I have this really fabulous friend works at a gym and teaches dance workout classes. Sometimes, he sneaks me into the classes for free. I haven't gone to one in awhile, but he just called and invited me to come and do Zumba tonight. Naturally, I said "yes." He always picks good music for his Zumba classes and I need to work out more anyway. I'm naturally sort of a sedentary creature and exercise is good for me.
The thing about Zumba is that by about the third song, I get really into the choreography. My friend yells "Now give it some style!" and I shake my butt like the world depends on it.
I feel like this:
In reality, I look more like this:
Last time I did Zumba, I definitely forgot my water bottle and was one thirsty, sweaty, out-of-shape girl when it was all over. It didn't help that I was in the back next to a large black man who seemed completely unfazed by forty-five minutes of nonstop movement.
Watch out for my body rolls. High kicks. High kicks. This is how we do it.
I am determined to be more physically active on a regular basis, though. I feel better about myself in general when I do. And it's part of my new program to get in shape for my next rock show.
I've got a pair of leather shorts in a drawer upstairs that are a little bit too tight. I know, I know, leather shorts are supposed to be tight, but they are also supposed to zip and snap somewhat comfortably. I'm not really into obsessing over my weight, but I think that if I lost about three pounds, the shorts would fit better and everything would be groovy.
Basically this means more dance aerobics and less French fries. I love my junk food, but it's for a good cause.
You're not hardcore unless you live hardcore, boys and girls.
I've never been good with break-ups. It's hard to admit that you aren't happy with the way a relationship is going and that you would be better off without it. I never want to hurt anyone's feelings or cause a conflict. Which is why I'm currently in an awkward position. I know I need to end things, but I have been putting it off because I don't even really know how to end things.
Let me back up a little bit.
I am involved with low-budget production of a rock opera about Norse mythology.
It's not really working out.
Allow me to recapitulate...
It all started a couple of months ago when a stumbled upon an intriguing Craigslist ad: "Wanted: Musical Director For An Original Rock Musical." Naturally, I had to click on it. I read through the ad and realized that I met all of the major requirements (meaning I can read music, play piano, and I love rock musicals), so I replied on a whim.
It wasn't long before I got a response from a guy who's name was strangely familiar. I couldn't place where I had heard his name before, so I just went ahead and read his email without giving it a second thought. He told me that he had composed a rock opera and was looking to produce it in town within a few months. There was a link to some of the music from the rock opera, so I clicked on it to see what it sounded like. I landed on a page with a couple of weird recordings and a picture of the composer.
I gasped. This guy was definitely someone I went to high school with.
...And middle school.
We were in the high school marching band together. And symphonic band. And middle school jazz band. And advanced high school jazz band. We were in the rhythm section together - he played drums, I played piano. We practically sat next to each other in jazz band but never actually talked to each other. He was an awkward redhead who didn't talk and frankly, I didn't really talk either. So naturally, we were not friends simply because we couldn't figure out how to manage a simple conversation.
Plus, he was always making out with that second-chair clarinet chick during lunch. It was gross. It offended me. They needed to get a room.
Anyway, here he was, that awkward redhead from high school, resurfacing in my email inbox six years later with what he described as "an epic rock opera of awesomeness."
I stared at the email and tried to figure out what to do. I've really come a long way since I was a socially inept teenager and running into people that knew me in high school is generally a drag. Maybe I should just delete his email and pretend it never happened? After all, he was pretty weird back in the day, wasn't he? I thought about it and realized I didn't actually know him. Besides, the whole thing was oddly sychronistic. Maybe I should meet him for coffee and see what's up?
And so I scheduled a coffee date with him. As I drove there, I couldn't help but wonder if he would remember me from high school or not. How was I even supposed to handle that? What if he didn't remember me at all? Was I supposed to bring it up? Was I supposed to act like I was meeting him for the first time?
A text message reading "Btw wearing a pea coat and have red hair" came through on my phone as I was looking for a place to park. I laughed. He did not know who I was. I buttoned up my big green coat, sent him a text that said "Haha, me too!" and walked towards the coffee shop.
I saw him immediately when I entered the coffee shop. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room and was indeed wearing a pea coat. He pointed at me and said, "It's YOU."
I pointed at him and said, "It's YOU." This was awkward.
He continued to point and said "It's YOU" once again. This time I pointed at myself and said, "It's ME!" We laughed, made some clunky smalltalk, and I excused myself to go order a cup of coffee. When I returned with my drink, we had to go through the whole "Soooo, what have you been up to since high school?" conversation, which was strange because (as I established earlier) we didn't really talk in high school. Still, we had to compare notes on our post-high school experiences as well as gossip about a whole bunch of irrelevant people from marching band that I honestly forgot even existed. It was definitely the most I had ever talked to this guy.
Just when I was beginning to regret meeting him for coffee, the conversation switched to a more relevant topic: his epic rock opera. Over the next hour and a half, I learned the following things:
- The rock opera was his original composition and has never been performed before.
- The story is based on Norse mythology. Yes, Loki and Thor and vikings and all of that crap cool stuff.
- All of the lyrics/words were written by a guy he met online who may or may not live in France and speak English as a second language.
- The script has severed heads in it.
- The music is not "Broadway rock." The music will "blow your f@#$ing mind."
He babbled on about how he was inspired by "Tommy" and "Jesus Christ Superstar," excitedly explaining that the music was written for a large ensemble of electric guitars and string instruments. He said he planned to produce it in a couple of months and he needed someone to act as musical director. Could that someone be me?
It sounded like a wacky project, but who doesn't love a good viking? It sounded like fun. Besides, I've got my own rock opera cooking in the back of my brain files (can't forget about good old Goat Man) and working on a project like this could give me a little insight into how it's done. And I definitely needed an excuse to leave my parents' house and meet new people...
So I said I would do it. I climbed on board the viking rock opera train as the fearless musical director. And it was strange, but I was excited.
Well, I was excited until my inbox began filling up with pages upon pages of complicated sheet music...
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.
Most of you probably don't know this, but I used to truly believe I could not sing.
I would try to sing, but my voice didn't sound like the voices I heard on the radio. I think somewhere around the time of middle school someone verbally confirmed the fact that I could not sing. And that was that. It was all okay because I was good at playing the piano. I didn't have to be good at singing too.
Of course, I secretly wished I could sing. But I knew that I could not. I wrote songs with the idea that someone else would sing them. I went to college, teamed up with someone who played guitar, and made him be the lead singer in our little band. We called ourselves "Good Quail Hunting," which was funny until everyone forgot about the Dick Cheney incident.
Eventually, we booked a show in a coffee shop near campus. This wasn't a big deal - except it was. I had never really performed outside of a band concert or piano recital (there were a couple of hellish talent shows in there but I would prefer not to think about them). We spent hours practicing and perfecting our set list, which consisted mostly of awkward cover songs (I think we even opened with Coldplay and transitioned into "Birdhouse In Your Soul" by They Might Be Giants...yikes). I handed my bandmate a couple original songs in hopes that he would sing them.
I don't remember if he was getting the phrasing wrong or couldn't hit the notes or what, but I do know that I landed into the position of singing these songs.
"But I can't sing," I remember saying.
"You're not that bad. It's sort of like talking but try to do it on key," my bandmate said. His lame words of encouragement somehow worked. The night of the show came, the coffee shop filled up with kids from our dorms, and next thing I knew I was singing.
I don't want to give you the impression that I opened my mouth and was suddenly Mariah Carey. I was quiet, flustered, and so nervous that I felt the need to face the wall. I was embarrassed, so naturally my neck got really red and splotchy. So not rock and roll.
Unfortunately, a clip from that night is still kicking around the Internet. If I had any common sense, I would delete it. But I'll put it up here so you guys can cringe along with me.
Yes, I know - my voice has dropped about two octaves since that performance five years ago. I'm not really sure what's up with that. When people ask me about it, I usually just tell them I went through puberty. It's a really good way to weird people out.
But I digress. The point is that I got over myself and sang. It was strange and nerve-wracking, but people clapped and gave me compliments after the show.
Five years later, I am my own lead singer. I still have moments of feeling self-conscious about my voice, but I know that I am capable of getting on a stage and belting it out. When I was 19, I had no idea I would someday have the nerve to do that.
Why do I bring all of this up now?
Because I recently overcame another psychological block. This one has to do with that six-stringed beast known as the guitar.
When I was four years old, my dad gave me an acoustic guitar for Christmas in hopes that I would grow up learning to play it and become some awesome folk singer chick. And I had lots of fun laying it on it's side and getting picks stuck in it. But every time I tried to learn how to actually play the thing, I would get frustrated because it was difficult and hurt my fingers.
So I accepted the fact that I was not meant to play guitar and embraced the piano. It all made sense throughout college, when "Good Quail Hunting" evolved into "Original Sound Trash" and there was always somebody there to add guitar sounds to my keyboard melodies. When the band officially broke up in February, I found myself on a mission to find other guitar players. Whenever a new acquaintance even just briefly mentioned owning a guitar, I would go into interview mode until I knew whether or not I wanted to initiate a jam session.*
I felt musically naked without a guitar player.** The sound I've always envisioned for my songs is bigger than just a girl with a keyboard. As many of you know, I've been working with a few different guitarists on getting some recordings done. And though the songs are turning out (mostly) how I wanted them, the process has been an absolute nightmare.
I wrote a little bit about this in an earlier post. One guy has strung me along for months. Another one is just no good at sending emails. And the other guy has a history of being really creepy towards women (of course, I didn't find out about this until I was halfway through the recording process with him...yikes***).
There was a point where a weird little light bulb went off in my head. "I should just learn how to play the damn guitar so I don't have to deal with this crap," I thought.
A couple days later, I had retrieved my guitar from my parents' house and was learning the chords to an ancient punk song with The Poet. Keep in mind that this guitar is about 20 years old at this point. I've dubbed it Old Crusty. It goes out of tune every five minutes. I still managed to figure out how to play "Whole Wide World" by Wreckless Eric on it.
I have to admit, I felt bad ass.
I even borrowed The Poet's guitar (which is significantly less ancient and actually has a strap) and paraded around town with it in the name of my new music video.
Keepin it classy in front of this sketchy building
Naturally, this is a promo for my upcoming laundromat tour of 2012
I got some really good footage too, though I'm still a little bitter about that thing that happened at the laundromat that day.
Laundromat security was not a fan of #occupymusicvideo
But let's not get too political.
It quickly became apparent that if I was really going to learn to play the guitar, I needed one that would stay in tune. I also needed one that I was excited to play - maybe even one worthy of a name cooler than "Old Crusty."
So I went to pawn shops. I haunted music stores in Southeast Portland. I pretended that I knew more than the two chords involved in that Wreckless Eric song and I tested out fun electric guitars, trying very hard to ignore the dudes there that actually knew how to play. There was a hot pink guitar that caught my eye, but I decided to wait. Logically, I knew I shouldn't be buying a guitar when there's rent to pay, but that didn't stop me from doing my research.
I kept a close eye on Craigslist. Lots of cheap, Walmart-style black and white guitars that were probably Christmas presents for bratty teenage boys at some point in time. Lots of expensive, fancy guitars that people are now trying to trade for cash because the economy is terrible. I was about to abandon my Craigslist efforts when I saw it.
My guitar.
Yay
I emailed back and forth with the guy about pricing, then stared at the numbers in my bank account until I could justify making this investment. The price was right, so I came to the conclusion that buying a functional guitar was a very practical career move and was possibly more important than buying food. I conned The Poet into coming along with me (didn't take much conning - he's been a very enthusiastic supporter of my guitar hunt) and we rode off into the night to look at this guitar.
The place was a little bit hard to find, but when we finally found it and knocked on the door, a black guy with dreadlocks answered. He was wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, which I noted as significant because it was Jimi Hendrix's birthday. The whole interaction was normal enough - he told me the history of the guitar, I tried it out, The Poet assured me that it was indeed a bad ass guitar, the guy offered to throw in a lot of accessories, I announced I would take the guitar.
"I hope to see you play that live someday," Dreadlocks Guy said as he showed us the door.
The door closed and I felt excited, musically liberated, and a little bit rebellious.
You better believe I played Wreckless Eric until my fingers were sore.
Photo taken while jamming out to Wreckless Eric with other beginning guitar players
And then I learned another chord so I could play "Blitzkrieg Bop" by The Ramones.
And then I learned another chord so I could play "Sorrow" by David Bowie.
Soon, I was noodling around and coming up with my own little songs. And when my neighbors saw me in the kitchen later, they commented that I was sounding good. This blew me away. I was sure everyone in the building was sick of my guitar playing, or at least Wreckless Eric. They were probably just being polite - except that no one here is that polite.
I know that everyone and their dog plays the guitar and that in reality it's probably not very hard. I also know that I'm still at a very basic, embarrassingly elementary level on this instrument. But I still feel accomplished. I feel as though I can and will learn to play this thing. I'm not expecting to become some sort of guitar goddess, but I do feel as though I can get to the point where I can play my own songs if I keep practicing everyday.
Mostly I'm just determined to make this rock and roll dream happen. And I want to be done getting hung up on ideas like "I can't sing" or "I can't play guitar."
And with that, I shall end this extremely wordy post.
Except I think that I should mention that I named my guitar Jimi.
And now that I think about it, I can't think of any white girls that play black guitars...
*shrugs*
Peace and love! Until next time, amigos.**** <3
* I usually did not want to initiate a jam session - way too many guitar players in Portland are into experimental noise rock. **I was also just mad that my stupid band had to break up, but that's irrelevant. ***Don't worry, Mom, I had a body guard. ****I promise I won't be so long-winded next time!
I'm in a really good mood right now. I just uploaded a video to launch a contest and I'm way excited about the whole concept. So naturally, I've got to subject you guys to the video and encourage you to enter the contest. Without further ado, I present to you this lovely video (live from Lauren's bathroom!)...
That's right - it's a music video contest! It would make my day if YOU entered.
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.
So it's been a busy but exciting week. I've been slowly getting my act together in the rock and roll department. I'm not really sure what happened, but somewhere in there I realized I needed to stop waiting for things to happen and start making things happen.
That being said, I spent the majority of the past week immersed in a music video project. It was designed to be a fairly simple shoot, but it quickly evolved into hours of filming myself singing the song in various outfits and settings. I covered myself in blue face paint and rode the community elevator up and down in the middle of the night. I borrowed an old button-up shirt from someone and wore it backwards like a straightjacket. I recruited a few friends to be in it (including The Mad Scientist, who's performance as The Mad Evil Doctor is unbelievable). I put on a flashy dress and we all danced around in the basement..
I also met a few of my new neighbors while tromping around the hallways dressed as a crazy person. I really know how to make a good first impression sometimes.
But anyway, after spending three days meticulously editing the whole thing together, I'm ready to show it to you guys. I'm pleasantly surprised with how it turned out (it looks like it actually had a budget behind it!) and I hope you guys like it.
Here it is, just in time for Halloween...
To celebrate the release of the video, I'm giving the song away for free on Bandcamp! To get the song, click here, then click "Buy Now." It will ask you to name your price. There's no minimum so you can snag the track for free! I think you just have to put in your email address and join my mailing list. Anyway, I encourage all of you to grab the song, load it on your iPod, jam out to it in your car, get your friends really drunk and make them listen to it, etc. Basically, just enjoy it. And spread the word.
So no one has pooped in a bucket yet, but I'm sure it's coming. And The Chef is still around, but everything is ballooning into a bigger controversy. Meaning that a bunch of building code violations have been revealed and now there's an impending legal battle. Not to mention the rumor that we're all going to eventually die of asbestos poisoning and possibly other things. It's what we get for thinking that it was a good idea to live in what was formerly an abandoned retirement home. No matter how much white sage you burn, there are things about the building that will always be a little bit toxic.
Luckily, I'm house-sitting for about a week and a half. I get to hang out with the world's sweetest pit bull in Southeast Portland. Burn my latte and call me a hipster, but this is my favorite part of town.
Now if only I can figure out how to work the television here, everything will be perfect. The thing has a trillion remotes and I think I pressed the wrong button on one of them last night. I was doomed to an evening of watching Ye Olde Fuzz Channel. Fail.
In other news, I've decided that I'm going to be done wallowing around in mediocrity and I need to own my life. Meaning, I need finish the album, get a back-up band together, and create a scene. I think I'm holding auditions this weekend if I can get my act together. I'm trying really hard to give the impression that The Want Ads has more than just one person in it. We'll see how that goes. The Poet is acting as my band manager. I need to get him one of those wooden paddles that the manager of Spinal Tap carries around. Painted pink, of course.
I'm also figuring out the cover art for my CD and have spent way too much time in the past week in my bathroom taking pictures that look like this:
As far as other items on the rock and roll to-do list go, I am perfecting my ability to slip in and out of a fairly convincing British accent. Pretty soon, no one is going to know what nationality I really am.
I'm either onto something great or I've hit the infamous Quarter-Life Crisis hardcore. All my friends at The Nursing Home For Artists are very encouraging, but many of them are going through similar crises (of both Quarter-Life and Mid-Life variety).
I'll just keep up the madness and see what happens.
I even went all out and made a Facebook page for my band (become a fan? :D). Everyone knows that nothing is official until it's on Facebook. So now it's official. I'm here to rock.
Except I still have to put myself through the vicious daily cycle of self-doubt. I really just need to get over all of that. And I will. But there is always a moment in the day when I have too much time to myself and realize that pursuing The Rock Star Dream is actually a very scary thing to do.
But it would be tragic if I didn't give it my best shot.
I think my sentiments can be best expressed through a song by Sister Sledge:
It's ridiculous. It's getting to the point where people laugh when I mention being nervous. "Lauren, haven't you done this a million times?" they say.
Yes, I've done the performing thing a few times and usually everything feels natural and under control when I'm on stage. But there's always that weird 48 hour period beforehand where I don't know what to do with myself. I freak out about my outfit for a couple of hours. I worry about the set list. I'm even infamous for coming down with a terrible sore throat before shows. It must be psychosomatic because it happens almost every time.
We've done a lot of practicing in the past few days. We know the songs inside and out. We're ready. And I am fairly confident that we will rock it. But there is still this freaky cloud of nervousness lurking around my brain. What if our music goes horribly wrong somehow?
Then there's my own little wardrobe issue. I'm going out on a limb and wearing a strapless dress. It's the kind of dress I tried on for fun and knew immediately that it was made for me. I'm really excited about it, but I don't typically wear strapless dresses and am paranoid about having some sort of wardrobe malfunction onstage.
I'm so paranoid that I've been practicing in the dress. That's probably not the type of thing you should admit on a public blog, but it's true. I've been putting on my dress and heels before band practice these days. I've also spent way too much time practicing my keytar stance in front of my mirror when I'm alone. Don't judge.
But aside from being awkwardly nervous, I'm just plain excited. It's been way too long since Ryan and I have done a show at a decent venue. I know we're going to have a blast.
I also know that the crowd will be full of my friends and neighbors from the commune. The Poet is organizing a massive field trip. Nobody here drives, so it sounds like there's going to be twenty people taking a Trimet bus across town to cheer me on as I pretend to be a rock star.
I know I've probably said it before, but I'll say it again: The people I live with are absolutely wonderful.
Sometimes I feel like we're the brats that have refused to grow up and that's why we all get along so well. If you don't believe me, check out these pictures from Sunday night's art installation:
Yes, those are Twinkies. Yes, they are wearing loin cloths/thongs and hanging from the ceiling.
It all started on the kitchen whiteboard with a weird cartoon war between The Fonz and The Chef. It escalated to The Poet buying two boxes of Twinkies at the store and handing them to The Fonz, Purple Hair, and myself to decorate. We hung them all from the ceiling in the middle of the night. It was glorious.
I think we all missed the memo that we aren't in college anymore. But right now, that's okay. I'm having more fun than I ever did in college anyway. I'm definitely making a lot more music, which is what I need to be doing.
And with that, I'm off to go make more tea. I've got to make this stupid sore throat go away by tomorrow night, even if it is just psychosomatic.
For the past week or two, I've been having these reoccurring dreams about fast food restaurants. Usually it's a Carl's Jr or a Wendy's. Sometimes it's a Taco Bell. But regardless of what chain it happens to be, I'm always sitting there drinking a milkshake and waiting for the rest of my food to come. Reasons for being there differ. Sometimes I'm there because I'm avoiding someone obnoxious (this could be anyone from my ex-boyfriend to my seventh grade math teacher). Sometimes I'm waiting for someone that never comes. Sometimes I just want to drink a milkshake. I'm always there longer than I intend to be, and the teenagers at the counter never get my order right.
Weirdest thing is, I don't even eat a lot of fast food in real life. I don't even really like fast food that much.
I'm sure Sigmund Freud or some like-minded psycho shrink could derive some deep meaning from this mundane series of dreams, but I'd like to think it's just another sign that my life is in need of a change. I mean, if the most exciting thing my subconscious can come up with in this current environment involves greasy chain restaurants, it must be time to get out of this town.
I'm going to attempt to sleep now. And hopefully tonight, I'll dream about something more exciting. Maybe I can dream about rock tour. :D
Disclaimer: There's a Kimya Dawson lyric that says something like, "If you don't like body functions, don't read my blog." That lyric could be applied to this post. You have been warned. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tonight was special.
To make a long story short, I can now cross "throw up twice during a presentation" off of my list of things to do in life.
Fortunately, I was able to make an awkward exit and run to the bathroom while another girl in my group was talking. I hurled into a trashcan in the safety of the ladies' room, a disgusted Chinese exchange student being the only witness. I ran my hands under cold water and made it back to the classroom in time to finish the presentation. I told no one why I had left and proceeded to act like everything was normal. It was still a very mortifying experience though. There's nothing like standing in front of a group of people and realizing that it would be a good idea to visually locating all available trashcans in the room. It was like my sixth grade winter band concert all over again. *shudder*
Weirdly enough, the prof seemed to like the presentation. He was especially impressed by the video I made, which was funny because I cut it together last night when I was grumpy and had a fever. Apparently the video distracted him from the fact that I was turning green and visually locating all the trashcans in the room.
I can't wait until school is over and done with.
Now that I've got this rock tour plan cooked up, I really can't wait to graduate and be done with this whole college thing.
The map looks at me every day from it's perch on my wall. It's calling my name. It's saying, "Lauren! Lauren! I am the United States! Make rock music in meeee!"
Actually, I've never heard it say those exact words (or any words at all, really). But you get the point.
Anyway, now that I've thrown up a couple of times, I am officially sick and can spend my evening irresponsibly blogging and looking at keytars on ebay. Okay, so maybe I was doing that before I threw up, but now I can do it free of guilt.
Dear Keytar,
The more I think about you, the more I want you. You are cooler than an accordion but still have a lot of personality. You are probably not as heavy as my accordion and I don't have to squeeze you to get you to make noise. Like I said in an earlier post, I wish it was at least semi-practical to throw money into you. Maybe you can be mine someday.
Love, Lauren
Gah. I am writing letters to inanimate objects. I should go to bed.
I have physics lab in a little bit. I have absolutely no desire to go but I need to pass physics. It's an easy gen ed class, but I'm having the hardest time caring. All I really want to do right now is be a rock star. And last time I checked, rock stars don't take physics.
Not sure if rock stars run around in goggles making soap in their front yards either, which is what Ryan and I did over spring break. I really wasn't kidding when I mentioned Original Sound Trash-themed soap in that video a couple of posts back. Hey, every band needs their trademark.
I think we were high off of the fumes at this point. Don't play with lye, kiddos. It's nasty stuff.
Our first batch of soap is still curing on my windowsill. It was an experimental batch. We even tried scenting it with some tea we don't like. If it turns out okay, we may have Amish Housewife Day Part Two and mass produce OST soap to sell at shows alongside shirts and buttons.
