Wake Me Up When September Ends

I'd like to open this post with a couple of relatively trivial news yet fun items:

1) I have finally hopped onto the Twitter bandwagon. Does that make me a Twit? Anyway, I currently have one follower and it's the guy that lives across the hall from me. Also, I don't know who to follow aside from random celebrities that I adore. So I would love for you guys to seek out my friendship in the Twitter Universe and show me how it's all done. My page is over here.

2) I'm signed up to do a live musical broadcast on younow.com at 4pm today (that's Pacific Standard time - if you live on the East Coast it's going to be at 7pm). It's a really cool site, I'm excited about it. You start with a minute and if people "like" what you're doing you get more time. So, if you're in the mood to pop over there in a couple of hours and cheer me on, I would totally love that.

In other news, my CD project is in limbo because the guy that's mixing it dropped off the face of the Earth one day and woke up in Kansas. I think I nearly cried when I got the text message with that news in it. I feel as if that one five-track disc is the missing piece in my whole rock and roll scheme. And until it's done, I'm destined to be stuck in limbo. Did you know that last week I actually wore PANTY HOSE because I was attempting to get a job as a church pianist? It felt downright unnatural. The worst part is that they didn't even hire me because they need someone who can play the organ too. But I'm over it. I've started putting up ads all over Craigslist advertising my fine skills as a funeral musician. I figure that people are always dying and in need of piano accompaniment. Sadly, I'm yet to get a response.

But enough about jobs! I love what The Poet always says to me: "Lauren, you have a job - you're a rock star. The pay just sucks right now." I try to maintain that mentality, though sometimes it's difficult.

I was talking to an old friend yesterday and we decided that September is always the worst month because everyone goes back to school except you and it forces you to become nostalgic and re-evaluate the current direction of your life. My friend just got hired as a full-time personal trainer though, so I don't really know if he understood what I was talking about. He excitedly talked about how he was going to make so much money at his new job and asked me all about my job prospects, suggesting that maybe I should just go back to school.

I really have no desire to go back to school, but I've noticed that a lot of people are doing it, probably just as a thing to do.

(from Scott Pilgrim vol. 5... yes, my love for these comics is shameless)

Anyway, I'm slipping into rambling-mode here.  I've spent a little too much time in my head lately, can you tell? 

Last night was good, though.  It's been awhile since the whole crew has gone out because Purple Hair moved closer to the river and The Fonz has been living in the woods.  But we all came together last night for pizza at Sizzle Pie and drinks at the B Side (gah... I feel like such hipster scum when I drop names of places like that).  It was really good to get out of my neighborhood and even better to get out of my brain. 

Somehow, I ended up as designated driver, which is usually a blessing in disguise.  Honestly, I have never woken up in the morning and thought to myself "Gee, I'm so glad I had all of that alcohol last night!  I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to be so obnoxious and now I feel all happy and peppy and wonderful!"  But I digress.  The end of the night was particularly spectacular, with The Mad Scientist babbling incoherently to himself in my truck and The Poet shoved between us trying hard not to laugh. 

"People gotta do what people gotta do!  I saaaaaid people gotta do what people gotta do!"

These are the words that The Mad Scientist said the whole way home.  He's my friend, but duuuude... Next time, he's taking a bus.

I did get a nice "Sorry for my drunken behavior" email from him this morning.  I'm starting to get whole collection of those.  Usually they leave his computer at about 6am and are addressed to whoever was present on the scene of his drunken strangeness.  My personal favorites include an apology for publicly groping someone and a clarification assuring us that he does not really think he's Kanye West. 

I really don't think about how strange my life is until I start typing things out like this... 

The Day I Wore Fred's Glasses

First off, I want to apologize for not blogging a lot lately. Apparently I can't be prolific all of the time.

Also, I couldn't help but notice that I have over 100 followers! This is totally exciting news, not to mention a little mind-blowing. If you're new here, welcome to the club. Thanks for following and I look forward to getting to know you a little bit.

Now that all of that is out of the way, I want to show you guys a picture...

Yes, that is Fred Armisen. And yes, we are wearing each other's glasses. As a side note, his prescription is kind of intense.

Also, it should be noted that my glasses have gotten much, much cooler because THEY HAVE BEEN ON FRED ARMISEN'S FACE.

Fan girl moment aside, it was really cool to meet Fred again. I felt like he possibly remembered me from last time. I sort of feel like I've been stalking to him, but I promise I haven't been.

Okay, there was that time last week when I saw him drinking a Sprite on a street corner and watched him for a good twenty minutes. But let's not talk about that.

Anyway, today turned out to be awesome. I knew where they were filming "Portlandia" today and thought I would go check out the set. I guess I was in the right place at the right time, because they needed more extras and next thing I knew I was wearing a Portland Timbers' scarf and cheering in the bleachers for a soccer game sketch.

And when it was all over, I had a glasses-related bonding moment with Fred himself.

I've been getting caught in a slump lately, mentally repeating phrases like "NOTHING IS GOING LIKE I PLANNED" over and over until all I can do is eat ice cream and fall asleep. But after today, I am optimistic.

After all, I now have a cool photograph of myself with one of the funniest men in the business. And when you have multiple Fred Armisen encounters in one summer, you have to believe that you're doing something right.

This Is Just Me Being All Neurotic (And Shooting Lasers From My Eyes)

I haven't felt very good for the past couple of days. It's probably just a combination of stress (cue lively chorus of "How are we gonna pay-ay-ay thiiiiiiis yeeeeear's reeeeeent?"), a fairly bad diet (cheese, bread, and coffee, anyone?), and living in a glorified ghetto full of lead/mold/asbestos/people that don't bathe (no one ever said Bohemianism would be glamorous). Also, when you share a kitchen with about 30 people (some of which choose not to bathe), everything becomes a germ factory from time to time (or, all the time). I'm staying off of WebMD and attempting to cure myself by taking ibuprofen, opening my windows to air out my apartment (but not wide enough for people to leap through), and eating only fruit (and pizza...and cookies...and cake...). I have no doubt that I will be totally fine.

Except that I remember being bit by an extraordinarily large mosquito one night last week when I was out on the stoop with The Poet and The Mad Scientist. It's no coincidence that I started feeling under the weather a few days later. I think we all know what that means: I HAVE THE WEST NILE VIRUS!

NOTE: I hope you know I'm being melodramatic for comedic purposes. I don't really think I have The West Nile Virus. But then again, I'm not allowing myself to look at WebMD right now, so I haven't checked the symptoms.

In other news, I did eat a tuna fish sandwich last week. And we all know that tuna fish has a recent history of being radioactive because of the disasters in Japan. That being said, I'm half expecting to wake up after several days of feeling crummy and suddenly have the ability to move stuff with my mind and maybe shoot laser beams out of my eyes.

I think it will be pretty cool once I get used to it...



























I was about to say something stupid like, "It will be just like Spiderman!"  But then I remembered two things:

1)  Spiderman is kinda lame and has a dumb outfit!  Though who doesn't love those tight pants... 
2)  Spiderman was bit by a radioactive spider and therefore has spider-like qualities.  According to this logic, eating radioactive tuna would give me, um, tuna-like qualities.

"Yo, I'm the chicken of the sea!"

This whole tuna fish-induced radioactive super powers thing is slowly going from being a live action version of the paintings The Chef graciously hung in the kitchen....

Brilliant!  Simply brilliant!  What will that man paint next?

... to becoming reminiscent of an absurd little cartoon character I created in college.

Don't ask me how my brain works.  I don't know.  I just don't know.  

Now that I took this whole thing to the weird land of talking fish sticks, I don't really remember what this post was supposed to be about.

I think I'm going to go gorge myself on leftover pizza delicately eat a piece of fruit.

Peace out, amigos.  More interesting and relevant thoughts later, I promise.

This One Comes With Ugly Drawings And Diagrams!

I'm a complete wimp when it comes to hot weather. It works out because I live in a place that's overcast and rainy most of the time, but lately it's been obnoxiously hot. It's the kind of heat that makes me want to do nothing but sit on my stoop in my shorts and daydream about icy places while drinking a variety of cold beverages. I'm not the only one who has this reaction. In fact, the porches around the building have become so populated that I sketched a lame diagram of it all. Click to enlarge.

The days here are miserable, but some of my favorite nights of the summer have happened on the stoop within the past week or so. Word is slowly getting around that my stoop is one of the more interesting places to be (after all, it is the outdoor home of the elusive Mad Scientist, who likes to smoke cigarettes out there while practicing material for his new rap career) and more people seem to be venturing over to it. Sometimes, we have little pizza parties out there. Watch the cars go by, lose track of time, try to avoid being eaten by mosquitoes, tell jokes, give each other misguided relationship advice, discuss the meaning of life. You know, things you do on a stoop.

I think they probably had a stoop in "RENT" but never used it in the play/movie because most of the plot takes place in winter.

That's all for now. The heat is frying my brain cells and I must return to do-nothing mode. If it doesn't cool down tomorrow, I just might have to spend the entire day at the movies or something. :P

Over and out, amigos.

Worse Than Calenders

My current to-do list:

- Make my room look less like a hipster frat house
- Drink more water, especially when it's so hot
- Stop worrying so much about the future
- Give my 30 days notice
- Start stretching before practicing The Melbourne Shuffle in my room so as to avoid embarrassing one-person-dance-party related muscle soreness
- Become more organized
- Finally finish that crazy CD and do something with it
- Beat somebody at pool
- Learn how to make money off of things I do already
- Eat more vegetables
- Remember that where ever I go, I will end up somewhere
- Actually go somewhere cool instead of just talking about it
- Block everyone on Facebook that uses words like "hubby," "house-cleaning," and "having a baby" in their status updates
- Write something people want to read
- Buy a ticket for the Amanda Palmer show in November
- Just conquer the world already

This is why I never make to-do lists...

They are even worse than calenders.

I Am Exactly The Person That I Want To Be

This is my theme song right now. I listen to it at least once every day, usually in the morning when I'm still waking up. It's very honest, empowering, and never fails to make me grin.

Don't tell anyone this, but I cried a little bit the first time I heard it. I'm not really a person that cries when listening to music,* but this song gets me. So I thought I'd share it with the big bad blogiverse. :)

Aaaand I think that's all I've got tonight. More interesting updates and stories to come, I promise. Also, I'm participating in a blog swap tomorrow, so expect an awesome guest post!

Peace out, amigos.

*Except for when I listen to David Bowie's "A Space Oddity" when I'm really sleep-deprived. Sometimes, thinking about Major Tom being lost in outer space is too much for me to handle.

Late Night Love/Hate Lists

I love it when...

- A friend introduces you to someone you've never seen before but that person pretends to have a history with you. It's best if you play along. Example: Friend: "Lauren, meet my friend André." André: "Oh, I know Lauren - we traveled across the country together back in 2001." Me: "Oh yeah, that was crazy! Especially when the car broke down. Nice to see you again, André."

- My friends and I have picnics on the stoop over-looking 82nd Avenue and pretend it's somewhere scenic.

- The coffee finally kicks in and I write about twelve pages of a theoretical sitcom episode over the course of a couple of hours.

- I realize that I am absolutely surrounded by people that believe in me and my various creative projects.

I hate it when...

- I realize that probably at least half of the people I hang out with only invite me places because I'm the one with the car.

- The smell of the dead fridge wafts down the hallway.

- The noise from 82nd Avenue keeps me awake when I sleep with my window open.

- It becomes clear that I need to move on from this Bohemian mad house and do something slightly more responsible with my life (don't ask me what that would be - I don't know yet...).

Deady McDead Dead

The fridge in the kitchen finally bit the dust last weekend.

It was already on it's last leg when we bought if off of The Fonz's mysterious ex last fall. And it's not like anyone really takes good care of it.

Actually, I never put anything in it for the following reasons:

a) It's always stuffed full.

b) An annoying theater troop moved in down the hall and they think it's okay to eat everybody's food.

c) I have a mini-fridge in my room (flashback to dorm life, anyone?).

d) No one ever cleans out the fridge and as a result, there is a whole colony of moldy food growing in the back of it.

You get the picture. It's a big stinky mess even when it's working properly. Which is to be expected, I guess. After all, it's used by about twenty people, most of which eat a lot of weird vegan-friendly food and forget to throw it out when it goes bad. I have nothing against vegans (except that I love to make fun of them...sorry, vegans), but sometimes they feel the need to make kombucha and forget about it in the community fridge for all of eternity.

Anyway, our "FRIDERATOR OF LOVE" died about a week ago (yes, it really says "FRIDERATOR OF LOVE" on it in permanent marker...I blame The Chef). It's not only merely dead - it's really most sincerely dead. I think it's leaking freon. It needs to go away. This is an ex-fridge.

Of course, no one wants to take responsibility for this rotting corpse of a refrigerator. I probably shouldn't complain about it because I don't want to touch it either. But I never used it when it was working. I have an excuse.

And now that it officially smells like death on a stick, no one will open it. So it's still full of strange, rotting, unrecognizable food-type things. Gross gross gross!

However, people have been very proactive in the sign-making department. As you can see in the picture, there are five very ominous notes regarding the death of the fridge. And those are only the ones on the front. There are a bunch on the sides, too. The Chef even wrote a eulogy for it on one side in bright pink Sharpie.

And then there was the funeral and requiem.

Yes, despite the fact that no one will touch the damn thing, there was already an event held in it's honor last Friday evening.

Okay, maybe it was just an excuse for people to get together and drink. But still, it was a time to say "goodbye" to something that's actually still with us because no one knows what to do with it.

The memorial service was held in the courtyard outside my window during our monthly art open house. Everyone was instructed to bring either a bag full of corn or a cheap pack of beer. The plan was to cook a bunch of corn on the community grill and enjoy the warm August night as a community of kooky artists. The Chef hung up some art on nearby trees to create a festive atmosphere. All systems were go for a wonderful night in remembrance of our darling dead "friderator of love."

Except that the minute The Chef put a piece of corn on the grill, The Management went berserk. Apparently, barbecuing corn during a gallery opening is some sort of heinous crime against humanity. It wasn't long before our crazed hipster asshole of a landlord was throwing a hissy fit.

Stupid Landlord: "You guys can't do this! You just can't!"
The Chef: "Um...well, we are."
Stupid Landlord: "Well...well...I'm going to call my boss and you'll have to deal with him."
Mr. Syracuse: "Fine, call him."
Stupid Landlord: "Why are you guys doing this???"
Pretty Much Everyone: "Um...we live here."

And that's the story behind the incident we now refer to as Corntroversy 2011.

We ended up having to relocate, which was so ridiculous. People got really riled up. Even the infamously grumpy fat lady with the rat-faced dog was on our side. Usually, she sides with The Management, but on this night, she was the one raising an ear of corn into the air and yelling "FREEEEEDOM!"

In the end, we still got to eat our corn and drink our beer.

And we still had a big, stinky, bio-hazard of a fridge sitting in our kitchen.

The Poet suggested that we move it to our landlord's parking spot in the middle of the night. Preferably face down and still full of food.

I doubt anyone will have the nerve to actually do that (I know I certainly don't), but it's a completely fabulous idea.

In the meantime, Mr. Friderator Of Love is happily rotting away. And I no longer go into the kitchen because it totally reeks. I've started just making sandwiches in my room when I get hungry.

Hooray for sandwiches.

Hip To Be Square?

I got new glasses a few days ago. Big, over-sized, Woody Allen glasses. They are my new favorite things. Except when I wear them around, I can't decide if I'm the hottest thing ever or if I'm absolute hipster scum.

I asked one of my neighbors for her opinion on the new glasses. "They make you look really smart," she replied. "After all, you're not one of those lazy kids that drinks nothing but Pabst Blue Ribbon."

Shortly after that, I walked into the pub with some friends and the bartender popped open a can of Pabst the minute he saw me walk in. "The usual, I assume?" he asked, sliding the beer towards me.

"By the way, nice glasses," he added as I fished around in my purse for two dollars.

I mumbled a "thank you," paid for my crappy beer, and proceeded to run into Mr. Syracuse. He was drinking alone at the end of the bar and immediately noticed my new glasses.

"Are those prescription?" he asked, smirking just a little bit.

"Yes," I said, wondering how many people would dare to ask me that question. "Yes, I actually need glasses to see things."

Over the past few days, several people have felt the need to ask me whether or not my new glasses have prescription lenses in them.

I doubt Woody Allen ever had to put up with that.

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.