Not Dead

Ack. I have been neglecting this sphere of blogs and I deeply apologize. It's not that I haven't had anything to write about - it's that I've had too much. I sit down and open up a new post only to stare at the blank window, overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of things I want to report in on. But I'm determined to get over that and post something.

It won't be a very long post. I am exhausted. It's been a strange week. An exciting, nerve-wracking, weird little week. Things are lining up, I think. Or maybe I'm just being overly optimistic...

Meaning my album is almost done (I think?).

Ack. It went from a 5 track demo to a 7 track demo and now I think I'm going to make it a full length album. It would be easier to just have a 7 track demo, but that's such an awkward track number for a CD. I'm almost there - I'm just going to have to make it the real deal.

Blah blah blah. This can't be interesting at all. It's just all I've been thinking about and stressing about... Therefore, it's what I am writing about.

I'm going to bed. More tomorrow.

In the meantime, keep a lookout for my cat mug. It's gone missing.


That is all.

Human Doings

I hate the question "What do you do?"

The worst part is that I never quite know how to answer it. I'm always tempted to say something like this:

"Well, I do a lot of things. Usually I wake up late and make a pot of coffee. Sometimes I eat a bowl of instant oatmeal but usually I just wait for lunchtime to roll around and then I eat a sandwich. I write a lot of things. Songs, blogs, stories. Sometimes, I read books. Other times, I go out with my friends. Play pool at the pub down the street. I used to not know how to hold the cue but I'm getting so I can sink balls like some sort of amateur pool shark. Whenever I hear Pitbull on the radio in my car, I turn it up and sing along despite the fact that I pretend to not like hip hop. Once every two and a half years, I eat pop tarts on a whim and usually end up tearing off the edges because they are too crusty. I try hard to incorporate the word 'lanyard' into my everyday vocabulary. I partake in Solstice celebrations. I wear leopard-print pants when I need to feel like some sort of trashy rock and roll diva. I strive to live life as fully and as honestly as I can. Oh...you meant what do I do to make money..."

Of course, I've never actually said all that to anyone. I usually just smile and say "I'm a musician." And then the conversation eventually ends and I leave the room feeling at least somewhat powerful.

Because, as my artsy neighbors often remind me, that is what I do. I just don't always make very much money from it.

That hasn't always been my standard answer, though. I used to awkwardly pause and mumble something about being unemployed or self-employed (which is almost the same thing sometimes). Then I would proceed to feel extremely self-concious and slightly dysfunctional, especially if I was talking to someone with an established career.

When I moved into the artist's community last fall, I immediately noticed that none of my neighbors indentified themselves by the place they work (or, in many cases, don't work). And the question was no longer "What do you do?" The question became "What sort of things do you make?"

Now that's a question I can deal with answering.

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.

Let's Talk About Texts, Baby

I woke up this morning to a strange text message from a friend informing me that I have super powers.  I wrote back and said something like "Haha, too bad I don't really have super powers."  I got a reply that said, "You really have super powers."  So I'm glad I have that cleared up. 

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a text message from my dad.  This message simply contained the first line of a very dumb joke:  "Two penguins walk into a bar..."  My dad recently learned to text.  I thoroughly enjoy his creative ways to say "hi" over text messaging, but waking up to a penguin joke at 9 a.m. cramps my Portlandia lifestyle.  But it did give me something to laugh about for the rest of the day, so I have no right to complain.

After all, I have experienced far worse offenses in the area of text messaging. 

This is the part of the show where I'm going to seem like a major bitch...but this guy just doesn't get the hint:

There are several things wrong with this picture:

1)  He was an acquaintance I had IN HIGH SCHOOL that popped out of the woodwork in October.  I hung out with him ONCE.  It was fun, but I was put off by the fact that he texted me five times a day after that.  So I casually quit responding.  I had no idea that by doing so, it would only make things worse.

2)  I do not know how to respond to a text message that says "hey."  If you're my best friend or something, you might be able to get away with it.  But if you're a guy I don't really know, you have to give me more to work with.  You need to at least pretend like you have something to say, even if you don't. 

3)  This person has texted me for a good SIX MONTHS without a reply.  It's a situation I really should have dealt with back in December because now it's just awkward. 

Isn't there an unspoken rule among boys that if a girl doesn't call you back after the second attempt to contact her, you need to move on?  Shouldn't that rule apply to text messaging too?

And then there's THIS trainwreck:

This one is a sad story.  I actually really liked this guy until he sent me an extremely tactless Facebook message in the middle of the night.  This message was sitcom-level bad.  It was just short of saying "I'm a total player...want to have sex?"  It was disappointing, but I deleted the message and moved on.  Of course, we live in a universe where there are about five different ways to contact a person.  So when picking me up on Facebook didn't work, he switched to text messaging. 

And for some reason, he thought it was cute to call me by some twisted version of my last name.  Pair that with a "whatup" and you have a bona fide trainwreck.  Newsflash:  I'M NOT YOUR BRO.  If you can't use my first name or be grammatically correct, you have no chance with me. 

Maybe I'm too picky and I'm destined to be that crazy lady with a bunch of cats and lawn gnomes.  But I think I would prefer cats and lawn gnomes to a boy who doesn't understand text message ettiquette. 

In other news, my phone just dinged.  I got a text message from my dad.  It reads "I like turtles."  Definitely the best text I've gotten all day.  Even better than "You really have super powers." 

Text messaging makes the world a weird place sometimes.  But I don't think I'd have it any other way. 

Boys and Girls

Let me start this off by saying that I have no problem with homosexuality. Personally, I'm a girl that likes boys, but I think that people should love whoever they want to regardless of genders. If you want to be gay, be gay. If you want to be straight, be straight. If you want to love both boys and girls, go for it. No judgment here.

That aside, I find myself continuously frustrated at how ambiguous sexual orientation can be these days. I think I used to have decent gaydar, but lately it seems to be broken. Maybe it's all the blending people seem to be doing. Polyamory is even acceptable these days, especially in the weird little hipster universe that I live in (I still don't really get polyamory, but that's a whole different topic).

Anyway, it's impossible to tell who's gay, straight, or otherwise. Like I said earlier, I don't care which way you swing. But it's nice to be able to know.

I guess I have a habit of putting the people in my life into boxes. I categorize them based on the behavior they exhibit and then I interact with them in an appropriate manner.

This would be a good system if people stayed in the boxes I put them in. I'm learning that people don't do that. People are too complicated to be sorted into brain boxes and they rarely stay in the category I think they belong in.

For example, if someone is going on dates with boys and giving me occasional fashion advice, I'm going to put them in the "gay best friend" box. I'm going to invite them over for disco parties. If they suddenly start showing interest in becoming more than friends with me, I'm going to be totally thrown off. Why? Because that behavior does not fit my expectation of how a boy in the "gay best friend" box should act.

I think I should stop pretending that everyone can fit neatly into a box. No more compartments. No more predetermined ideas of what my various friendships should look like.

The next part of this word vomit parade harks back to the age old question brought to you by our friends Harry and Sally (specifically when they met): Can men and women ever just be friends or does sex always get in the way?

If you know the answer to this question, please tell me.

I've spent my entire life trying to believe that platonic friends are possible. But the truth is, every platonic friendship I've ever had has been weird at some point in time for one of the following reasons:

a) He likes me and it's not mutual.
b) I like him and it's not mutual.
c) We like each other, it's mutual, it doesn't work out, and then it's awkward.
d) I don't like him but I think he likes me even though in reality he doesn't.
e) He doesn't like me but thinks I like him even though I don't.
f) He gets drunk and says something weird.
g) He gets a girlfriend and then has no room in his life for other girls.
h) A jealous party misinterprets our platonic friendship and starts 7th grade-style rumors.

I'm going to stop before I go through the entire alphabet.

Of course, friendships aren't always ruined over these things. Some of my greatest friends are of the opposite sex and we've totally moved past any weirdness or sexual tension. But I have also lost friendships because of these things. Though it should no longer be unexpected, it's always somewhat surprising. Not to mention disappointing.

I want to live in a world where men and women can be friends without having to worry about love or sex or what people think. Sadly, I don't think a world like that exists. I think the fact that one person has a penis and the other person does not is always going to come up in some way, shape, or form.

It's only taken me a little over 23 years to realize this. Go me.

This doesn't mean I'm giving up on platonic friendships, but maybe I can begin to view them more realistically. Maybe next time I can have a little foresight and I won't have to listen to all of my neighbors say "I told you so."

Surrounded In Light

I'm downing a cup of kashmiri chai at Townshend's Tea House. It's right in the middle of the Alberta district (which is infamous for being the gentrified, hipster-centric part of town), but it's got the best laid-back atmosphere around. Not to mention the best tea. And it's in a neighborhood other than my own, so it's the perfect place to sequester myself away in a corner and work on things without running into anybody.

I've got to go back to the commune at some point - it's cult movie night. We're going to set up The Fonz's TV in a central location and cram a bunch of people on the couch for the director's cut of "Donnie Darko." It's like my college experience all over again.

I'm not going to be able to afford this glamorous starving artist lifestyle forever. Which is why I applied to work at the restaurant that's opening up on the ground floor of my building. I'm not terribly enthusiastic about the job, but I have to work somewhere. Last night, there was a meeting for everyone that's going to work there. It was the strangest assortment of characters, including:

- The Fonz.
- The Fallen Nun, sporting her new vegan anarchist hairstyle.
- The woman who started the weird rumor about me. The minute I walked in the room, she apologized for the texts. Apparently she was drunk. Awkward sauce.
- Tweaked Out Elvis Costello, writing the hours he wants to work in crayon on a paper towel. He has a hard time making eye contact with me after the stove top incident.
- The cute boy I thought was probably gay. Apparently he's not and he has a new girlfriend now. Boo. Ah well, I'm over it.

These are all people I live with and now we are all going to work together. Forget "RENT." This is the part of the show where my life becomes "Cheers."

The restaurant opens in a couple of weeks. I predict that my life will reach a whole new level of hilarity when it does.

In the meantime, I'm trying to get my act together and record a little demo CD (if not a whole album). It will be a solo endeavor and I'm a little overwhelmed by the prospect of being in complete control of my music. I know I've vaguely alluded to this, but I should just come out and say it - Original Sound Trash is falling apart. It's been upsetting, but I'm moving forward. I've got a new "band" called "The Want Ads." The word band is in quotes because I'm the only real member. I'm hiring some guys to play bass, guitar, and drums for me on the recording. Still figuring out how all of that will work.

My neighbor's have been incredibly encouraging throughout this period of musical transition and uncertainty. The Fonz has offered to jam with me on various occasions and The Poet has even gone as far as to introduce me to various musicians he meets on the smoking corner. Last night, I had the privilege of jamming with the guy from New Jersey who lives in the smelly stairwell. It was all very impromptu. The Fonz and I were massacring David Bowie songs when this guy came over to see what was going on. He picked up a guitar and next thing I knew, the two of us were engaged in an hour-long musical conversation. His girlfriend did yoga on my floor and The Fonz read my library books. The world felt right.

It's been awhile since I've had a jam session that left me feeling that energized. We agreed to do it again soon.

"We all want you to feel surrounded by light here," The Poet said to me once. "We want to protect you and take care of you."

And in this moment, this hour, this day, this week - yes, I feel surrounded by light. Maybe it's just the chai tea talking, but I think I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

Anyway, that concludes today's installment of Mundane Updates From Lauren's Life. Tune in next time, amigos! I'm off to go watch "Donnie Darko" with my favorite batch of nutty artists.

Slightly More Hopeful Than My Previous Post...

It's been quite the week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all I've got tonight.  Peace. 

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.

The Cat In The Drive-Through And The Man-Goat That Haunts Me

When I was in the first grade, I wrote a story entitled "The Cat." As you probably guessed, this story was about a cat. A talking cat that joined the circus, to be specific. It was pretty cute.

Well, it had the potential to be pretty cute. I had the setting, characters, and plot firmly established when I decided to make the feline protagonist leave the circus and abandon the main story arch. Instead of writing a interesting conclusion that made sense, I sent the talking cat on a mission to get some french fries. As a result, he spent an entire page (which turned out to be one third of the story) at a drive-through window. I think he sang his order to the tune of "The Twelve Days Of Christmas" and ended up getting a moldy cheeseburger. I'm not really sure.

I made some illustrations to go along with the story and took the whole works to school. I got some help making copies and sold one to one of my classmates for fifty cents. I was proud of myself.

Then I was forced to give the money back and make free copies of the story for everybody in class. I never really got over being bitter about that.

But I digress. The point is that I have had the same problem all my life: I come up with a good concept and then completely ruin it by running away on some weird tangent and losing sight of the original vision. I call this phenomenon "sending the cat through the drive-through." I guess it's my own personal version of "jumping the shark."

I've been overwhelmed with my "Goat Man" project lately. I've allowed myself to get stuck in the mud and become wrapped up in the idea that I have writer's block. I think the real problem is that I've allowed the project to mutate into something larger, weirder, and more daunting. In other words, there are cats going through the drive-through all over the script.

I was feeling reclusive yesterday when I got home from band practice and was beating myself up over having writer's block when there was a knock on my door. Not knowing who it was, I was reluctant to answer it. Though I absolutely love all of my neighbors here, I wasn't exactly in the mood for one of Lego Guy's philosophical rants or The Fonz playing the tambourine. I answered the door anyway and was glad I did. It was The Poet. He hadn't seen me at all that day and was just checking in on me.

This made me realize that I was spending too much time being stuck in my own head yet again, so I ventured into the kitchen to make tea. I discussed "Goat Man" with The Poet and came to the conclusion that I was letting the whole thing turn into something it wasn't intended to be. I've been getting too caught up in character dialogue, side gags, and the mechanics of writing for the stage that I've lost sight of my original intentions.

What was my original intention? Well, I wanted to write a rock opera about an individual that was half man, half goat. "An existential rock opera in the key of despair," to be exact. That was the original working subtitle. I got rid of it for awhile after one of my commune friends lectured me about my apparent misuse of the word "existential."

"Unless you've done shrooms and have spent five hours trying to figure out what is real and what isn't, you shouldn't use that word," he said. The title was a little too long anyway, so I dropped it. But I think I am going to reinstate the subtitle because I like the way it sounds. It also helps me return to my original vision for "Goat Man."

"Goat Man" is a comedy and a tragedy rolled into one. It's full of quirky characters and possibly thought-provoking situations. But mostly, "Goat Man" is about the music. "Goat Man" is something I want to see onstage, but it's also something I want to make an album out of. I've gradually lost sight of the fact that the music is the most important part in all of this.

So what am I going to do? Back up the car up, get the freaking cat out of the drive-through, close all of my Celtx documents, get out my notebook and a pen, and get all of the songs on the page. I'd like to believe that once all of the songs are in place, the rest will come.

After all, I'm in the best possible environment right now to create something like this. Everyday, I am reminded of how lucky I am to be surrounded by such encouraging and wonderful creative people. They are people that understand my insanity and believe in my crazy ideas more than I do sometimes.

I think my new favorite subplot is the strange friendship I have with the guy across the hall. You know, Mr. Merry Christmas Forever who stays up writing about mystical Omniverses all night and lives with a woman that never, ever talks. Anyway, he helped me carry my music equipment up the stairs after band practice last week and ever since then we've become email buddies. Yes, email. Yes, we live across the hall from each other. Yes, sometimes these email exchanges happen when we are both in our rooms.

And these emails aren't cute little one paragraph messages either. There's one in my inbox from him that I've been jokingly referring to as a 750 word essay. I was explaining this phenomenon to The Poet during one of our late night tea parties and he was baffled. "What on earth does he email you about?" he asked.

The answer? Music. Life in the commune. The story he's writing. Terrorism in the 1970s. Goat Man. Omniverses. Poetry. Aliens.

The Poet offered me fifty cents to be able to read the emails. But last time I fell into a trap like that, I had to return the money and make copies for everyone. So I refused the offer.

The other night I was washing my dishes at two in the morning and I ran into Mr. Merry Christmas Forever. "I have a disc for you!" he exclaimed. "I have a disc for you, too!" I replied. Our recent email conversation about music had resulted in burning music for each other. I handed him a mix of Amanda Palmer and he gave me a whole smorgasbord of Luke Haines. We then went into our separate rooms. A half an hour later, I get an email from him saying that the music I gave him was exactly the inspiration he needed for the scene he was writing.

I loaded the CD he gave me onto my laptop and it wasn't long until I was completely lost in the sounds of Baader Meinhoff and Black Box Recorder. I feel like I'm probably late to the party on knowing and loving this music, but it's been the only thing on my iPod for the past three days and I can't get enough of it. Weirdly enough, there are a few songs by Black Box Recorder that completely embody one of the characters I've been struggling with in "Goat Man," so it's been an inspirational listening experience.

Anyway, I am officially rambling here. I don't know if anyone will make it this far into this relatively mundane post. Congratulations if you have indeed made it this far. Gold star for you.

I'm off to the land of goats. I will close with a quote from one of Mr. Merry Christmas Forever's emails:

"...goats will be men and alien Empresses will be teenage hyperviruses and all will be right with the world... Call upon the strength of the man-goat that haunts you. Funny how even the dicier problems are easier to solve when you're admiring their complex, catastrophic beauty as you fix them."

That's all I've got for now. Hope everyone is having a great Wednesday!

P.S: Here is one of my favorite Black Box Recorder tracks if anyone is interested. Enjoy!

Unorganized Brain Nuggets (Now With Even More Cholesterol!)

Hot water is still out of commission.  It's been almost two weeks now.  Today I caught myself microwaving a water in a bowl so that I could wash my hair.  What is my life coming to?

In other news, Original Sound Trash has a show on the calendar.  And here I thought the band was slowly dying.  Apparently we're not.  Cool.  

The show is over a month away, but I think I just spent a good half an hour discussing wardrobe options with my neighbors in the kitchen.  I guess that means I'm really comfortable here - usually I just save that whole "what-do-I-WEAR???" conversation for my mother.  But it's a legitimate thing to think about.  I don't want to bore you guys, but there are really a lot of roads I could go down as far as rock show attire is concerned.  

Okay, so maybe there are only three main roads to take:

a) sequins

b) fur

c) black leather

Combinations of any or all of the above are also acceptable but may be considered over the top.  I'm leaning towards leather, but if anyone has any profound input I would love to hear it.

I feel like this is one of those posts that probably doesn't need to exist but I will hit "PUBLISH" anyway.    I mean, look at me - I'm talking about clothing and hair and my mundane plumbing problems.  Snore.

Been working on "Goat Man" a lot but I never seem to get as much work done as I think I should be doing.  Lately, Goat Man has been sticking his little hooves into the ground and refusing to move forward.  He's a stubborn little guy.

I did manage to write a new song.  And record it.  As a duet with myself, because I couldn't find a singer.  I edited the pitch on my voice to sound like a dude.  Then I took it down way too low and I sounded like Darth Vadar.  I think it was at that point I got frustrated and put that song on the back burner.  But not after sharing the Darth Vadar track with a couple of friends down the hall, of course.  

Maybe someday, a documentarian will refer to this phase of my life as "the early years leading up to Lauren's big debut as a writer/rock star/freelance hippy."  But right now, I feel a little more insane all the time.

Did I mention that it's the best kind of insanity?

On that note, I should probably sleep or something.  

Goodnight, comrades.  

Just Some Thoughts Over Coffee

I have broken myself of my intense coffee addiction. Meaning I can wake up in the morning and not feel like I'm going to die without coffee. I can even go a whole day without coffee. It's kind of liberating.

I've tried to get into tea instead. I even went to my favorite tea shop in Portland and picked up some of that Moroccan Mint tea that reminds me of Egypt. I've never bought it in loose leaf form before, and was a little embarrassed when the cashier handed me this:

I shoved the bag in my purse and tried to pretend it didn't look exactly like marijuana. I think if I lived anywhere else, I might have been compelled to stash it away in my wall safe when I got home. But I live in a commune, so leaving a suspicious-looking bag of tea laying on top of my radiator really isn't a big deal.

That night, I went into my kitchen to brew up some of my new tea. I couldn't find a tea strainer, so improvised with a coffee filter. A couple of my neighbors walked by and showed a lot of interest in the kind of tea I was making. Well, they showed a lot of interest until they discovered I really was just making tea.

Tea is nice, but it will never really replace coffee for me. Even as I type this, I'm drinking a cup of coffee. I'm done messing around with decaf. It's just basic coffee with a little bit of French vanilla creamer in it.

I know a lot of purists hate coffee creamer, but I can't really live without it. Okay, I can live without it. If there is no coffee creamer around, chances are I will drink coffee anyway. But it won't be as good.

Last week, I had coffee with someone I hadn't seen in a really long time. Five years, to be exact. He was my Spanish partner in high school and recently came out of the woodwork over Facebook and wanted to hang out. I was a little reluctant to reconnect with him. After all, the last time I attempted to rekindle a platonic teenage friendship led to an evening of my bandmate pretending to be a flaming homosexual and ended with someone almost getting maced in the face (it's a pretty good story, maybe I'll work up the nerve to tell it sometime). But he called me on an evening where I was trying to decide between the following activities:

1. Hanging out with the baby boomer crowd in the kitchen.
2. Watching Tweaked Out Elvis Costello play the piano while getting progressively stoned out of his mind.
3. Attempting to write music in a room by myself.

Somehow, meeting my old Spanish partner for coffee at the trendy cafe down the street won against those lovely options.

I got there early, ordered some herbal tea, and planted myself at a table. Enter Spanish Partner. It was a little crazy - he was exactly the same as he was in high school. Still short, still Asian, still wearing the same baggy gray hoody with the stretched out pockets. Still blasting heavy metal from giant headphones around his neck everywhere he goes. His hair is a little longer now and he's apparently done boasting about his ability to eat nine Milky Way candy bars in a day, but other than that he's the exact same dude I said "adios" to on graduation night. It was a little spooky but cool at the same time. Everyone is so busy changing these days. It's nice to know that some people don't change at all.

We went back to my place so I could give him the grand tour of the commune and show him my keytar. We ended up just putting on a Dream Theater album in my room and listening to it while making fun of what weirdos we were in high school. I asked if he wanted anything to drink. He asked if I had any coffee creamer. Not kidding.

"Um, yeah, I always have coffee creamer," I say. "Do you want me to make some coffee?"

"No, I'll just take a shot of creamer," he says.

I start laughing. I think one time when I was about 17 or so I took a shot of creamer because somebody dared me to, but it's not really something I've ever thought to do since then. But I get him a little glass and pour coffee creamer into it until he says "stop." I hand it to him and he proceeds to down it like it's tequila.

"God that's good creamer!" he proclaims. "Tastes just like the marshmallows in Lucky Charms!"

He convinces me pour some in a small glass for myself and consume it sans coffee. It was like being 17 and retarded all over again. Not to mention it was my sugar intake for an entire week. But it was nice. It was nice to just exist in a room with someone else and listen to music and laugh and not have to worry about anything awkward happening. I had Tweaked Out Elvis Costello on standby in case things got weird (nothing says "I'm not interested in being more than friends so please get out of my room" like an intergalactic hipster with an affinity for playing/singing Gershwin's "Summertime" while people are trying to have a conversation). But things never got weird. Instead, we discovered that we both have a secret desire to learn how to knit, so we made plans to meet up again to make scarves while listening to heavy metal.

Yeah, I don't really understand my life either.

All I know right now is that I just finished my cup of coffee. And I think I really want another one. Maybe I'll just make a whole pot with the intention of sharing it but then end up drinking the whole thing myself.

A few weeks ago, someone told me that coffee is terrible for you. "It's addictive! It does bad things to your body! I'm so proud of you for breaking yourself of your daily caffeine habit! Coffee will mess you up! You don't need to drink it!" they said.

I might have actually listened to this person if they hadn't been smoking a cigarette, a joint, and snorting who-knows-what simultaneously while they were saying all of these things. I think it was one of the most ironic moments of my life.

I shouldn't drink too much coffee today though. I don't want to be a completely twitchy mess by the time tonight rolls around. There's an art show going on in my building and Ryan and I are doing a little performance in my kitchen after the fact. It's pretty casual and word-of-mouth, but I'm still stoked. It feels good to be performing again. I get really off balance when I go for a long time without doing that.

I'm not sure what to wear. I got some awesome new boots last week that I think I need to wear tonight. Now I just have to plan an outfit to go with them.

My new friends here have been an incredible encouragement to me this week. They're actually the ones that talked me into doing the kitchen performance. "Look, you are a rock star," my friend The Poet said. "The only reason you don't believe it is because the right people haven't told you yet. But you are a rock star, so start acting like one!"

It was really cool to hear that from someone other than my mother.

Anyway, this post has become longer than I intended. I think I'm just avoiding writing my post for TASG. We've got a really good topic this week, but it's proving to be a difficult one. But I think it's time to brew more coffee, put on some good music, and offer some of my humble ramblings to ye olde Transatlantic Support Group.

Peace out, amigos. Oh, and also? Happy Friday! Reward yourself for making it through another week by drinking some coffee. Or by just drinking.

Haha. This is One Well-Caffeinated Lauren, signing out!

The Universe Is Expanding

I hate endings. I'm bad with goodbyes - even when it makes sense, even when seasons are changing and people are changing and things aren't what they should be. I can barely handle all the bittersweet sentiments that such endings bring along. I get caught up in some stupid wave of nostalgia. I become hesitant to ever move forward. I become unsure of everything.

And then I think too much in general and end up feeling like young Woody Allen in the first five minutes of "Annie Hall."

Universe expansion aside, I feel like I'm moving in slow motion towards the inevitable end of something that's difficult to let go of. And that's why I'm not writing about zombies or dance parties or indie rock tonight. Tonight, I am a bit of a sad panda.

But enough melodrama. I should sleep. I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning. And if I don't, I'll pull up my Ice MC station on Pandora and blast ridiculously upbeat 90s eurodance until my mood improves.

Goodnight, friends.

The Coming Apocalypse...and IKEA

Today I went to IKEA.  I go there sometimes when I need furniture, Swedish meatballs, or sitcom material.  I swear that when you walk through the doors of IKEA, you walk into an alternate universe.  It's a place of magic and wonder.  A place of happiness and lingenberry juice.  A place where all of the books on the display shelves are entirely in Swedish and most of the male employees are not only very attractive, but very gay.  I could stay there for hours.  In fact, I think it's physically impossible to go there for less than an hour.  I think I was there for at least two this afternoon (in my defense, it's on the other side of town and I don't get to go very often).  I went in with the purpose of scouting out a new bed frame and ended up buying an area rug and a toilet brush.

Hey, it was a cute rug.  And how could I pass up a 99 cent toilet brush?

On another note, if and when the zombie apocalypse happens, I am totally making a run for IKEA.  It's like a small, stylistically furnished village.  Once inside, I would have everything I need and could live for days, maybe even months.  The amount of time I could survive in an IKEA all depends on how long the supply of meatballs lasts. 

Of course, there is the possibility that this sanctuary would be guarded by a small army of undead IKEA employees.  But the kitchen utensil department is generally full of things that I could use to kill zombies upon my arrival.  I bet I could smack a bunch of them in the head with a rolling pin.  Or maybe I could just recklessly hurl cutlery at them from across the floor. 

Okay, so nothing in my current personality suggests that I would be capable of such a bad ass, Kill Bill-esque move.  But I hear that zombie apocalypses bring out the best in people. 

With my luck, I would probably end up encountering zombies right next to the salad tongs, egg beaters, and whisks.  And then I would be stuck trying to take on a whole horde with my salad tongs of fury.  So uncool. 

I feel like this wasn't what I intended to write about when I sat down to write this post.  Ah well, it's never a bad time to think about the coming apocalypse, right?

That's all I've got tonight.  Over and out, comrades. 

*Profound Title Goes Here*

There are 6,697,254,041 people in the world.

So why are we all so lonely and sad?

Or maybe it's just me.

Maybe it's just nights like this.

Maybe I just think too much.

I never say what I'm thinking any more.

A friend called me on that tonight. "I never know if you're saying what you actually mean," he said.

"I try to always say what I mean," I say. "But it's hard. It's my defense mechanism not to say anything at all."

I do it without thinking about it. Ask me if something is bothering me and I'll say "no" when I mean "yes." Ask me what I'm thinking about and I'll say "nothing" when I really mean "you" or "something that will offend you." Sometimes I have so much to say but don't know how to go about saying it, so then I say nothing at all.

I think that's why I've always been a writer.

*sigh* This post is becoming more melodramatic and emo than I anticipated. There's just a lot on my mind tonight, I guess.

I should sleep.

Next time I post, it will be something funny, interesting, and relevant. I promise.

Another Post That Really Isn't About Much

Here's an ancient cartoon my mother showed me this morning when I was feeling sad:

I don't know why I find it so funny, but I do.

Maybe I just needed a good laugh this morning. I've been thinking too much again. My life continues to play out like a low budget indie film, leaving me overwhelmed and confused. I'm tempted to change my name and move to South America, but that would probably be considered counter-productive.

So I'm going to make myself a cup of tea, hide away in my living-room-turned-office, and write like mad. Tomorrow I'll go back to putting together articles that might sell, but today I want to make some serious progress on the "Goat Man" script. It's a good day to be a reclusive writer, a good time to get lost in my own fictitious, anthropomorphic universe.

Maybe if I'm feeling brave, I'll record snippets of some the songs I've got for "Goat Man" and throw them up here. But only if I happen to feel brave. :D

Anyway, I'm off to my living room/office/cave. Over and out.

A Post About Nothing

Ra ra ra-aaa-aaa. Lady Gaga is stuck in my head. It's almost noon and I'm barely done with my first cup of coffee. I need to get a lot done today. I've got a lot of articles and assorted rubbish on my hard drive that needs to be printed out and shipped off to possibly be published. I've decided to give this whole freelance writer life a serious shot. It's overwhelming though. I've been feeling a lot like Bambi in the 1969 short animation "Bambi meets Godzilla." Poor Bambi doesn't have a chance in that film. But I digress. Maybe if I drink another cup of coffee out of my giant Chesire Cat cup that Steve brought me from Disneyland, the world will seem brighter. Or maybe I'll just become even more anxious. Whatever. Maybe I'll just return to my daily Craigslist surfing. There are some good things on there today.
Of course, there are also some ridiculous things:

Need mass of pirates, zombies, ninjas and cylons for production shoot.
Will provide blood, booze and food.
Must provide own costume, be able to lift 30lbs and sprint short distances.
Respond with relevant info- skills/strengths and previous experience in related career tracks. Prior convictions okay.

Okay, so I'm sitting here laughing at that post, but really I'm just secretly sad I don't own a ninja costume. Maybe I could make my own zombie costume. All I need is oatmeal all over my face and ketchup dripping down my neck, right?

Bleck. It's official - this is a post about nothing. I will do something productive today! I will! Just you wait. I'm gonna kick into high gear starting...now. BAM!

Over and out, amigos. I'm off like a herd of turtles.

Getting My Act Together (Or: One Of Those Slightly Introspective, Read-At-Your-Own-Risk Type Of Posts)

Today was kind of a big day.

It started out like any other day. I woke up, made coffee, and turned on my computer to see what was happening on the Internet. I was scrolling through all the usual Facebook updates when a picture caught my eye and made me almost drop my coffee cup.

The picture was of a guy I know - well, a guy I kinda know, a guy I might have gotten to know better if things had played out differently. He was holding a guitar, wearing a hat, and looking smug. And he had his arm around Jason Schwartzman.

Yeah. Max Fischer. It's no big deal. He's only THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.

Okay, maybe I'm being a little melodramatic. But really, it's JASON SCHWARTZMAN.

The worst part is this: If I had been willing to go out on a limb and be a little bit insane, I might have been in L.A. posing for pictures with Jason Schwartzman last night. But no - I was at my parents' house waiting for my phone to make noise. Fail.

Like I said a couple of days ago, I think I've been putting too much energy into keeping everyone around me happy. As a result, I think I've been missing opportunities and neglecting what I want. Maybe it sounds really selfish, but I think I need remember what is important to Lauren. I need to focus on what I want to do and not on what I feel like I should do.

I also need to get off my ass and make things happen. The world may be mine for the taking, but it's not going to just fall into my lap and say "TAKE ME NOW!"

So I'm making things happen. I'm working on writing comedy sketches. I'm working on "Goat Man" (by the way, thanks so much for all of your encouraging comments regarding that project). I'm polishing up old articles I've written and thinking about sending them off somewhere. I'm writing songs like mad.

And I'm going to work on being more spontaneous and doing things that seem completely illogical, only because I know that if I don't get the urge to travel and be impulsive out of my system I'll never be happy settling anywhere for very long.

I'm also thinking about getting a real job.

After all, I did sign a lease today. I might need a steady income in the near future.

Yeah, I signed a lease. Shortly after I decided that I was going to take control of my life, an email popped into my inbox announcing that my application for the artist's community had been fully processed. So I drove down over there, picked the room I want, and made plans to move in on October 1st. That gives me a month and a half to focus on my writing and be irresponsible in general.

And tomorrow night, I'm going 80s dancing. You can dance if you want to. You can leave your friends behind. Because your friends don't dance and if they don't dance then they're no friends of mine.

Okay, I'm descending into Men Without Hats land. Must be bed time. Congratulations if you've made it this far through this post. You get a gold star.

Goodnight, amigos. (Or, good morning, for those of you who are reading this from the other side of the globe.)

Goat Man Wishes The Phone Would Ring (And So Do I)

I hate phones, but sometimes I get so sick of Facebook communication. Sometimes it feels so impersonal. Phone calls take more effort, but sometimes I really like them.

I've spent years hating phone calls. But now that the whole world is transitioning over to text/Internet-based communication, I miss hearing people's voices. And on days like today - when my phone doesn't ring at all - I wish that someone would work up the old-fashioned initiative to call me just to say "hello."

Of course, there's a good chance they'd be saying "hello" to my answering machine. I'm notorious for not answering my phone. But that's besides the point.

In other news, I searched my entire house today and finally found my purple notebook that has been missing for a couple of months. I archive my entire life in notebooks and am terrible at keeping track of them, so it's not completely weird for one to go missing. But the notebook in question had the main theme and some important notes for my "Goat Man" musical I mentioned in my last post. I was about to give up and start over on the theme when I found it in the very bottom of a box buried in the closet (don't even ask how it got there - I'm not really sure...). There was much rejoicing.

Then I opened the notebook and realized that the theme wasn't as developed as I thought it was, and the notes weren't as extensive as I had remembered them being. But it inspired me a little bit. Actually, I spent a good chunk of the afternoon excavating old songs from several notebooks and trying to make sense of the play's plot line.

It's a messy job but it has to be done.

I'm still a little stuck on why Goat Man is a goat man. He is half man, half goat and I don't really know why. I don't want the reason to be something bizarre/disgusting, but I want it to be believable within the story's suspension of disbelief. I've been reading up on Greek mythology (thank you, Wikipedia) in hopes of gaining some sort of insight on how one becomes a goat.

But alas, no real insight was gained. So I'm sitting here wondering if having a reasonable explanation about Goat Man's goatyness will really matter to audiences. Maybe it's just a weird gene that runs in his family? Maybe he ate too many oats as a kid?

Hmmm. He's in a psychiatrist's office for half the play anyway, so maybe the fact that he doesn't know how/why he is a goat man can become a plot device.

It's ridiculous. I've got almost 20 songs in the works for this project but barely know plot details. I know it's (mostly) a comedy. And a love story (goat meets girl, anyone?). And a musical. An existential rock opera in the key of despair, to be exact.

There I go walking that line between quirky and dumb again...

one of THOSE posts...

It's 3AM.
The time of night where silly pop songs on the radio can make me cry.
I think I think too much, always.
I should go to bed, but why sleep when you can stay up and be existential?
Maybe The Universe will come have coffee with me again. Remember the time it did that?
I wonder what The Universe and I will talk about tonight (that is, considering it drops in for it's nightly caffeine fix).
Maybe we'll talk about love this time. We'll talk about how strange it is and how everyone in the world has different ideas and expectations of it. Then when we're done discussing that topic, we'll move on to discussing what the proper role of religion should be in our modern society. After that, we will continue our ongoing chat regarding the meaning of life and all of that lovely loveliness. Then I will ask the ultimate question: JACOB OR EDWARD? And then I can know once and for all if I am supposed to love pale emo vampire boys or sexy/dorky wolf boys that look like alpacas.


I believe that was irrelevant.

I'm going to bed. Goodnight amigos.

I'm Only Happy When It Rains

Good morning. Another rainy day in paradise. People are starting to refer to this month as "Juneuary." I'm a native Oregonian and a writer/musician, so naturally I love rain. But this is a little too much. Give me an ounce of sunshine. Give me an excuse to wear something other than a long sleeved t-shirt.

But enough about the weather.

I'm going out to a show tonight. An indie dance-rock band I want to meet is playing a venue I want to check out. Steve's going along with me, despite the fact that he has to go to work early the next morning. I'm stoked. The show isn't until 10, but we'll probably make an evening out of it. Perhaps we'll crash in a coffee shop for a bit and have one of our infamous writing parties. (Who says you can't be writing buddies with your boyfriend? :D)

For awhile, I thought it would be cool to write a book of high school memoirs. I've also always wanted to write a sitcom. Recently, I've merged the two ideas and am currently working on a sitcom that may or may not be based on my own high school experiences. I'm calling it "The Band Room" and letting it evolve from there. It focuses on a group of oddball band geeks and their daily adventures in public high school.

Yeah, you guessed it: I was totally a band geek in high school. Bet you can't guess which one is me:
There I am, freshman year of high school, all suited up in my fancy Star Trek style uniform and posing with my clarinet. Barf.

(I'll give you a hint: I'm on the fourth row from the bottom, end of the row, right-hand side. I was having a hard time dealing with the aftermath of a bad perm...)

But enough history lessons. Back to the sitcom.

Fortunately, I kept really detailed journals of everything I experienced in high school. Though I already remember a lot, it has been really helpful to have those journals as reference material. Over the past couple of days, I've been doing a lot of reflecting on what it was like to be an awkward, suburban teenager. I just might be ready to bust out the first episode.

I think I'll attempt to clean my room first, though. I'm naturally a slob, but I'm finally getting tired of how messy it is. Also, I want to wear something cute tonight and am having a hard time knowing where all my clothes are. My sexy jeans are no good if I can't even find them.

I made some reference to my sexy jeans while at band practice the other day. Ryan just looks at me and says, "Now, are those the same jeans that used to belong to me?"

For the record, no. Though those particular jeans are pretty sexy.

Okay, I'm talking about pants again. That means this post should be over.

The end.