A Tuesday Night In June

Roll the days up into an endless montage of coded words and coffee cups. This is the summer that happened when I was twenty-three.

Sitting under a tree as the sun set on Tuesday night, illuminated by an array of Christmas lights and sparkly fabric, I played music for my friends and neighbors in honor of Solstice. Encouraged by the drunken cheers, I belted out song after song until somebody from upstairs filed a noise complaint. It was the most fun I've had in awhile.

There had been a rumor that I was going to open for a friend of The Chef's who was visiting from out of town and was previously in a well-known alternative band. Just when I was starting to get excited about that possibility, I was informed that the guy wasn't answering his phone and would not be gracing us with his presence. So I became the headliner and the opening act became The Chef's infamous sound sculpture (an air mattress with train whistles and pan flute parts shoved into it so that it makes a shrill and obnoxious wheezing sound when turned on).

I've had some strange opening acts in my short time as a performing musician, but it doesn't get much weirder than the singing mattress. I feel as though I have finally arrived in The Land Of Rock And Roll.

There was also a nice moment before the show when The Chef was attempting to cook a chicken on a beer can under the grill and completely forgot about it. The result? A large cloud of smoke and one very black chicken.

Fortunately, it was set up as a potluck and other people brought food. Mysterious, vegan-friendly food, as one might expect from a Solstice celebration in an artist's community. But at least this time, we didn't have to go around and announce the ingredients used in each dish just in case somebody had a food allergy (yes, I have been to a potluck like that...it felt like a "Portlandia" episode...).

It was a pretty good crowd of people. Naturally, the usual crew was there - The Fonz, The Poet, Purple Hair, The Fallen Nun, The Chef, Jack, The Dancer, The Jewish Guy From New Jersey. The old guy that makes weird photoshop art involving floating baby heads. The Feng Shui lady with hair that belongs on The Trinity Broadcasting Network. The silent Canadian guy who generally only comes out long enough to bake special brownies. The woman with a dog that looks like Wishbone. The grumpy old lady who makes tassels for a living. The man who has been known to wear a dress on occasion. The Cute Poet Boy and his strangely butch girlfriend. The resident lesbian folk singer. The hipster who has dedicated his life to painting well-known cartoon characters holding cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The guy who aspires to go to butler school. The duo of sexually ambiguous hipster boys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes."

And me, in my summer dress, playing songs about love and giardia under a light-up tree.

All the rocks that society hands to us in boxes and backpacks become irrelevant in that moment. The elephants that have crept into our rooms over the past eight months go into the corner and drink too many tall boys. In the morning, we will once again face the reality of being starving artists in the twenty-first century. But in the garden, breathing in the music and laughter with the warm June air, that reality is unimportant. And life suddenly seems so very simple.

One day I will look back on all of this - this moment in time, this summer that happened when I was twenty-three - and I will laugh at the absurdity of it all. I'm laughing now and I'm still in the midst of it. But I wouldn't have any of it any other way.

Happy Summer, boys and girls. <3

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.

Back Leg Drags...

So I saw this sign hanging in a coffee shop the other day and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry:

That is all.  

(I will be back later with a more intelligent post, I promise...)

The Parade (An Awkward Cartoon Brought To You By Yours Truly!)

So I decided to turn a funny moment from my weekend into a badly drawn cartoon.  If you like this, let me know and I might start illustrating my life on a semi-regular basis. 

Note:  The images will get bigger when you click on them.  Hopefully the writing is at least somewhat legible.  I apologize if it isn't. 

And with that, I leave you with the following comic: 

Shirts-Off-O'Clock (Or: Knowing The Right Time To Leave The Room)

I was so proud of myself last night.  I went to a party and made the decision not to drink.  I then left at exactly the right time.  Really, the timing on my departure could not have better coordinated.  I narrowly avoided a scene full of nudity and angry yelling.

Allow me to recapitulate:

Jane, The World's Sweetest Pit Bull

I'm house-sitting this weekend, which means I get paid to hang out in the Hawthorne district with Jane, the world's sweetest pit bull.  It doesn't really get much better than that.  I started the job last night and was quite excited about spending some time alone in a house with a piano and a big screen TV.  I had a blast walking Jane all over Southeast Portland and was about to settle in for a night of cable television when my phone began bleeping at me. 

Apparently there was a party back at the commune.  Specifically a going-away party for one of my neighbors that is moving to Eugene.  I wasn't particularly in the party mood, but it was this girl's last night in town and I felt that it was important to go see her off with everybody.  Plus, I probably won't see her for a long time and she's a neighbor I really liked, so attendance at her goodbye party seemed polite and necessary.  So I drove back to the commune, promising myself that I wasn't going to stay out too late or get talked into doing anything wild (there was a rumor that this was going to be a key party, but I was fairly sure that was a joke). 

Things were fairly normal when I got there.  The usual suspects were gathered around the table in the kitchen drinking aquavit and eating jello salad.  I wasn't feeling the aquavit (NyQuil mixed with black licorice, anyone?), but the jello salad was quite excellent.  It was the weird kind with pretzels in it that only people from the Midwest know how to make.  I was totally suspicious of it at first but now I think I need the recipe (can anybody from the Midwest help me out with that?). 

Anyway, it was all fairly tame at first - just a bunch of hipsters and hippies sitting around eating jello.  The Poet told me about a weird encounter he had with the middle-aged musician that lives on the floor below us.  We'll call him Moody Musician.  This guy is notorious for his dramatic emotional cycles.  I am on good terms with him, but sometimes I am terrified to talk to him because he becomes hyper-sensitive when he has a bad day.  And according to The Poet, Moody Musician had entered another one of his dark periods and was having several bad days.  I don't have to interact with Moody Musician very often, so I didn't think much of this information. 

The party picked up as the bottle of aquavit was drained.  Purple Hair put on a David Bowie album and The Fonz gave a dramatic lip-syncing performance of "Let's Dance."  Soon, a lot of people were dancing.  Strangely enough, I was more in the mood to sit on the couch and pet somebody's dog.  Usually I'm all over David Bowie dance parties, but something was off last night. 

The couch turned out to be a good place to be.  Somebody yelled "UNDERWEAR PARTY" and suddenly everyone took off their pants.  Awkward.  Yeah, it was a room full of people that I like, but I didn't really want to see any of them in their underwear.  I also wasn't about to take my pants off.  Maybe I'm lame, but that's just not my idea of a good time. 

It was around 11, which isn't really that late in my world but it still seemed like a good time to head back to Jane's house.  Somebody announced that the time was almost "SHIRTS-OFF-O'CLOCK" and I took that as my cue to make an awkward exit.  I gave my friend who's moving a goodbye hug and darted out the door before the toplessness began.  The Poet followed me.  The two of us were the only people in the room who were fully-clothed.  My departure was an excellent opportunity for The Poet to escape the awkwardness and smoke a cigarette. 

So I drove back to Southeast, changed into my sweatpants, and pounded away at the piano while the dog fell asleep on the floor next to me.  It didn't take long for my phone to ring.  It was The Poet.  "Holy @#$%.  You left at exactly the right time," he said.

Apparently, when The Poet went back inside, he heard Moody Musician screaming profanities.  When The Poet got to the top of the stairs, the night-time maintenance manager was standing in the hallway in response to Moody Musician's noise complaints.  And when The Poet went into the kitchen, he found a room full of naked people being cussed out by the Moody Musician in all of his angsty, unstable glory. 

Meanwhile, Bowie was still blasting from the stereo.  Everyone was avoiding eye contact with one another and Moody Musician was screaming at everyone in sight while the maintenance manager was sheepishly trying to diffuse the situation. 

And I was in a completely different part of town.  I can't help but be somewhat astonished at my ability to avoid that situation entirely. 

The novelty of living in an artist's community is slowly but surely wearing off.  I'm busy developing my next plan.  I'm not entirely sure what that plan will look like yet, but I don't think it will involve an old retirement home this time around.   

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. 

Printer Jams (And Other Relatively Boring Late Night Thoughts)

This is probably really stupid, but I always feel like an accomplished human being whenever I replace my printer cartridge without fumbling around in there for an hour or getting ink all over my hands.  I've always felt that printers were probably put on this earth to personally torment me.  The one I have right now seems to like me most of the time, but I have a long history with printers that live to eat my important documents.

I've contemplated starting a rapping career and basing the beats off of the sounds from old school printers.  I'll call my first album "Printer Jams."

Maybe that will be the thing that I become famous for.  Okay, going down in history as "That White Chick That Raps Over Samples Of Printers" would be slightly tragic.  But it would be better than never being famous at all.  But maybe I could get an appearance on "Oprah" out of it.

I know she's retiring soon, but I still fantasize about going on her show.  I watched this video today and it only increased my fantasies:



Yes, it's true - I want Oprah to scream my name. 

(...On her television show.  Get your mind out of the toilet.)

I'm probably going to have to settle for dancing with Ellen DeGeneres.  Which is not as great as having Oprah yell my name, but it would still be pretty cool.  Though I haven't watched Ellen's show in a long time and I heard a rumor that she doesn't make her guests dance anymore.  Disappointing. 

Look at me - counting my chickens before I even know if my hens are capable of laying eggs. 

I don't really have a need to be famous anyway.  I just want to be able to make my music, share it with other people, and maybe even be able to live off of it.  That should be do-able, right?

My E.P. is still in the works.  I think it's going to have five tracks.  I'm quite proud of my titles (some of which have very little to do with the lyrics they're associated with):

1.  We Don't Know How It's Ending
2.  Something Wrong With Me (Part Two)
3.  Notes From My (Nonexistent) Confessional Booth
4.  Greatest Thing Since Yesterday
5.  TBA

That's right - I'm still trying to figure out Track #5.  I've been leaning towards sticking a ballad in there to show some range, but I have such a love/hate relationship with my ballads.  Mostly because they are ballads.  I hate admitting that I am capable of writing things that are slow and emotional.  Which is silly.  Some of the greatest songs in rock and roll history are ballads.  It's a mental block I need to get over.

So I think I'm going to record a slower track called "Mice and Men" if I can stomach it.  I worked on it today and finally quit because I couldn't get the piano part to sound right.  I even took a break to eat a frozen dinner and blast some classic Mika for inspiration.  I'm sure my neighbors thought something was wrong when they heard "Happy Ending" and "Any Other World" being blasted on repeat. 

Anyway, I'm totally babbling.  And I'm not even babbling about anything that interesting.  I've had so much on my mind lately and yet all I can muster up for a blog post involves printer cartridges and my E.P. that you're probably all sick of hearing about (but you are all going to get free downloads of it, so be excited).

I think it's time to put my accordion case in front of my door and fall asleep.  Yes, I have been sleeping with my accordion case in front of my door ever since the maintenance man barged into my room last week.  If that's not neurotic, I don't know what is.  It's just one of many signs that it's time for me to make other plans and move on to the next part of my life, whatever that looks like.  I'm not entirely sure what direction this sitcom I'm living in is supposed to take.  I guess I just have to move forward in some direction and find out.   

More relevant and interesting stuff to come, I promise.  Gold star if you made it through this one.  I have a sneaking suspicion it's a little bit snooze-worthy.  Ah well.  Not all of my posts can be stories about ex-drug dealers flying through open windows.

Goodnight, amigos.   

One Big Funny Trainwreck Of A Day...

I woke up Friday morning to the Serbian maintenance man busting into my room to inspect the radiator. He had knocked on the door while I was still asleep and I groggily yelled "Who is it?" Instead of responding, he used his supersonic maintenance key and opened the door.

I was beyond horrified. "Hey, I'm still sleeping," I stammered. "Can you come back later?"

He smiled and babbled away in a language that was probably supposed to be English but I didn't understand a word of it. Meanwhile, I can feel that my embarrassingly girly pajama sunk to an unfortunate position while I was asleep, so I don't even want to move. I kept the covers over me and hoped he would get the hint.

He didn't get the hint. He came in and messed around with the radiator. I think I got an email saying that this was supposed to happen, but I don't think I read it. It wouldn't have been a big deal if it hadn't been first thing in the morning, but I always find it obnoxious when people completely disregard the sign on my door:

That's right - I have visiting hours. If you want to knock on my door or come in my room past visiting hours, you either have to be invited or it has to be for a really important reason.

Radiator Man was not invited, nor was it that important.

My personal favorite part of the whole ordeal was when he ran out of the room to get something and left the door wide open. Yes, I was still hiding under my covers and I'm sure my hair looked wonderful. Hello, world.

The whole affair was over in a matter of minutes. I got up, made coffee, combed my hair, and moved on with my life. Little did I know that this was only the beginning of a very strange day.

Because apparently, when the Serbian maintenance man was done inspecting everybody's radiators, he locked the master key into the secret room that holds all of the maintenance keys. So when my next door neighbor, Purple Hair, locked herself out of her room that night, she had no way to get in.

This put a kink in everybody's evening. Purple Hair was going to throw a party in the kitchen and all of the beer was in her room. She called The Management, but they told her there was nothing they could do until morning. It was obvious that we needed to work together to pick the lock.

The Poet tried all of his keys. The guy from New Jersey attempted his credit card trick but it failed. I supplied a bobby pin and Purple Hair's drunken friend unsuccessfully rammed it into the lock. The old hippy lady that lives down the hall even brought out her hack saw blades.

None of this stuff was working. It was time to investigate another option: breaking in through the window (which she had conveniently left open).

Of course, the window plan came with a major setback - the fact that we live on the third floor. We had two options:

1) Find ladders, preferably one very tall one, and have someone climb up to the open window, jump into the room, and unlock the door.

2) Find a rope and get somebody to swing out of my window (Indiana Jones style) and over to my neighbor's window.

Though I really wanted option two to happen so I could film it and put it in my music video, option one sounded like the most practical way to go. Plus, no one had a rope that would be long enough. The really creepy guy that lives in the stairwell (I don't think I've written much about him, but he's the one person here I'm afraid to be in a room alone with) offered to let us use his rope, but it turned out to be too short. So The Fonz and The Poet went into the basement to investigate ladder options while everyone else smoked a cigarette on the front porch and I went back to my room to check my email.

It was after midnight at this point, and wasn't long until everyone was yelling my name from the smoking porch. So I opened the window and popped my head out. Everyone cheered.

"We thought you had been raptured!" they explained. "You just kinda disappeared and you're a really nice person, so we thought maybe Jesus took you."

I laughed. "No, I'm still here. You're stuck with me."

Everyone cheered again. Then The Fonz told me I should look up the number to POP-A-LOCK. I brought it up online and yelled it down to them. Purple Hair borrowed somebody's cell phone (hers was locked in her room) and gave them a call. They were too expensive, so she yelled for me to look up another number. I googled "locksmith Portland" and gave her the number of one that claimed to only charge $15.

As a side note, I really wanted to yell "I'M NOT A MADAM, I'M A CONCIERGE" when I was sticking my head out the window. If you don't get the reference, don't worry about it.

Anyway, Purple Hair got ahold of these cheap locksmiths. It took them forever, but eventually they showed up in their sketchy white van.

This is where the night goes into full-fledged sitcom mode (if it wasn't there already).

These "professional locksmiths" turn out to be a couple of bros in matching hats that have logos printed on them. The one guy couldn't have been older than 20 and the other guy had the sort of teeth that suggest a recent meth addiction. We'll call them Young Locksmith and Sketchy Locksmith (though they were both kind of sketchy). They were super white but talked like they weren't.

Upon inspecting Purple Hair's door, they announced that the job would cost a minimum of $200. I thought Purple Hair might cry. We are all starving artists here and Purple Hair is no exception.

"Okay," she said. "I'll get you the $15 for your time and I'll sleep on the couch in the kitchen." She was about to go into the kitchen to borrow cash from somebody, but Young Locksmith offered to barter with her.

I was in my room (waiting for the rapture) at this point, but I clearly overheard this conversation in the hallway:

Purple Hair: "I have $75 in my bank account."
Young Locksmith: "This is a $200 minimum job..."
Purple Hair: "I've got beer in there."
Sketchy Locksmith: "I don't drink anymore. I've been clean for 14 months!"
Purple Hair: "Um, we can smoke bowls when this is all over..."
Sketchy Locksmith: (giggling) "Maybe you can show us your-"
Young Locksmith: (interrupting him) "We'll do it for $75!"

The two locksmiths went back to the van and came back with a bunch of equipment. They spent several minutes attempting to pry the door open while a bunch of us watched. We make smalltalk with them while they work and soon it becomes obvious that though they both have tons of experience breaking into houses, they haven't been licensed locksmiths for long.

The door continues to be very, very locked. Purple Hair's drunken friend offhandedly mentions that the window is wide open and the locksmiths drop their tools. "That's a different story," Young Locksmith says. "Let's go outside!"

We all go outside to stand on the smoking porch and watch the guys size up the window. There's a whole crew of us at this point - The Fonz, The Poet, Purple Hair, The Drunken Friend, and The New Hipster That Just Moved In (more on him later).

And of course, no sitcom moment is complete without the infamous Tweaked Out Elvis Costello. So naturally, he was already on the porch when we got there, drinking something out of a Sunny D bottle that he later revealed to be olive oil mixed with marijuana. He babbled incoherently about the process of making said olive oil while the two lock smiths snuck around to the spot where the big ladders are chained up.

I wasn't there for this conversation, but I guess it went like this:

Sketchy Locksmith: "I can cut the chain with my angle grinder."
Purple Hair: "Uhh...that's not my property...I don't think we should do that..."
Sketchy Locksmith: "Come on, just let me use my angle grinder!"
Purple Hair: "No, I really don't think that's a good idea..."
Young Locksmith: (to the other locksmith) "Yeah, we can't do things that are illegal, remember? That would be extremely illegal."
Sketchy Locksmith: "Damn."

So they brainstormed other ways to get into the window. It was cold outside so most of us that were just part of the audience went inside. I went back to my room to use the bathroom and looked out my window at the scene. It was priceless. Purple Hair and her drunk friend were standing right below the open window in question while the locksmiths were fishing around in their scary van. Tweaked Out Elvis Costello was delivering a monologue about something from the porch, his hands waving wildly.

Unfortunately, I went into the kitchen and was talking to The Fonz and The Poet when the most exciting bit of this happened. But I guess the locksmiths pulled the van up to the side of the building and balanced a small ladder on top. Sketchy Locksmith held the ladder while Young Locksmith climbed up.

"Have you done this before?" Purple Hair cautiously yelled.
"We've done lots of things," Young Locksmith replied from several feet off of the ground. "You know, we used to be drug dealers!"

And with that, he grabbed ahold of the window ledge and catapulted himself into her room. He opened the door from the inside and announced that it would be $75.

Best. Locksmiths. Ever.

Purple Hair offered them some beer, but Sketchy Locksmith reminded us yet again that he has been clean for 14 months. So she paid them their $75 (tacking on a tip for the window stunt) and they drove off into the night in their creepy white van.

Such a weird, weird night. I'm think I'm almost sick of living in the city. Almost.

Caught In A Bad Romance

I think I have already confessed to you guys that I love Lady Gaga.  I know, I know, I fail at being a true hipster.  But "The Fame Monster" rocked my life when it came out.  I fell in love with her outrageous fashion sense, her bizarro music videos, her impeccable choreography, and her crazy fun beats. 

At first I was somewhat embarrassed to admit that I, the queen of all things indie and alternative, admired this glitzy pop icon so much.  However, it didn't take long for me to become unashamed of the fact that I had joined the ranks of the millions of Gaga fans (or "little monsters") roaming the planet.  "Bad Romance" has been my ring tone for months now. 

She even pops up in my dreams occasionally.  Yes, Lady Gaga is alive and well in the world of my sleeping subconscious.  Once I had a dream that Lady Gaga and I were at Costco together and we were throwing meat around like it was a football.  The intro to "Bad Romance" played repeatedly (probably because my phone was ringing next to my head in real life) and I couldn't help but note that the meat we were tossing around was raw, raw, raw-ah-ahhh.  Sigmund Freud could probably have a field day with all of that.

But I digress.  The point is, I have an ongoing affinity for Lady Gaga. 

That being said, I must confess something else:  I'm not digging her new songs. 

"Born This Way" was fairly contrived and unoriginal.  But it was catchy and I was glad that she was finally coming out with new stuff, so I let it slide.  I downloaded it and jammed out to it on my iPod, being careful not to cringe at some of the cheesy lyrics.

I was a little bit turned off by the video.  I know that Lady Gaga videos are weird by definition, but her slimy, cosmic, alien mythologies took things to a whole new level of strange. 

And then she went public with "Judas" - the ultimate train wreck.  I expressed my disappointment in the form of a lengthy Facebook status.  This only resulted in a conversation with a random Italian guy who friended me because we both like "playing the keytar." 

When I went into the kitchen that night, The Chef was singing "Poker Face" while downing clamato beer (it was on sale at the gas station).  He had read my Facebook status and had his own opinions on the matter.

"Don't be too hard on the girl, Lauren," he says, taking a swig of the bright red liquid in his glass.  "She's boring me too, but I think she's just tired.  She needs to take a break so she can get back on her game.  Her stuff is so lacking right now."

He launches back into a chorus of "Poker Face."  I become slightly relieved that he chose to have this conversation with me in person rather than on my status.  Though I always enjoy a good awkward Facebook moment.  Consider the following:

 

Note To Self:  Gay Italian Theatrical Electronica jokes belong in the kitchen, not on the Internet.

I'm getting off-track again.  I apologize.  

The moral of the story is this:  Lady Gaga is bumming me out.  

I even ranted about it on Facebook again yesterday after listening to her new single, "Hair."  First, it was received with crickets.  Then, it turned into a conversation about something else.

As you can see, I never heard back from this friend.  I'm beginning to think it frightens people when I refer to my fictional characters as if they are living creatures.  Personally, I think it's hilarious.  But I also think it's funny to list "THE UNIVERSE" as my employer and put my job description down as "Freelance Rock Star."  

It's official - I'm an obnoxious Facebook friend. 

Anyway, Lady Gaga's album comes out next week (assuming the world doesn't really end).  I really want to buy it and fall in love with it, but I don't know if that is going to happen.  I'm already unimpressed.  I'll probably end up streaming it on Grooveshark so I can construct my inevitable Gaga-related Facebook status appropriately. 

Though I don't know if any of my Facebook friends actually care at this point.  But you know what they say:  Once you kill a cow, you gotta make a burger. 

And with that, I think I'm going to go to bed.  Wow, I think this might be the most trivial post I've ever written.  I'll be back tomorrow to ponder the meaning of life.  Or something like that.  

But in the meantime, what do you guys think of the Lady Gaga craze? 

Breathe And Keep Breathing

I did something fairly radical today.

I stood up for myself in a situation where I was essentially being bullied. 

If you know me well, you will realize that this is a big deal.  I'm notorious for avoiding confrontation and never saying things that I need to say.

But today, I put on my favorite gold bracelet, recruited an intimidating friend to stand behind me, and marched into a room to declare the following:

"I AM NOT GOING TO WORK FOR YOU ANYMORE."

I was asked to explain myself, so I gave my reasons:

"I felt like you really beat me up this weekend and I was basically volunteering for you.  I don't deserve to be treated like that."

When faced with a petty argument, I simply turned to my friend and made this announcement:

"I THINK I'M DONE WITH THIS CONVERSATION.  LET'S GO." 

So we left.  And we left the man sitting there, his jaw dropping to the floor.  The quiet redhead was not going to put up with being walked on today.

When we were on the other side of the door, I asked my friend if I was a total bitch.  "No, you were a total bad ass," he said. 

And once I stopped shaking and convinced myself I handled the situation appropriately, I did feel quite bad ass.

Except now I'm officially back to square one on the unemployment thing. 

But I think I'm going to worry about that when my E.P. is all done.  Even if I'm eating Ramen noodles on toasted cardboard by the end of it. 

Hi, I'm slightly stubborn.  This being-a-musician thing will work.  It has to.

Not to be melodramatic or anything. 

Someone told me today that the secret to life is to just breathe and keep breathing.  "Everything else will just fall into place after that."  Those sound like good words to live by.  Breathe and keep breathing.

And with that, I should go to bed.  More interesting stuff to come, I promise.