Surely Someone Out There Can Relate To This...

"I have a full time job now," my old friend from high school says, grinning proudly. "We've got to get you one of those!"

I die inside a little bit. I drove all the way out to Timbuktu to see him and he goes all parental on me? Not cool.

"I'm working on it..." I say. "I'm also hoping the music plan will work out..." Even though I'm talking to someone who is technically one of my best friends, I feel like I want to crawl under the table.

"But aren't you running out of money?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

Later in the conversation he's asking me how I could afford a guitar. I wanted to just stand up and say, "Look, I came over here to eat junk food, catch up with what's been going on in your life, tell you funny stories about my commune, and geek out over obscure disco songs with you. I did not come over for a financial audit and evaluation!"

Instead, I found myself trying to justify my purchase by telling him about the great deal I got and about how I earned money from doing this or that. And as I heard the words come out of my mouth, I was saddened by the fact that I live in a world where I have to constantly discuss my financial status with people who really have no right to ask. I don't go around asking people where their money is coming from, so why do people think it's appropriate to grill me on such matters? Just because I'm not working 9-5 somewhere doesn't mean I'm an illegitimate member of society.

Overall, it was good to see my old friend from high school today, if for no other reason than to quench my growing nostalgia for the good old days that aren't really that old and weren't really that good. We listened to music that no one else cares about and laughed at inside jokes that no one else would understand. I'll admit that it is really nice to still talk to someone who knew me back when I was just an awkward, geeky teenager.

I'll also admit that it was nice to go back to my place, play guitar with The Fonz and The Poet, and hear the words "Of course you have a full time job, Lauren - it just isn't paying very well right now."

I need to get that tattooed on my arm or something...

Who Can It Beeeee Now?

Knock knock
Me: Who is it?
TMBG Girl: Hey, wanna get dollar beers at the dive bar down the street and play pool?
Me: Nah, I'm writing my rock opera.

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Knock knock
Me: Yeah?
Asian Girl: You're room is mess. Clean it and in one hour I come back and help you rearrange.
Me: I can't do that tonight, I'm writing...

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Knock knock
Me: Come in...
The Poet: Cool room, kid!
Me: Yeah, it's messy...
The Poet: I brought you a CD.
Me: Oh? Which one?
The Poet: Here. It's "Tommy," of course. For inspiration. I wanted to feel helpful.
Me: Sweet, thanks. Do you want Leonard Cohen back? We can trade.
The Poet: But what if you need to cry? You better hold on to that for awhile longer.
Me: Haha, okay, thanks.


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Later, in the kitchen:


The Poet: How's it goin, kid?
Me: I think I'm going insane.
The Poet: Ah, you're in the crazy brain place?
Me: Completely.
The Poet: Come on. You're a rock star.
Me: I think I forgot how to format a stageplay...

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Fade Out

Oh Hi, It's Just Me Again...

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

I ended my last post with a "To Be Continued" and then neglected the blogosphere for a week.

I think I was merely going to tell you a story about the day I kept getting unexpected visits from random people.

There's a college kid from the second floor who's a poetic genius. He had come to remind me to go to the writer's group that we're both part of. I wasn't really feeling awake enough to partake in any sort of intelligent writer's critique, but I pulled a hat over my messy hair, grabbed my laptop, and went down the hall to meet the group. I worked up the nerve to read a short script, listened to Lego Guy go on about how I'm "just not that funny," then went back to my room to take a shower.

Another knock on the door.

"Who is it?" I yell, emerging from the shower. There's a cartoonish noise from the other side of the door. I throw on some clothes and go to see who it is. I see that someone slipped a note under the door.

The note said this: "EAT. PEAR. WAFFLE. TWEAKED OUT ELVIS COSTELLO. ART."

Except it said Tweaked Out Elvis Costello's real name, of course. He's not really aware of the fact that he has that cute nickname on the Internet...

Anyway, I opened the door to find him scuttling down the hall. He informs me that he's making waffles in the restaurant downstairs and that I should come eat one.

I'm not one to pass up waffles, so I wandered downstairs and promptly ran into the guy that owns the restaurant. He asked me to play a set this Friday. I said "yes." BAM. Got myself a gig.

A gig that is sneaking up on me. Tomorrow is Friday.

And yesterday, I found out that I'm no longer the opener...I'm one of the headliners. So that intensified my pre-show freak-out a bit.

I called Ryan and he's going to come do a few songs with me I think. We'll see how that goes.

Sometimes, I don't know why I insist on performing. The anxiety that happens in the 48 hour period before I get onstage is ridiculous. You better believe I'm a little ball of nerves right now.

Anyway, it's time to rock and roll, kids. Over and out.

(More coherent post to come later, I promise.)

And remember - you are not hardcore unless you live hardcore!

Need To Leave The Country (Doctor's Orders)

The headaches never really stopped. I went to see Dr. Flintstone yesterday. His name isn't really Dr. Flintstone, but he has a Yabba-Dabba-Doo vibe about him and his real name is hard to pronounce. It's not meant to be an insulting nickname - I think Fred Flintstone is totally cool.

But anyway, I told Dr. Flintstone all about the headaches that wouldn't stop and the weird migraine meds the creep at urgent care put me on. And Dr. Flintstone just looks at me and asks if I'm been stressed out lately.

"Technically, I'm not supposed to be stressed at all," I say. "I mean, I just graduated from college-"

"Hold it right there," he says. "That's one of the most stressful things you can do in your life!"

"Yeah, I guess it is," I say, nodding in agreement.

"And lemme guess - you're unemployed and don't know what you're doing and can't find a job in this miserable economy?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"That explains everything."

He perscribes some stuff for tension headaches and tells me that the best thing I can do right now is leave the country. He asks what I got my degree in. I always dread telling people with practical careers that I majored in film, but Dr. Flintstone reacted differently than I expected.

"You definitely need to leave the country if you have a film degree!" he says, his Flintstone-esque face glowing with enthusiasm. "There are so many stories out there in the world that aren't being told over here. You need to go experience them and bring them back."

I still had a headache when I left the doctor's office, but I felt slightly better about my life.

Steve came over last night and we talked about going on some grand adventure together. More on that later...

So The Guy That Wants To Be Michael Cera Called Me Today

"Um, I've never really done this before," says Michael Cera-esque Indie Rock Guy on the phone. "We've never had to audition anyone. Should I just send you a couple of the songs and you can learn them and like, play them with us?"
"Yeah, totally," I say. Why is this phone conversation so awkward? Man, I hate phones sometimes. "And then maybe we can jam or something," I add.
There's a pause.
"Yeah..." he replies. "We don't really jam. We're not that kind of band. We write songs and then we play them."

This response baffled me slightly. I've always thought that jamming was half the fun of playing with other people. Maybe I'm just used to Ryan. We spent a couple of years jamming together on weekends before we even became a legit rock band. Even now that we are a legit rock band, we still let ourselves get lost in free-form chord progressions during practice now and then. We're not The Mars Volta or anything, but we do enjoy jamming. I just assumed that most musicians were into it, too. Guess not.

I try out for this band on Sunday night. I'm sure it will be an interesting experience.

I just hope I'm feeling better by then. I finally broke down and went to Urgent Care today for the crazy headaches I've been having. Had a lovely visit with a really creepy doctor. Acquired a prescription for some supersonic migraine pills.

There's no reason why I should be stressed out to the point of developing a week-long migraine at this point in my life. After all, college is a thing of the past. Isn't that supposed to be the most stressful part of your life (unless you go into politics or get a job as the food taster for a fascist dictator, of course)?

I guess I'm experiencing a different kind of stress. I don't even know if I can fully explain it. It probably all comes back to the fact that I don't really know what I'm doing right now.

But, let's not start that again. I'll figure everything out eventually. Or something like that.

And now - sleep! Supersonic migraine pills are making me sleepy/loopy.