Breathe

I recently collaborated with The Poet on a song called "Breathe." He handed me the lyrics one night last spring and I did my best to bring them to life musically. I'm very pleased with the results.

Actually, it's become one of my favorite songs in my repertoire.

Though I feel like my voice is lower than normal in this song. I had a sore throat when I recorded it. And it was late. And I was grumpy. And I was trying to be the female David Bowie but instead ended up sounding more like Annie Lennox. I actually fully intended to redo the vocals, but people were like "No, chicks with deep voices are sexy!" So I kept it like it was.

Anyway, I'm rambling here. I feel very Lennon and McCartney with this whole music collaboration thing. Except I think that I would be McCartney in this scenario, and I'm totally a Lennon. Or maybe I just strive to be a Lennon but in reality am a McCartney?

I DIGRESS.

Last fall, I filmed this video around my old neighborhood. I figure that all artists have to have a low budget music video that screams "I'M BROKE AND LIVE IN THE GHETTO," so this is mine.

Enjoy. :)

I Moved Out Just In Time...

I'm not really into having regrets, but I've been having the thought that maybe I should have stayed in the artist's community until I had a solid escape plan. Because even though it was weird and depressing and full of fairly unstable people on strange cocktails of synthetic drugs, it was also in the city that I love and was full of creative people who understood me. And after living in that sort of environment for over a year, going back to my parents' house in the country initially felt like someone pressed a giant "PAUSE" button and my exciting sit-com of a life was on hold.

After all, it's so quiet at night out here. I'm sort of used to the constant noise of traffic. The sound of cop cars. Drunk people fighting outside my window. Turrets Guy waiting for the bus. It doesn't get much better than "Dammit dammit dammit dammit!" Out here there are no Turrets Guys. Out here there is mostly silence. And large fields.

I don't really regret leaving the artist's community, though. In fact, I think I left at the perfect time.

I learned yesterday that a pipe in my old bathroom burst at about three o'clock in the morning, flooding the entire apartment. The resident maintenance guy didn't know how to shut the water off, so the water leaked into the hallway. It also dripped through the floor and got the guy below, then kept going, flooding part of the gallery in the basement.

When I heard this news, I couldn't stop laughing. Then I just got this image in my brain of my old messy room - papers, clothes, and electronics everywhere. And for a second, I imagined that room full of water. So many things would have been toast!

Not to mention I would have had to deal with a surprise water attack in the middle of the night...

All regrets I might have had about moving out are now gone.

After all, there is no such thing as a "PAUSE" button. So, it's onwards and upwards.

Whatever that means.

Florida: It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Hello hello, my amigos. And guess what?

I am already back in Portland. So much for my "grand adventure."

I don't really know what I was expecting in Florida. Probably sunshine and alligators and streets full of very tan, muscular men who walk around shirtless because of the heat. Or something along those lines.

It didn't take long for me to discover that my destination was a place that looks like Alabama.

I swear I could hear banjo music in the distance...

What was that noise overhead?  Oh, you know, just an alien spacecraft...

Okay, so I've never actually been to Alabama, but I assume that it looks ugly and dead like that.

Everything was flat and covered in a combination of scraggly little trees and grass that needed to be watered.  Billboards promoting fundamental religious beliefs lined the highway.  There was not a single hipster in sight - instead, it seemed that everyone was overweight and attempting to keep their unruly flab inside their tight clothes while drinking a large ice tea from the one Starbucks in town.

It should also be noted that I had to explain to a barista in that one Starbucks how to make me a cup of basic, brewed coffee.  I realize that I'm beginning to sound like a snob, but it was all a bit shocking.

Landing in a household that assumed I was a "liberal, green peace, tree-hugging hippy freak" simply because I asked where the recycling bin was didn't do much for my opinion of Central Florida.  It didn't help that I was obliviously drinking decaf every morning.  Anyway, it wasn't long until I wanted to go home.

In fact, all I could think of was Portland - my friends, my family, decent coffee, trash cans that say "LAND FILL" on them, the quirky night clubs, etc.  So when I got a text asking if I could house-sit in Southeast, I quickly replied "YES" and booked a return flight to the Pacific Northwest. 

It wasn't a worthless adventure - I feel as though I gained a lot of insight on the rest of the country as well as myself and how truly West Coast I am.  I also got to spend a day at the beach, try a lot of weird Latin food (I stayed in a bilingual household), and see Cirque Du Soleil for free (I happened to be in the right place at the right time and some random guy named Ted handed me a ticket he couldn't use...so, so awesome).  So that's all good stuff.

Sticking my feet in The Atlantic Ocean

Hanging out with some seagulls

A bit of beautiful scenery

Embracing the campy side of Orlando

Eating yucca con chicharon (or, those potato-type things with pork skins on top)

I also took advantage of the moderately abysmal scenery and shot a music video when no one was looking.  I only took one take because I wasn't entirely sure where I was and those big black birds were beginning to circle above me (vultures, perhaps?), but I think it turned out okay.

Anyway, it feels incredibly good to be back in the town that still honors the dream of the 90's.

Except I'm not really back in town - I'm staying at my parents' house in the country.  But that's a small detail. 

---------------------------

(Note:  If you are reading this and you are from Central Florida or anywhere in The South, please do not take offensive to this post.  I do not have anything against you - I've just lived in Portland my entire life and found your Bible Belt shocking.  Take everything I say with a grain of organic kosher salt.)

My New Concept Album

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

Tracks include:

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

• "Imma Shoot You!"

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

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

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

• "Heyyy, Do You Folks Have Gaaanja?"

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

• "Man With Turrets Waiting For The Bus"

• "Sorry, I Don't Have A Lighter"

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

• "The Bus Stop Is NOT A Urinal!"

• "Here Come The Cops!"

• "Imma Cut You!"

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

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

You will LOVE it.


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

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

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

The Day I Met Fred

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

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

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

But this is not a story about any of that.

This is a story about Fred Armisen.


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

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

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

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

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

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

It's definitely my new favorite celebrity encounter story.

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

Dripping With Ambition

Lately, there has been an epidemic of people sitting around the kitchen complaining that they never get anything done.  

Somehow, that lead to this lovely piece of butcher paper hanging above the community couch:

 

I love knowing that I'm not the only person who has ever considered doing laundry and eating chocolate to be acceptable daily goals.  

I also love that one guy's goal for tomorrow night is to "GO TO BLOW PONY AND GET WAAAAASTED."

And it should be noted that most of the names on there are not our real names.  Remember last week when I mentioned we all have hippy commune names now?  You're looking at them.

There is also a list of long-term community goals in the top right-hand corner:

These goals include a glam rock sing-a-long, a sushi night with lots of alcohol, a road trip to the von Trapp Family Ski Resort in Vermont, and a club devoted to eating salad.

Ladies and gentlemen, the dream of the 90's is alive in Portland. 

That is all.

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.

The Dream Of The 90's Is Alive...

So as some of you already know, Lorne Michaels is making a TV show about my city. This video crossed my radar a couple of nights ago:

I'm not really sure if I find it funny or offensive.

I laughed when I watched the video, but it also made me slightly uncomfortable. It describes Portland - and my life - a little too well.

I mean, it was only last week that I updated my work information on Facebook to look like this:

And I've spent way too much over the past month making purses out of duct tape. Look, this one is definitely art because it has a bird on it:

I spent all morning listing these purses on my new Etsy store. This was the first morning in a long time that I did not sleep till 11.

And what's my occupation? I guess I don't have one. I'm a musician.

I could go on and on. Like I said, the video was a little too close to home.

Of course, I'm still going to have to watch the show when it comes out.

Witness The Whiteness

So last week was a little rough. By the time Friday rolled around, there was really only one thing I wanted to do: GO 80'S DANCING.

I know, I know, I'm such a cliche white person. I'm pretty sure 80's dancing is on the official list of stuff white people like, if not at the very top. But there's a great place downtown that has a little something called "80's Video Dance Attack" every Friday night. Once a week, young hipsters with side-ponytails, middle-aged Billy Idol fans, and old people in 80's prom dresses line up around the block for this 80's night.

I couldn't allow myself to have another night of eating ice cream and surfing the musician want-ads on Craigslist, so I called up my friend Mariah and met up with her downtown. She had recently been talking about how she never goes out, so I felt that it was my duty as a friend to expose her to the glory of 80's dancing.

The club was packed and we ended up waiting in line on the sidewalk for awhile. We finally made it past the bouncer around 11 and found ourselves in a large room full of drunken white people attempting to dance to "Come On Eileen."

Mariah, who was new to this sort of thing, looked fairly uncomfortable. "You go onto the dance floor, I think I'm just going to watch people for a bit," she says. I wasn't about to let her get away with that. After all, I truly believe that everyone in the universe has a secret desire to dance to bad pop music from the 1980's. So I pulled her onto the dance floor and soon we were breakin it down like a chemical compound.

The DJ played MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This" (which was technically released in 1990 but it still worked at 80's night) and I had to succumb to my obnoxious white person nature by showing my friend that I know almost every word of the rap. I noticed a guy eyeing me from the side of the room but I didn't think much of it. Then "Footloose" came on and the guy pushed his way through the crowd and came over to us.

This man had to be at least 35. He had a beer in his hand and the world's cheesiest grin on his face. "Ladies, do you mind if I dance with you?" he asked in a British accent.

I shrugged and said, "Sure, why not." The three of us proceeded to cut footloose. Our British friend knew every word and danced way too well to be heterosexual. The next song came on and he recognized it in about three beats. "Woo! I love this song!" he exclaimed. He knew all of the words to that song too. I couldn't look at Mariah for fear that we would both start laughing.

He danced with us for the duration of a few songs (always screaming at the beginning of each one and declaring his love it, of course). Then he announced that he needed to take a break, blew us a kiss, and went back to the side of the dance floor. He stood very close to a man. Mariah and I had a laugh and kept dancing. I figured that would be the last of our British friend.

But when Mariah left for a minute to get a drink of water, he was back! He had a new beer in his hand and was incredibly excited about the song the DJ was playing. I felt like it took Mariah forever to get a drink of water. She returned to find me and my British friend dancing to this song:

	Human League - Don't You Want Me .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Naturally, he knew all of the words and was quite enthusiastic about singing them to me. Which was all fine and good until he attempted to grind against my leg. Apparently he wasn't as gay as we thought he was.

"It's all in good fun!" he stammered when he saw the disgusted look on my face. He then tried to grind against Mariah and got a similar negative response.

"Okay, I get it, you ladies have bubbles!" he said. We continued to dance, but he kept getting closer and closer to me and it was becoming slightly awkward. I finally ducked out to go use the bathroom, dragging Mariah with me. It was getting late, but we decided to return to the dance floor for a few more songs before heading home.

"But let's go to the other side of the dance floor," I say to Mariah. "Let's get away from that British Guy."

We make our way towards the other side of the dance floor and quickly turn around because Awkward British Guy is sitting at the bar right in front of us. We scuttle back to where we were earlier and are just in time for "Thriller." We're having a blast watching people try to be Michael Jackson when suddenly we have a visitor.

"Fancy running into you ladies again!" says Awkward British Guy. I swear, he magically teleported over to us or something.

The DJ spins an awful old school rap song and our British friend proceeds to demonstrate exactly how white he is. He busts out all of these "gangsta" moves that should never be done in public and raps along with this fine piece of music:

	Digital Underground - Humpty Dance .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

I think it was about that point that Mariah and I decided it was time to go. We told Awkward British Guy that we were leaving and he thanked us for dancing with him. "I had a lovely time ladies, maybe I'll run into you guys another night and we can dance again." He then offered to give me a very enthusiastic fist pump. It was all I could do not to laugh.

80's dancing is the best. Really. If any of you ever find yourself in Portland on a Friday night with nothing to do, call me up and I'll drag you over to 80's Video Dance Attack.

Hahahaha. I'm so white...

Dirty Hipsters

Those indie kids never called me back.

With my luck, they probably read my blog.

In other news, the other day I got to witness some guy with tattoos and perfectly scruffed-up hair have a mini freak out at a deli because his sandwich wasn't vegan.

Oh Portland, how I love you. Hehe.

If you've never been to Portland, you can get a feel for it by watching this hilarious video:



Happy Saturday, amigos.

Audition Recap (And A Bunch Of Other Stuff Too)

Hello. Just me again. Maybe the world will slow down long enough for me to write a semi-coherent blog post. Lately, I've found myself overwhelmed by various things that all seem to be happening at once. And then there are the things that are not happening right now, which are also overwhelming. Anyway, blah blah blah, vague vague vague, whine whine, emo emo, moving on. Tonight was good. Hung out with Steve and his crew, had some good laughs and some good food. Put a lot of thoughts on hold for the evening. It was nice.

Aaaand I just realized you guys are probably still on the edge of your seats waiting to hear how my audition went on Sunday (thanks to everyone that wished me luck, btw!). Truth is, I'm still waiting for that call as well. I think the audition went well but apparently they're auditioning multiple people. They said they'll let me know if I'm in or out in a few days. I'm not going to be heartbroken or anything if they don't pick me, but I think it would be a ton of fun to play with them and I hope I make it into the band.

The Michael Cera-esque guitarist had emailed me a few recordings and told me to learn the songs for the audition. I've been learning a lot of new music lately (more on that later) but was able to play through the songs a few times and grasp onto the main riffs and chord progressions. I put on my finest indie rock and roll attire (no, it did not involve that lovely sweater), picked up the boyfriend/body guard, and headed into Portland.

The audition was in the drummer's basement. When we arrived, the guitarist and the drummer where having a drink on the front porch. The drummer was the one member of the band I hadn't met yet. I had seen her onstage with the rest of the band and was unable to tell if she was a boy or a girl. It wasn't until talking to her that I realized she's indeed a chick. She greeted Steve and I and enthusiastically and offered us some warm, old beer that she dug out from under her bed.

We sat around making awkward small talk while waiting for the bassist to get there (the bassist has long, dark hair and doesn't talk - essentially he's a younger, less creepy, slightly more attractive Silent Bob). Once the bassist arrived, we went down into the basement to play through some songs. It was your stereotypical rock and roll practice space (though definitely not as sketchy as the basement I tried out for a metal band in once upon a time...now that was a place I could have possibly died). They even had a keyboard set up for me to play. It was against my natural instinct to leave my own keyboard at home (playing on someone else's instrument is a little bit like running in someone else's shoes) but I figured their keyboard would be programmed on all the right patches.

Since they are a band that "doesn't really jam," the audition itself was short. We played through each of the songs a couple of times. Michael Cera corrected me on the riffs several times and even came over to the keyboard and showed me how to play certain parts. I started taking liberties on a song with a really repetitive chord progression and he told me that the old keyboardist didn't play it like that and that I should play what she used to play. I caught Steve's eye from across the room at this point. I could see him thinking "Uh oh, Rock Star Lauren does not like being told how to rock." It's true, it's annoying, but it was an audition. I think half of what people look for at auditions is someone who can catch on quickly, play what needs to be played, and listen to feedback. And I think I kept up with the band for the most part. It wasn't like playing with Ryan (duh) but it was a lot of fun. Their music is totally catchy and energetic. I want to become a part of it.

"Any questions for us?" says the drummer when it's all over, adjusting her baseball cap. "Anything at all? Anything you wanna know? Anything?"
I can't think of a response fast enough.
"Sorry, I'm acting like an asshole!" she says. "I'm not an asshole, but I'm acting like an asshole, but I'm really not an asshole..."

Michael Cera drinks beer and laughs. Silent Bob is silent. Steve is in the corner, probably taking notes for his next web sitcom.

Soon the whole ordeal is over and I'm back in my truck driving to the nearest Burgerville. The audition took no longer than 45 minutes (quite different than the metal band audition once upon a time - those guys were all on strange drug cocktails and wanted to play for hours and hours because they were convinced that I was the reincarnation of Dio).

Now I just wait and see what happens.

In the mean time, I'm playing at a wedding this weekend. Yes, with Original Sound Trash. It's for two really good friends, but I'm still a bit nervous about the whole thing. We're playing during the ceremony and at part of the reception. And then I'm DJing the rest of the reception. So basically I'm responsible for every scrap of music that is played the entire day. Like I said, these are two great friends of mine so I'm happy to help them out. I'm just nervous. Anxious. Original Sound Trash is not naturally a wedding band. I'm not naturally someone that gets involved in weddings.

Really, I think that if I ever choose to get married, I'm going to elope. Don't worry, I'll take lots of pictures and tag people in them as inanimate objects and random strangers so everyone can feel like they were really there!

Okay, I'm rambling. I should sleep. Yes.

Over and out, amigos.