed like my silly little songs brought joy to a lot of people.

At first, I was frustrated because no one was coming to my end of the hallway. The Chef took his insanity to a whole new level and decided to display his new "sound sculpture" down the hall from me. This fine piece of work is nothing more than an air mattress with a few toy horns attached to it. When inflated, it makes the loudest, most obnoxious wheezing noise imaginable. So that was in the middle of the hallway, honking away.

As if that wasn't bad enough, The Chef decided that it was time to debut his recording of a song entitled "The Hamster Wheel Of Bullshit." This song is basically just those five words repeated in various rhythms. He blasted it from an amp along with some loud, industrial sounds.

I love The Chef, but I couldn't even hear my own voice over his cacophony festival. Not to mention people were afraid to come near the third floor.

The Poet came in and shut the door, a worried look on his face. "Okay, I think The Chef has really lost it. Seriously, what the f@#$? I tried to confront him and the noise just got louder."

I decided to go down the hall and talk to him. I just nicely asked him to turn it down so I could play music in my room. Surprisingly, he turned it down and turned it off soon afterward. But he kept the sound sculpture going. In fact, he shoved it in a nearby utility closet that locked accidentally. None of us have the key, so that thing was in there screaming forever. Apparently it got so bad that people were trying to pick the lock.

So that all threw off my groove a little bit. But after a few people came in and out of my room and requested songs, I was able to slip into performer mode.

It was strange how many people took me up on my offer for profound life advice. I mean, who am I and why am I even qualified to give people advice? I'm just some artsy chick with a keyboard and a tip jar. But all sorts of people wanted to hear what I would come up with.

I wrote the weirdest assortment of songs. I sang about how to get a girlfriend. I sang about how to choose a major in college. I sang about unicorns and how they relate to the human condition. I sang about birds. I sang about existentialism and Twinkies. I sang about how to get away with farting in public. I gave a couple some advice on time management. I wrote theme songs for people. I played my accordion and encouraged people to sing along (they did).

The weirdest part for me was that though I felt like my advice was often vague and flippant, people really reacted to it. I had multiple people say "That was really what I wanted to hear right now." I think one guy almost cried.

This guy is actually a musician that lives downstairs. I don't know him that well, but I know from talking to The Poet that he's been really discouraged and has been thinking of giving up on music. So when he came in and asked for a song, I gave him a song about how he shouldn't stop making music. He thanked me for it several times throughout the night.

And then there was the end the night, when I got trapped with the old drunk guy that would not leave. Fortunately, The Poet walked by and I was able to get his attention by urgently say "Hey!" He say what was going on right away and came to the rescue. Except the drunk guy wouldn't leave without getting a song first. I was really ready to be done with songs and had no advice to give to this man other than "Please get out of my room," so it ended up being mainly instrumental.

Anyway, that's the story of how I wound up with $30 in my tip jar. It was a really slow night and I was one of the few people that made any money. I was pretty stoked. Not only did I make a little bit of cash, but I had a fun time and made people smile. Mission accomplished.

Insane In The Membrane (Insane In The Brain!)

So I wrote gobs of stuff yesterday. I stayed up the night before puking out sheet music. I slept for almost five hours, then got up and spent the day puking out more sheet music and writing more songs. I felt manic. I felt inspired. I felt a little bit like a crazed lunatic. I took a few breaks to graze on various things in my refrigerator. A friend knocked on my door and brought me Vietnamese food. I left the room a couple of times but mostly I just let myself get lost in the saga of Goat Man. It was really great.

Today hasn't been as great. I overslept and my plan to clean/rearrange my room so I can use it as a recording studio tomorrow turned into quite the complicated affair. I even ended up leaving my cave (and my project!) for several hours to see some old friends from college that were briefly in town. I'm glad I got to see them, but all of the conversations were about practical, adult-type things like grad school, finances, and interior decorating. I sat there in my new fur beret and felt like I was on a completely different planet.

Here in the commune, we refer to "normal, functioning members of society" (those with corporate jobs, practical life plans, spouses, houses, children, etc.) as "balloons in orbit." I have never really fit into that "balloon world," but now that I'm living in a community of artists and am pouring hours of my life into writing a rock opera about anthropomorphic goat men, I feel as thought I've fallen out of the orbit completely and am floating around in an entirely different galaxy.

That sounded a lot more cosmic than I intended it to. But you get the point.

In other news, as I was cleaning my room today, I discovered that I still had a pile of crap belonging to Tweaked Out Elvis Costello. We really only hung out for about a week and a half, but somehow that was enough time to acquire the following items:
- a broken amp
- a shorted guitar cable
- two bad microphones
- a stove top

For whatever reason, he stopped talking to me and I hardly ever see him. But I still had all of his junk. So I piled it outside of my room with his name on it and sent him a "COME PICK UP YOUR CRAP" text message. The pile disappeared sometime early this afternoon while I was in my room cleaning, so I can only assume he picked it up.

But the pile was there long enough for The Poet to see it and ask me about it when I was in the kitchen making tea. "Okay, kid, I get why you might have his amp, but...a stove??? What the hell was that all about???" he says, raising an eyebrow.

I am laughing so hard that it takes me forever to tell him about the time Tweaked Out Elvis Costello insisted on bringing his stove into my room to cook spaghetti.

"Lauren!" says The Poet, laughing so hard he can barely talk. "Next time there's a boy, NO STOVE TOPS AFTER A WEEK AND A HALF!"

That sounds like a really good rule to live by.

Aaaaand now I should get back to Goat Man. I think I'm ready to focus again. I think I feel another episode of the crazy brain thing coming on. Time to rock and roll.

Over and out, comrades.

I Now Return You To Your Regularly Scheduled Programming...

Whew. Busy day in the blogosphere. I just updated my Musical Advice Column for the first time since last summer. I'm planning to update it regularly again. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you may want to head over there and experience the madness. Basically, people write in with their various problems and I respond to them by singing and playing an instrument. Yeah, it really is as campy as it sounds. You just might love it.

I also just put up my Friday post for the Transatlantic Support Group. I think I've mentioned the TASG a couple of times already in this blog, but it gets a little bit cooler each week. Allison and Tom are fantastic people to collaborate with and I assure you that you will be entertained if you click on the TASG link.

Anyway, enough shameless self-promotion and onto other news.

I snagged this photo from Facebook today:

It's from the kitchen show last week and pretty much sums up the magic of trash rock. It was taken by The Chef, who was probably on his second or third bottle of wine at the time this picture was taken.

Sadly, the grand era of trash rock may be coming to an end. We're not breaking up, but we're slowly headed in opposite directions. Meaning that I want to do music for a living and he wants to be a full time computer programmer. I respect his decision, but it's still depressing.

So I'm working up the nerve to book a solo show somewhere. I've also been writing music like crazy. We'll see what happens.

Anyway, that's about all I have to report. I think I'm going to meet up with my old high school Spanish partner for a little heavy metal knitting party. Then later, I'm going to an electronica show with a few of my neighbors. I'm pretty stoked. I'm totally in the mood to dance.

I should figure out what I'm going to wear. It might be an evening that requires a costume change. I can't imagine that the outfit I wear to the dance club will be appropriate for knitting with the old Spanish partner...

Over and out, comrades! Happy Friday!

Tattooed Tony

So it's officially my first night here in the commune.  It's so big and feels a bit institutional, but it's slowly becoming more populated and less intimidating. 

I made Ryan come over for band practice (after all, it's Tuesday - the traditional day of trash rock time).  He hadn't seen my place yet and was pretty entertained by it.  He was even prancing around the halls playing mariachi music on his guitar at one point.  I gave him the grand tour and then we played through some songs in my room, leaving the door open a little bit in case anyone wanted to hear us. 

Towards the end of practice, an old guy popped his head in the doorway.  I was expecting him to tell us to shut up, but instead he enthusiastically told us to keep playing.  He introduced himself and offered us some salmon bisque he had just made. 

There were a few people in the kitchen, so I took my tea kettle in there and made some tea while working up the courage to sample the sketchy looking bisque.  Met a couple of my neighbors and made some small talk.  They were cool people:  a college kid studying photography, a woman who really liked the color orange, and the old guy that cooked the bisque.  Turns out the old guy used to be a professional chef in Canada.  Photography Guy was eating the bisque and looked like he was enjoying it, so I decided to give it a taste. 

"I know, it looks like bloody awful slop," said the old guy in a fake British accent.  He was right - it was ugly and gray.  It smelled good though, so I tried a little.  It was really good as long as I didn't look at it.  Ryan didn't want any.  He was missing out. 

We sat around drinking tea with our new friends for a little bit.  Then Ryan took off and I went back to my room to put my keyboard away.  I went back into the kitchen to wash a teacup.  A tough-looking man with a tattoo was chopping up zucchini and singing Beatles songs in a deep voice.  He introduced himself to me as Tony.  I talked to him for a little bit and found out that he was just there visiting a girl that lives down the hall from me.  Apparently he's from New York but bounces back and between here and Arizona.  "Depends on what the weather does," he says, chopping another zucchini.

I left the kitchen and went back to my room to check my email and make a phone call.  I went back to the kitchen a little later to recycle an empty juice bottle and discovered that Tony was putting the final touches on a beautiful plate of grilled tomatoes, zucchini, and pita bread. 

"Wow, you're quite the gourmet chef," I say.

He laughs.  "I'm hanging out with a girl!  We're gonna watch a movie...have a few beers...I always like to make sure I make good food when I'm hanging out with a girl!"

I look at the professionally plated display of vegetables and pita, then at the grin on Tony's face.  "It's healthy, too!" he adds enthusiastically. 

I can't help but smile.  "It looks great!" I say.  "She's going to be impressed." 

I think Tattooed Tony just restored my faith in men a little bit. 


Anyway, that's all I've got for now.  Stay tuned for more stories from the commune! 

And with that, I say goodnight, amigos.  :)