Public Transportation Is The Best

Saturday night. I'm on the light rail train with Steve after a music festival in Portland.

An old woman sits across from us and knits.

Two tattooed teenage boys hold onto the handles from the ceiling and stand in the middle of the car.

Someone on the other end of the car blasts music from a cell phone. To be more specific, it's Lady Gaga's "Pokerface." Steve laughs. I bob my head in time. The teenagers grin.

The dude with the phone changes it to that awful Ke$ha song (you know, the one where she wakes up feeling like P. Diddy even though she's a white chick). I laugh and start to dance in my seat. Steve joins me. The boys groove to it too, all four of us discretely singing "Don't stop, make it pop, DJ blow my speakers up." "Oh my god, can we get some strobe lights up in here?" says one of the boys. "Yeah, dance party!" says the other boy.

The train comes to a stop and the dude with the phone gets off.

The tattooed teenagers go back to making jokes about elderly strippers.

Steve and I go back to geeking out about the music festival we just went to.

The old woman is still knitting.

All thoughts of a dance party are abandoned.


Public transportation is fabulous, yes?

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. 

If Music Was A Cave, I Might Hide In It For A Long Time

Ryan came over today for band practice. Lots of times, "band practice" quickly turns into...
a) indie/cult/foreign film appreciation time
b) time to talk about the meaning of life
c) time to drink too much
d) all of the above

These are all very wonderful things, but today we managed to crack down and work on music for awhile. We dug out our old catalog and prepared a set list for a hypothetical show. We played through some new material and revved up our old songs. We made a game plan. We're tired of being a dysfunctional rock duo that doesn't do anything.

We even attempted to make a video of one of our new songs to put up on youtube for our three fans to watch and enjoy. It's a difficult song and it took a million takes to get it right. When we finally got something we were semi-satisfied with, we loaded it on my laptop and discovered that all of the footage looked like this:

I'm all for being edgy and avant-garde, but it's also nice when Ryan has a head. So much fail.

Ah well. We plan on redoing it so that the world can listen to our new song without being distracted by the decapitation happening stage right.

It's just good to be working on trash rock stuff again, I guess. We haven't done a show since May and our plans to record an album got a bit stuck in the mud. Ryan works full time and lives in Timbuktu (actually, I'm the one that lives in Timbuktu right now, but we can say it's Ryan). Original Sound Trash's transition into the post-college world hasn't been the smoothest.

That's irrelevant, though. We're not those bad ass college rockers anymore, but I'd like to think we're still bad ass. And we're not in the mood to let real life get in the way of our rock and roll fantasies.

Speaking of real life, I need to call the school district tomorrow and get on their sub list again. For those of you just now tuning in, I worked as a substitute educational assistant last spring (I got the job because I had a connection, not because I actually like children). It was hellish and I would rather not do it again, but I have nothing else lined up. Maybe a few days of chasing retards kids down the hall will be the motivation I need to find a job I can stand.

*sigh* Can I just be a rock star? Pretty please?

This Is Horrible...

I am doing something horrendous. 

Something I can barely stand to even think about, let alone actually do.

Something the doctor has been telling me to do for months.

Something that's supposedly for my own good. 

What am I doing, you ask?

I am switching to decaf.

That's right.  I am as caffeine-addicted as they come and it's well past the point of being remotely healthy (if you need proof of my addiction, just check out this post from back in April).

When I really think about it, kicking the coffee habit makes sense.  Coffee has way too much control over me.  If I miss a cup in the morning, my day is screwed.  And if somebody drinks my coffee, I tend to involuntarily go ballistic (my old roommate learned this the hard way).  I don't need to let it have that kind of control over me. 

Of course, I'm not hardcore enough to go cold turkey.  I got some decaf coffee and plan to mix it in with the regular coffee.  I'm still living with my parents this month and my mom is doing this with me for moral support.  We started yesterday and got the ratio of decaf to regular a little too intense for day one. 

In other words, I spent the entire day feeling like this:

We didn't put as much decaf in the mix today but I'm still feeling it a little bit.  Maybe it's psychological. 

Grrr.  I will beat this thing.  I will beat this thing, even if it kills me!

That's all.

It's The Magical Mystery Kind

Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros were completely magical. 

See those two red heads sitting right in the front row?  That's my brother and I.

I snagged these pics of the show from www.kink.fm

Somehow we scored seats right in front of that epic ensemble.  At times, it felt like Edward Sharpe was singing to me.  They made the kind of music that reminded me why I've always been so excited about making music.

When the show was over, I wanted to jump on their hippy bus with them and become the 11th member of their band.  After all, there are already about three people in the band who's purpose is to shake something.  Don't they need me to look cute and hit a cowbell?  I think they do.  

I thought about scribbling my phone number onto an old gum wrapper and slipping it into somebody's instrument case when the show was over.  I could include a note that says something like "If you need an 11th Magnetic Zero, call me."  At the very least, maybe they would have drunk dialed me and left me hilariously cosmic voicemails in the middle of the night. 

But alas, I settled for just shaking Edward Sharpe's hand after the show and telling him how much I loved his music.  I talked to the guitar player and the trumpet player as well, then stuck around to hear the piano player and the other guitarist jam a little bit.  When my brother and I finally left, we ran into two more of them on the sidewalk and proceeded to act like stupid fans.  Luckily they were too high to be annoyed.

And I've got their song "40 Day Dream" permanently stuck in my head now, which is not necessarily a bad thing.  

In conclusion, it was a really, really good day.  :D

Well Hot & Heavy, Pumpkin Pie, Chocolate Candy, Jesus Christ...

Today I went to the store to buy something.

The man behind the cash register looked familiar, but I tried not to think about it.

Apparently, I looked familiar to him too.

"Oh, you went to _______ High School, didn't you?" he says.

I nod, horrified.

"I'm ______'s dad!" he says, grinning. "Remember me?"

Oh yes, I remembered him. His son was first chair trombone in the marching band and he chaperoned on just about every band trip there was.

I'm so sick of running into people from a past life every time I turn around.

On a brighter note, my brother scored passes for an exclusive session with Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros at a local radio station tomorrow afternoon. I'm the one who got him into that band in the first place, so I was stoked when he asked me to go with him.

If you are not familiar with Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros, maybe you'll understand why I'm so excited after listening to this song:

Is it just me, or is that happiness in musical form?

Really, I was in a relatively dismal mood when I sat down to write this post. But that changed after putting on some Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros.

Anyway, that's all for now, folks. Peace be with you, kind souls who read this mess of a blog. *bows heroically and scuttles off to bed*

*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.

Portlandia

Lorne Michaels is producing a show about my city.  It makes fun of my city, it celebrates my city, and it's being filmed in my city.  It's called "Portlandia" (just like the big weird statue that guards the city).

I guess filming started last week, but I just sent off my resume with the hopes that they might need another cable wrangler or coffee wench. 

Oh man, if I could bring Lorne Michaels a cup of coffee and have him tell me it was too hot or too bitter, I think my life would be complete. 

Of course, he's probably not even in town.  But his minions are.  And maybe they don't even check their email during production.  But maybe they do.  And maybe they need me.  I sent them my phone number.  Maybe they'll call.

I really want them to call. 

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.

Scott Pilgrim Vs. Me!

It was hot yesterday. I am such a wimp when it comes to the heat. I generally have three ways of coping with hot weather:

1. I crank up the AC and I don't leave my house.
2. I get in my car and drive until I'm at the beach, where it is always overcast and cold.
3. I go to the movies. I can always count on movie theaters to be properly air conditioned (well, with the exception of funky art-house theaters that were built in the 1930's, but that's irrelevant).

I had already spent too much time in my house yesterday and I live three hours from the beach, so it was time to go to the movies. I watched the trailer for "Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World" (posted below).

I decided to go see it based on the following:

1. It stars Michael Cera.
2. It has something to do with indie rock.
3. It features Michael Cera playing guitar in an indie rock band.
4. It's directed by the guy who did "Shaun of The Dead" and "Hot Fuzz."
5. The chick in the trailer had cool hair.
6. Parts of the trailer reminded me of "Kill Bill."
7. The love story part of it looked kind of cute.
8. Michael Cera is more than kind of cute.

So I conned Steve into going with me. We chowed down some Chinese food and made our way over to a pretty empty theater. Actually, we were the only people in the theater until the movie was about to start. Then a small clump of obnoxious teenagers came in. One sat right behind me and put his stinky feet up on the seat next to me. It was so repulsive that I made Steve move down several seats with me. There is nothing worse than watching a movie with stinky feet in your face.

Neither of us really knew what to expect from the film. I figured it would amuse and distract me for two hours but didn't have incredibly high expectations for it.

Five minutes into it, I leaned over to Steve and whispered "Oh my gosh, I love this film already." He gave me a silent yet enthusiastic thumbs-up sign. I looked over at him and noticed he was grinning. The opening credits overtook the screen and I saw the name JASON SCHWARTZMAN. I didn't realize that he was in the movie too and discovering this made me downright giddy.

Since it's based on a comic book, the film is pretty stylized and has a lot of references to video games and nerd culture in general (hence the reason Steve loved it so much). I'm usually unimpressed by comic book/superhero movies, but "Scott Pilgrim" was just fun. It had good music in it, hilarious dialogue, and enough clever cultural references to keep my inner hipster satisfied (though a true hipster probably wouldn't be caught dead in that theater).

Of course, the movie also deeply satisfied my inner nerd - a persona that I hide fairly well but has existed for years. *sigh* I guess it's time for an embarrassing history lesson.

When I was a junior in high school, I attended a charter school for kids who wanted to focus on Information Technology. I didn't really care about computers, but I needed a change of scenery from the chaos of public high school. The social ladder was completely flipped upside at that school. Nerds ruled the world and I usually ate lunch with the one misplaced jock and the one other female in the program. Fitting in at the nerd school proved to be just as difficult as fitting in at public high school. It didn't help that I was going through a pretty intense fashion phase that involved wearing vintage fur coats to the computer lab. I also had a thing for shoulder pads and often went to school looking like this (brace yourself, this is an actual picture of 17 year old Lauren):

Horrifying, right? Mary Tyler Moore called, she wants her jacket back.

Most of the nerd boys were a little bit in love with me. Though this helped me ace several computer programming classes, it was annoying because I just wanted some friends. At some point I decided that if I was ever going to be friends with anyone other than the jock and the girl (who really weren't that nice or interesting), I was going to have to be open-minded to nerd culture.

It was about that time that some stuttering nerd boy who had a thing for me offered to let me borrow his new copy of some stupid-looking graphic novel. I cringed but borrowed it just to be nice. I even read a few pages of it just to see what it was.

And then I stayed up all night reading it. It was much better than I had expected it to be. To his amazement, I returned the book to him the next day having read the whole thing. Without even hesitating, he supplied me with the next book in the series. And so began this strange season of reading graphic novels.

I think I borrowed an entire series from him over the course of a few weeks. I was embarrassed by the nerdtastic nature of the books and would keep them in the special zip-up pocket of my backpack during the school day. Once I made it home, I would go in my room and hide the book under my mattress. Yes, I know, I was acting like it was pornography or subversive political literature or something really offensive. There was nothing pornographic or subversive about it, but girls that wear vintage fur coats don't read comic books.

Looking back, I think the boy lending me the comics totally misinterpreted the whole scenario and therefore I accidently led him on. Actually, things got fairly ugly when he realized I just wanted to be his friend that borrowed all of his dorky-yet-fascinating comic books. He abruptly stopped talking to me. At first I thought it was because I returned a book to him with the cover bent a little bit (life in Lauren's backpack is rough sometimes). But when he hacked into my computer at school and started passing around my assignments for everyone to copy, I knew I had somehow unintentionally stomped on his little nerd-heart.


My trusty comic book supplier had become my enemy, so I began turning to the Internet for my nerdy comic fix. I paid attention to the web comics that boys in the computer lab were reading when they were bored and read them when no one was looking. Then I would reference them in the presence of nerd boys in attempts to gain acceptance and earn their friendship.

This catapulted me to Queen of the Nerds status (which is a little bit like "Queen of the Damned" but with less outfits made of leather and definitely less sex). Every boy in that stupid computer lab had some sort of weird crush on me. It was flattering and I got a lot of free computer help that way. But I really just wanted to be part of the group, not the star of teenage geekboy fantasies. I specifically remember there being some big geeky get-together at somebody's house on a Friday night. It was just going to be a lot of people drinking Mountain Dew and playing Mario Brothers or watching anime or something along those lines. I didn't even really like any of those things, but everyone in the IT cohort was going. Naturally, I wanted to go.

But I wasn't invited. This is pathetic, but I can distinctly remember sitting in my room on Friday night, writing in my journal and keeping my gigantic cell phone close by in case somebody remembered to invite me. The phone never rang. I decided I didn't want to be a part of that scene anyway.

The next week, I put on my sweatshirt that I had ripped up and sewn back together with safety pins. I got in touch with some people from public school and started a rock band in my garage. We called ourselves "The Accoutrements" and never left my garage, but that's irrelevant. That turned out to be my high school niche and my days of trying to fit in with nerds was over.

Except that nerdy part of me has never really died. Movies like "Scott Pilgrim" remind me that it's still there.

(Yes, I did manage to bring it back to the original movie review this post was intended to be. I have a way of rambling sometimes. Please forgive me.)

On another note, I found myself a little jealous of Ramona Flowers in the scene at the end where Michael Cera and Jason Schwartzman were fighting over her (kung fu fighting, to be specific). If I was in her position, I would just be like, "Hey guys, I can't choose between you. So I'm going to have to choose both of you. Welcome to my harem of adorably awkward hipster boys."

Anyway, go see "Scott Pilgrim." It's absolutely ridiculous, but it will make you laugh. It made me laugh, anyway. Actually, I think it's one of the funniest, freshest films I've seen in awhile.

And instead of sleeping last night, I stayed up making a silly avatar for myself on the "Scott Pilgrim" website. Because that's what all the cool kids are doing these days.

Oh man, I really am geekier than I give myself credit for, huh? I think I'm going to end this post before I incriminate myself any further.

Peace out, amigos.