Before The World Ends...

According to The Mayan calender, the world is going to end this Friday.  Now, I don't believe it actually will, but just in case The Mayans were right, I figured I should update this blog.

I don't have any grand life updates or excuses for you this time.  Instead, I have a video I recently made.  I had a lot of fun putting this together and I would love it if you took three minutes to watch it.  And if you like it, feel free to share it on whatever social networks you use these days. 

 

What do YOU want to do before the world ends?

I Really Hope You Guys Find This Funny And Not Just Sad...

Once again, I haven't updated this blog in awhile.  I think I've been waiting for a moment when I didn't feel completely cynical.  That moment is yet to come.  Whatever.  I'll update my blog anyway. 

I've become obsessed with making salsa.

A few nights ago, I was in the kitchen making my own salsa when the phone rang.  I was having an intense moment with the blender and hate answering the phone anyway, so I ignored it.  Unfortunately, my dad ended up picking it up and handing it to me.  "Lauren, it's for you," he said, ignoring the look of utter annoyance on my face.  No one calls me on the home phone except for people doing political surveys.  I took a deep breath and stepped away from my precious salsa, prepared to explain that I will NOT be voting for Mitt Romney.

But the call was not related to politics.  It was a work study student from the college I graduated from.  She was calling on behalf of the university's alumni relations department and politely asked if she could chat with me for a minute.  Reluctantly, I agreed, thinking it wouldn't be so bad.  After all, she seemed nice enough and started by innocently asking if I had signed up to receive the alumni newsletter via email.  No big deal. 

She then recited the address of my parents' house to me and asked if that was still where I lived.  I confirmed with her that yes, that was still my address.  Then she stated that she doesn't have any employment information for me and asked if I could update that for her.  I told her that there was nothing to update.  If I had been in a snarkier mood, I might have told her to write "Starving Artist," but I really just wanted to get through the phone call so I could go back to taste-testing my salsa. 

She asked what my favorite part of going to that school was.  I babbled on about a professor that apparently retired before she started going there, which made me feel old.  There was an awkward pause and I could tell she was turning the page of the script she was reading off of.  Then the rest of the conversation quickly packed itself into a hand basket and shipped itself to hell. 

It went something like this:

Her:  "Now, the second reason I'm calling is because this college is committed to offering a Christ-centered education and is collecting an alumni fund to allow other students to attend this school.  Are you able to donate the amount of $50 to this fund?"

Me: "No, I'm sorry, I'm really broke."

Her:  "That's alright - we understand that times are hard for a lot of people and that you may not be able to commit to donating that amount of money.  However, this college is dedicated to offering a Christ-centered education and takes pride in the tradition of alumni students giving back.  Are you able to donate the amount of $25 to this fund?"

Me:  "No, actually, I don't have any money."

Her:  "That's okay - we understand that not everyone is financially able to contribute that amount.  However, this college offers a Christ-centered education and has a high percentage of alumni students contributing to this fund that helps other students attend this school.  Are you able to donate the amount of $5 to this fund?"

Fiesta time.

What I Wanted To Say But Didn't Say:  "You know that address you confirmed earlier?  You know where that is?  That is my parents' house.  Do you know why I'm here?  Because I have no money!  Did you even look at the date that I graduated?  It was a little over two years ago.  I've spent that time making up for a lifetime of being 'the responsible one' by pursuing an elusive rock & roll career and living in places that don't always have hot water.  If I had more money, I would use it to pay my own student loans.  PLEASE NEVER CALL ME AGAIN."

What I Actually Said:  "Look - I can't even pay my own student loans right now.  I CANNOT GIVE YOU MONEY."

She then offered to pray for me.  Which might have been sincere, but in that moment it felt like the right-wing Christian version of telling me to go @#$% myself.

I told her I needed to get off the phone and hung up after she politely said "good bye."

I returned to the kitchen and drowned my sorrows in homemade salsa. 

I would have rather talked to the Mitt Romney people.  

I Used To Write...

It seems like the longer I go without blogging, the harder it is to get myself to post an update.  I think it's because the longer I wait, the more I feel like I need to come back with something wonderful and entertaining.  I also feel like I need to explain where I've been, what I've been up to, and what my excuses are for being absent from the blogosphere are this time.  That begins to feel like a lot of pressure, so I've gotten into the habit of just closing the Blogger tab on my browser and uploading more pictures of my cats on Instagram instead.

I'm a winner.

I guess no real excuse for my long hiatus.  Or, maybe I have a series of lame excuses.  Laziness.  Writer's block.  Business.  Lack of motivation.  Writer's block.  Fear that my life has become something that isn't as interesting to read about as it once was.  Unsure of what to even write about.  A growing addicting to communicating all thoughts in 140 characters or less and posting them to Twitter.  Also, writer's block. 

It's been a weird summer.  I finally got a rock band together.  We've played a couple of shows around town.  Both shows were completely stressful, poorly attended, and the most fun I've had all year. 

A rough video from one of the shows:

Yes, there were people there but they were hiding in a corner.  Sadly, I wasn't able to get a recording of the other show we did, where there was a one-armed guy named Lefty in the audience.

My life is still is a sitcom.  I don't think that will ever change, in case any of you were worried.

I also spent a lot of time taking care of other people's dogs this summer. 

I got way too connected to them.  I cried a little bit every time I had to tell one of them "goodbye." It made me wish I had a dog of my own, but I'm still at a point in my life where I'm afraid to sign a year-long lease.  I can't get a dog yet.

It's weird to see my Facebook feed fill up with pictures of weddings, ultrasounds, and babies.  There seems to be a whole wave of people my age who are suddenly grown-ups.  They post boring statuses about their jobs, take pictures of what they cooked their new families for dinner, and decline any event invitation that takes place past 8pm.  Miscellaneous acquaintances from college are now getting married to miscellaneous men.  Their last name changes and then when they pop up on my newsfeed, I don't even know who the heck they are. 

Then I see the Deepak Chopra quotes and the pictures of Jello shots posted by my friends from the artist's community and I wonder where exactly I fit in among the group of 336 people I call "friends" on Facebook. 

I'm going to be 25 in a little less than 2 months.  I can feel the existential crisis starting already.  

But I digress. 

I'm trying not to make this too long.  Really, the purpose of this post is just to get myself used to posting again and let you guys know that I'm not dead.  Now that this post is out of the way, I can hopefully follow it up with more interesting things...

Like the story behind this picture:

 Stay tuned... 

I've Got The Moves Like Jagger

I have this really fabulous friend works at a gym and teaches dance workout classes.  Sometimes, he sneaks me into the classes for free.  I haven't gone to one in awhile, but he just called and invited me to come and do Zumba tonight.  Naturally, I said "yes."  He always picks good music for his Zumba classes and I need to work out more anyway.  I'm naturally sort of a sedentary creature and exercise is good for me.  

The thing about Zumba is that by about the third song, I get really into the choreography.  My friend yells "Now give it some style!" and I shake my butt like the world depends on it. 

I feel like this:

In reality, I look more like this:

Last time I did Zumba, I definitely forgot my water bottle and was one thirsty, sweaty, out-of-shape girl when it was all over.  It didn't help that I was in the back next to a large black man who seemed completely unfazed by forty-five minutes of nonstop movement.  

Watch out for my body rolls.  High kicks.  High kicks.  This is how we do it.  

I am determined to be more physically active on a regular basis, though.  I feel better about myself in general when I do.  And it's part of my new program to get in shape for my next rock show.  

I've got a pair of leather shorts in a drawer upstairs that are a little bit too tight.  I know, I know, leather shorts are supposed to be tight, but they are also supposed to zip and snap somewhat comfortably.  I'm not really into obsessing over my weight, but I think that if I lost about three pounds, the shorts would fit better and everything would be groovy.  

Basically this means more dance aerobics and less French fries.  I love my junk food, but it's for a good cause.  

You're not hardcore unless you live hardcore, boys and girls.  

Rock 'N' Roll Updates

Being an unknown rock star in the twenty-first century is a very complicated business. 

On one hand, it's very exciting.  I feel like I'm finally beginning to get my act together a little bit. 

I'm trying to overcome my fear of performing alone.

This picture is blurry, but my name IS on that sign

In the past month or so, I've done three shows by myself. 

1.  I played a 20 minute set as part of a singer-songwriter showcase at a local pub.  It was a competition and the audience could vote for their favorite act every time they bought a drink.  A bunch of my friends from ye olde artist's community showed up and put their alcoholism to good use.  I had a blast playing my set and ended up getting second place in the competition.  Also, some random blonde chick that I didn't know yelled "LAUREN, YOU'RE HOT!!!" when my set was over.  I don't swing that way, but it was still flattering and made me feel very rock 'n' roll. 

2.  I don't know if this counts as a show, but a couple of friends set me up with a local bike shop that needed music to promote First Friday happenings.  I set my keyboard up under a little tent outside the shop and sang into a microphone that was clamped onto a large bike rack (I really need to invest in a real microphone stand).  The owner of the bike shop was hilarious and kept drunkenly requesting random cover songs that I didn't know how to play (really, who goes up to a keyboard player and requests "Whip It" by Devo???).  I finally busted out a rough cover of "Blitzkrieg Bop" by The Ramones, just to shut him up.  When I was finished, the entire population of the tattoo parlor next door cheered and some people came outside to put money in my tip jar.  I butchered a few more punk rock songs and then went back to playing originals (contrary to popular belief that night, those originals were not just souped-up Journey songs).  It was funner than I expected it to be and there was free beer.  I made enough money in tips to buy some French fries afterwards.  Rock 'n' roll.

3.  The prize for winning the songwriter show was a paid show at the same venue.  I was really excited about this and had high expectations.  So I was a nervous wreck when it came time to actually perform.  I had told so many people about the show and thought I would see a lot of my friends there.  Naturally, I was disappointed when only four people came to see me.  The bar was full of people who were there to see the girl I was opening for and everyone talked through my whole set.  I felt like the awkward background music no one was really paying attention to.  I played a song called "Deja Vu" twice as an inside joke with myself.  No one noticed.  I couldn't wait for my set to be over and ended it a little early, handing the stage over to a fake redhead with non-prescription glasses (so lame). 

After the third show, I remembered how depressing playing shows alone can be.  I've had terrible luck trying to find musicians to be in my back-up band, but decided to try yet again.  I really wish I could just clone myself and form a band with all the clones, but I don't have access to that sort of technology.  If anyone knows how to do that, let me know. 

Maybe I'm narcissistic, but I really wish this scenario could actually exist.

As it stands right now, I have a guy who's hypothetically going to play drums for me.  He's the guy I knew in high school who I recently reconnected with on Craigslist because he writes rock operas (life is so weird).  I also had a some cute kid with a Flock Of Seagulls haircut who was very excited about playing guitar for me, but he's been really bad with communication.  I finally heard from him yesterday when he informed me over text messaging that he had a new band. 

His new band is with Tweaked Out Elvis Costello, of all people.  I am so confused as to why he thinks this is a good idea.  Also, I try not to take things like this personally, but I don't really enjoy being ditched for that twerp who can't stay sober long enough to even know what notes he's playing.

Ah well.  I hope they have fun getting high and throwing cake at radiators together.  I am now accepting applications for new guitar players.

The search for a band is so frustrating.

In the meantime, I finally got some CDs printed! 

Yay!

I am so excited about how they came out.  I've currently got some for sale up on Bandcamp.  If any of you are interested, they're only $6 (yes, that includes shipping!).  I don't mean to turn this into a commercial, but I should mention that each album comes with a handwritten thank-you note from the band (a.k.a: me).  You know you want one.  :)

thewantads.bandcamp.com

It's also up for name-your-price/free download still if you don't want to pay $6.  Honestly, I just want people to hear this music and enjoy it.  I would love to be able to live off of this music thing because I hate having normal jobs, but it's not really about the money.  It makes my day every time someone tells me they're listening to my songs.  I write songs and record them because I love doing it, but I also want people to enjoy them. 

Anyway, blah blah blah.  Hi, I'm Lauren and I'm going to go on a rant about my philosophy on music.  I'm going to stop and wrap this up before it becomes something really long that no one will want to read. 

Peace and love, amigos.  More updates to come.  

The Weekly Column :)

Why is everyone looking at me like that?!

Oh hi.  I'm Lauren.  Perhaps you remember me?  I used to blog here... 

I apologize yet again for my ongoing lack of interesting posts.  Real life has been demanding a lot of my attention.  I feel like lots of things have been happening and not happening simultaneously.

The good news is that you can read about some of those things over at my new column.  :)

I ended up getting a weekly spot in the Life After College section of LAFamily.com.  It's my first time being published anywhere that isn't a personal blog, so I'm really excited about it. 

I promise I'm not going to give up this blog and I'm even going to start posting regularly again (I could give you my excuses but you've heard them all before).  In the meantime, I would love it if you checked out the stuff I've been writing for my column.  It's called "It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time" and is sort of like what "lauren vs. reality" would be if I gave myself deadlines and a word limit.

Oh, and each post is complete with a weird little video.  I'm not going to tell you what to do, but you'll probably want to watch those.  At least the one where I'm standing in line next to Yoda.  It's here.  The one where I eat peanut butter is supposedly good too. 

Anyway, feel free to check all that stuff out.  And who knows - maybe by the time you catch up on my posts/videos over there, I'll have something new up over here.  Just maybe.  :)

Peace and love, amigos.

How Did I Get HERE???

The past month has been really weird.  Actually, the past few months have been really weird.  Scratch that - everything that has happened since I graduated from college has been really weird.  Yes, I know that was two years ago.

Now that I think about it, college was probably really weird too, in it's own way.

If you spend your whole life living through situations that are "pretty weird," does that make it normal?

I digress.  I've been trying very hard lately to get my act together.  Too hard.  In fact, I briefly got so caught up in the thought that I need to make money that I acquired a full time job as a traveling mop saleswoman. 

This mop will change the way you clean your house.  It will clean your house from top to bottom and I know you want one.  You want one over there.  And I can see that you want one, too.  AND IT'S ONLY $29.99!

...Doesn't everybody go through a phase where they want to be Billy Mays???

I told you that things have been weird.

The good part of this story is that the job was so depressing, strange, and soul-crushing that I came to my senses and quit.  I told my awkward, Sarah Palin-esque boss that selling mops on commission was not my thing and got the heck out of that department store. 

Sarah Palin The Mop Boss looked slightly surprised when I did this.  I guess most people don't quit on the third day of training. 


I added "Enthusiastic Mop Salesperson" to the list of stupid jobs I've had and tried not to think about how long that list is these days. 

It's all either really funny or really discouraging, depending on what sort of mood I'm in.  And now that it's a new month and there's a new round of bills to pay, I'm back to cruising the "gigs" section on Craigslist.  Ugh.  I'm really ready for someone to just pay me to just be a rock and roll diva.  That would solve so many problems. 

Something cool happened yesterday, though...  

An online magazine out of LA published my article!  It's my first time being published in something that isn't a personal blog, so I'm really excited.  If they like the traffic/feedback I get, I might get to be a weekly columnist in their "Life After College" section. 

The article I wrote was about a particularly crappy job I found on Craigslist.  If you want to check it out (and I would love it if you did), the link is here:  http://www.lafamily.com/life-after-college/it-seemed-good-idea-time  It's complete with the standard quirky-Lauren video.  Click "like," leave comments... you know what to do.  :)

I think this just turned into a commercial.  It wasn't supposed to. 

There's probably a Billy Mays joke to be made right here but I'm having a hard time constructing it.  So I will just leave you with an existential picture of me in the woods. 

Story of my life...

Peace and love, amigos.

Post-Apocalyptic Interlude

I've been really busy...

Busy running from aliens and fighting off the undead.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's because the invasion hasn't happened in your part of the world yet.

It all happened so fast and is difficult to explain. Just watch the video...

And download the album here. These are songs that can save the world, or at least give you something to rock out to before the zombies arrive in your town.

Peace and love, comrades. Stay strong in these strange times. I hope to communicate with you again in the near future.

My Complicated Relationship With Rock & Roll Vikings, Part One: The Beginning

I've never been good with break-ups. It's hard to admit that you aren't happy with the way a relationship is going and that you would be better off without it. I never want to hurt anyone's feelings or cause a conflict. Which is why I'm currently in an awkward position. I know I need to end things, but I have been putting it off because I don't even really know how to end things.

Let me back up a little bit.

I am involved with low-budget production of a rock opera about Norse mythology.

It's not really working out.

Allow me to recapitulate...

It all started a couple of months ago when a stumbled upon an intriguing Craigslist ad: "Wanted: Musical Director For An Original Rock Musical."  Naturally, I had to click on it.  I read through the ad and realized that I met all of the major requirements (meaning I can read music, play piano, and I love rock musicals), so I replied on a whim. 

It wasn't long before I got a response from a guy who's name was strangely familiar.  I couldn't place where I had heard his name before, so I just went ahead and read his email without giving it a second thought.  He told me that he had composed a rock opera and was looking to produce it in town within a few months.  There was a link to some of the music from the rock opera, so I clicked on it to see what it sounded like.  I landed on a page with a couple of weird recordings and a picture of the composer.

I gasped.  This guy was definitely someone I went to high school with.

...And middle school. 

We were in the high school marching band together.  And symphonic band.  And middle school jazz band.  And advanced high school jazz band.  We were in the rhythm section together - he played drums, I played piano.  We practically sat next to each other in jazz band but never actually talked to each other.  He was an awkward redhead who didn't talk and frankly, I didn't really talk either.  So naturally, we were not friends simply because we couldn't figure out how to manage a simple conversation. 

Plus, he was always making out with that second-chair clarinet chick during lunch.  It was gross.  It offended me.  They needed to get a room. 

Anyway, here he was, that awkward redhead from high school, resurfacing in my email inbox six years later with what he described as "an epic rock opera of awesomeness."

I stared at the email and tried to figure out what to do.  I've really come a long way since I was a socially inept teenager and running into people that knew me in high school is generally a drag.  Maybe I should just delete his email and pretend it never happened?  After all, he was pretty weird back in the day, wasn't he?  I thought about it and realized I didn't actually know him.  Besides, the whole thing was oddly sychronistic.  Maybe I should meet him for coffee and see what's up?  

And so I scheduled a coffee date with him.  As I drove there, I couldn't help but wonder if he would remember me from high school or not.  How was I even supposed to handle that?  What if he didn't remember me at all?  Was I supposed to bring it up?  Was I supposed to act like I was meeting him for the first time?

A text message reading "Btw wearing a pea coat and have red hair" came through on my phone as I was looking for a place to park.  I laughed.  He did not know who I was.  I buttoned up my big green coat, sent him a text that said "Haha, me too!" and walked towards the coffee shop.

I saw him immediately when I entered the coffee shop.  He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room and was indeed wearing a pea coat.  He pointed at me and said, "It's YOU."

I pointed at him and said, "It's YOU."  This was awkward.

He continued to point and said "It's YOU" once again.  This time I pointed at myself and said, "It's ME!"  We laughed, made some clunky smalltalk, and I excused myself to go order a cup of coffee.  When I returned with my drink, we had to go through the whole "Soooo, what have you been up to since high school?" conversation, which was strange because (as I established earlier) we didn't really talk in high school.  Still, we had to compare notes on our post-high school experiences as well as gossip about a whole bunch of irrelevant people from marching band that I honestly forgot even existed.  It was definitely the most I had ever talked to this guy. 

Just when I was beginning to regret meeting him for coffee, the conversation switched to a more relevant topic: his epic rock opera.  Over the next hour and a half, I learned the following things:

-  The rock opera was his original composition and has never been performed before.
-  The story is based on Norse mythology.  Yes, Loki and Thor and vikings and all of that crap cool stuff. 
-  All of the lyrics/words were written by a guy he met online who may or may not live in France and speak English as a second language.
-  The script has severed heads in it.
-  The music is not "Broadway rock."  The music will "blow your f@#$ing mind."

He babbled on about how he was inspired by "Tommy" and "Jesus Christ Superstar," excitedly explaining that the music was written for a large ensemble of electric guitars and string instruments.  He said he planned to produce it in a couple of months and he needed someone to act as musical director.  Could that someone be me?

It sounded like a wacky project, but who doesn't love a good viking?  It sounded like fun.  Besides, I've got my own rock opera cooking in the back of my brain files (can't forget about good old Goat Man) and working on a project like this could give me a little insight into how it's done.  And I definitely needed an excuse to leave my parents' house and meet new people...

So I said I would do it.  I climbed on board the viking rock opera train as the fearless musical director.  And it was strange, but I was excited.

Well, I was excited until my inbox began filling up with pages upon pages of complicated sheet music...


To Be Continued...

Oh Hi...

Apparently I'm very good at waltzing into the blogosphere after going for days without posting, making a grand announcement that I am back and have so many stories to tell, and then disappearing again. So that's all strange and awkward and embarrassing.

If it's any consolation, I've been blogging in my head a lot. If that makes any sense. I even have several half-baked posts saved in my drafts folder, but have managed to abandon them all due to my highly critical inner voice.

So here I am, in my favorite grocery store cafe, staring at hipsters crossing the street and attempting to write something that isn't complete garbage.

I'll start by telling you about my new friend George.

I met George through a friend of a friend. We hit it off immediately and have a lot of things in common. We're both neurotic, we both really love peanut butter, and we both love staying up too late watching paranormal investigation shows on cable television. He's very sweet, quiet, and friendly. Sometimes he does unexpected things (like puke in the hallway), but the truth is, I like George more than I like most people.

Of course, George is a dog.


His People are in Ohio this week, so I'm hanging out with him. He's super old and cuddly. And on top of being my new bff, he's helping me make some money. So that's all groovy...

Um, in other news, there are a ton of seats open in this cafe, but this weird old guy just had to sit right next to me and eat a corn dog. He has a million packets of mustard on his plate and is giving me a weird look. Truthfully, it's creepy me out a bit. I think I'm going to pack up my laptop and do the famous Awkward Lauren Scuttle™ on out of here...

More things soon, when I'm not being ogled by a crusty old corn dog man...

The Hiatus Ends NOW

Forgive me, for I have sinned. I have neglected this poor blog yet again. I have failed to post regularly.

I think it started because I was moping around my parents' house feeling like I had failed at being a successful human. Not only did I feel self-conscious about dumping even more of my quarter-life crisis onto the blogosphere, but I just didn't have anything that interesting to say.

Fortunately, the moping period didn't last very long. Somehow, I managed to get a grip on myself. We went out for coffee, actually. Myself and I. I sat myself down and we had the following conversation:

Me: Lauren, you're not actually a loser, but you're going to become one if you continue to sit in your parents' basement.
Myself: But I'm promoting my musical career!
Me: It looks like you're looking at pictures of your college friends on Facebook...
Myself: I was taking a break!
Me: Look. You are living in YOUR PARENTS' HOUSE. That's the one thing you said you wouldn't let happen and it's happening. What are you going to do about it?
Myself: Tweet Perez Hilton repeatedly in hopes that he will make me famous?
Me: NO! You have to actually LEAVE the house and DO THINGS.
Myself: I took a walk yesterday.
Me: When the Internet went down? That doesn't count. Dude, I know we both hate the idea of having a boss, but it's time to find some way to make some money.
Myself: I can work on marketing my greeting cards better...
Me: Lauren. Your little brother is going to come home from college this summer and if you're still living here when he moves back in, you're going to feel like you're 14.
Myself: I'm not 14?
Me: ...No. It's time to girl up get stuff done.
Myself: *sigh* You're probably right.
Me: Of course I'm right!

So I got out of my weird little funk and started throwing my name out there. I applied to jobs that sounded horrible and soul-sucking. I checked the gigs section on Craigslist three times a day, sending email inquiries to questionable sources and refreshing my inbox every five minutes to see if anything was going to work.

And slowly, things started happening. Which is the other reason I haven't been updating this blog - I've been running around acquiring funny stories faster than I can type them out.

Yes, I've been hoarding stories. It's horrible, but true. But the only thing I have going on tonight involves watching "The Bachelor" (don't judge). And now that I've broken the silence, the rest of the posts will be easier to write. I'm going to do my best to catch you guys up on the ongoing sitcom that is my life.

I promise that these stories will be everything but boring...

Breathe

I recently collaborated with The Poet on a song called "Breathe." He handed me the lyrics one night last spring and I did my best to bring them to life musically. I'm very pleased with the results.

Actually, it's become one of my favorite songs in my repertoire.

Though I feel like my voice is lower than normal in this song. I had a sore throat when I recorded it. And it was late. And I was grumpy. And I was trying to be the female David Bowie but instead ended up sounding more like Annie Lennox. I actually fully intended to redo the vocals, but people were like "No, chicks with deep voices are sexy!" So I kept it like it was.

Anyway, I'm rambling here. I feel very Lennon and McCartney with this whole music collaboration thing. Except I think that I would be McCartney in this scenario, and I'm totally a Lennon. Or maybe I just strive to be a Lennon but in reality am a McCartney?

I DIGRESS.

Last fall, I filmed this video around my old neighborhood. I figure that all artists have to have a low budget music video that screams "I'M BROKE AND LIVE IN THE GHETTO," so this is mine.

Enjoy. :)

I Moved Out Just In Time...

I'm not really into having regrets, but I've been having the thought that maybe I should have stayed in the artist's community until I had a solid escape plan. Because even though it was weird and depressing and full of fairly unstable people on strange cocktails of synthetic drugs, it was also in the city that I love and was full of creative people who understood me. And after living in that sort of environment for over a year, going back to my parents' house in the country initially felt like someone pressed a giant "PAUSE" button and my exciting sit-com of a life was on hold.

After all, it's so quiet at night out here. I'm sort of used to the constant noise of traffic. The sound of cop cars. Drunk people fighting outside my window. Turrets Guy waiting for the bus. It doesn't get much better than "Dammit dammit dammit dammit!" Out here there are no Turrets Guys. Out here there is mostly silence. And large fields.

I don't really regret leaving the artist's community, though. In fact, I think I left at the perfect time.

I learned yesterday that a pipe in my old bathroom burst at about three o'clock in the morning, flooding the entire apartment. The resident maintenance guy didn't know how to shut the water off, so the water leaked into the hallway. It also dripped through the floor and got the guy below, then kept going, flooding part of the gallery in the basement.

When I heard this news, I couldn't stop laughing. Then I just got this image in my brain of my old messy room - papers, clothes, and electronics everywhere. And for a second, I imagined that room full of water. So many things would have been toast!

Not to mention I would have had to deal with a surprise water attack in the middle of the night...

All regrets I might have had about moving out are now gone.

After all, there is no such thing as a "PAUSE" button. So, it's onwards and upwards.

Whatever that means.

Florida: It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Hello hello, my amigos. And guess what?

I am already back in Portland. So much for my "grand adventure."

I don't really know what I was expecting in Florida. Probably sunshine and alligators and streets full of very tan, muscular men who walk around shirtless because of the heat. Or something along those lines.

It didn't take long for me to discover that my destination was a place that looks like Alabama.

I swear I could hear banjo music in the distance...

What was that noise overhead?  Oh, you know, just an alien spacecraft...

Okay, so I've never actually been to Alabama, but I assume that it looks ugly and dead like that.

Everything was flat and covered in a combination of scraggly little trees and grass that needed to be watered.  Billboards promoting fundamental religious beliefs lined the highway.  There was not a single hipster in sight - instead, it seemed that everyone was overweight and attempting to keep their unruly flab inside their tight clothes while drinking a large ice tea from the one Starbucks in town.

It should also be noted that I had to explain to a barista in that one Starbucks how to make me a cup of basic, brewed coffee.  I realize that I'm beginning to sound like a snob, but it was all a bit shocking.

Landing in a household that assumed I was a "liberal, green peace, tree-hugging hippy freak" simply because I asked where the recycling bin was didn't do much for my opinion of Central Florida.  It didn't help that I was obliviously drinking decaf every morning.  Anyway, it wasn't long until I wanted to go home.

In fact, all I could think of was Portland - my friends, my family, decent coffee, trash cans that say "LAND FILL" on them, the quirky night clubs, etc.  So when I got a text asking if I could house-sit in Southeast, I quickly replied "YES" and booked a return flight to the Pacific Northwest. 

It wasn't a worthless adventure - I feel as though I gained a lot of insight on the rest of the country as well as myself and how truly West Coast I am.  I also got to spend a day at the beach, try a lot of weird Latin food (I stayed in a bilingual household), and see Cirque Du Soleil for free (I happened to be in the right place at the right time and some random guy named Ted handed me a ticket he couldn't use...so, so awesome).  So that's all good stuff.

Sticking my feet in The Atlantic Ocean

Hanging out with some seagulls

A bit of beautiful scenery

Embracing the campy side of Orlando

Eating yucca con chicharon (or, those potato-type things with pork skins on top)

I also took advantage of the moderately abysmal scenery and shot a music video when no one was looking.  I only took one take because I wasn't entirely sure where I was and those big black birds were beginning to circle above me (vultures, perhaps?), but I think it turned out okay.

Anyway, it feels incredibly good to be back in the town that still honors the dream of the 90's.

Except I'm not really back in town - I'm staying at my parents' house in the country.  But that's a small detail. 

---------------------------

(Note:  If you are reading this and you are from Central Florida or anywhere in The South, please do not take offensive to this post.  I do not have anything against you - I've just lived in Portland my entire life and found your Bible Belt shocking.  Take everything I say with a grain of organic kosher salt.)

Take Your Protien Pills And Put Your Helmet On

A week ago, I left the crazy artist's community that I had called home for over a year and I got on an airplane. An airplane full of screaming babies, middle-aged women drinking vodka mixed with sprite zero, and horny teenagers making out right on top of me (I suggested that they take their little in-flight romance to the bathroom but they insisted on swapping saliva in the seats right next to me). I siphoned David Bowie into my ears through headphones, but not even Ziggy Stardust could distract me from the chaos surrounding me.

"This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I'm stepping through the door, and I'm floating in the most peculiar way..."

Some bratty kid kicks the back of my seat while the people next to me proceed to pass second base.

I think of my friends from the artist's community, of my old one-room apartment that was now empty, and of all the stuff I had sitting in boxes at my parents' house. I begin to second guess my choice to move out, but then I tell myself not to think about it. I am on an adventure.

The pilot announces that the plane is going to land. I grab a hold of my barf bag, just in case. Meanwhile, David Bowie continues to sing in my ears.

"Can you hear me Major Tom? CAN YOU HEAR ME MAJOR TOM?"

And in that moment, I felt like I was Major Tom. I was leaving Ground Control and blasting off on some vague personal mission. My destination? A place more foreign and strange than Outer Space...

Central Florida.

A week later, here I am - updating my blog in The Marion County Library. And I have a suspicion that I am not only the sole hipster in this part of the country, but I am the only one who cares about recycling and reusable grocery bags.

Toto, I don't think we're in Portland anymore.

To Be Continued...

And The Madness Begins...

It's a dark and rainy Friday night over here. A couple of people wanted me to go out but I told them I was sick. Which is code for "I am in an emotionally fragile state and prefer to spend the evening watching episodes of 'The Middle' while eating stale pretzels."

Now that I think about it, I may choose to be in that very same emotionally fragile state tomorrow night too and have a quiet yet sophisticated New Year's Eve with myself and a plate of microwaved nachos. I've had several people approach me regarding my plans, but no one has actually invited me anywhere. In fact, people seem like they want me to organize their New Year's plans. And there is no party planned here at the art asylum, but people seem to think there should be one and that I should DJ it. I love being the go-to DJ girl and I'm glad that I have friends want to hang out with me on New Year's, but I just don't have the energy this year to spend hours DJing some drunken year-end bash or be the evening coordinator (and driver) for some over-priced, over-crowded night out.

Truth is, I've gotten myself so stressed out over my upcoming move that I've been socially shutting down over the past few days. My plan wasn't really coming together, so I went for my back-up option and told The Management I need to extend my notice until the beginning of February. They promptly sent me an email informing me that my room had already been rented out and I needed to vacate on the 11th originally planned.

Lesson learned: Don't light a fire under your butt unless you know for sure you can run fast enough.

So what's going to happen?

I'm not entirely sure.

Here's what I do know:

I'm moving my stuff back to my parents' house for right now. I've got a one-way plane ticket to Orlando, Florida. Plane leaves on the 11th. I have an aunt and uncle in Florida that I've seen approximately four times in my life but I remember them as being really nice and they've invited me to stay for awhile.

And after Florida? Location is still TBD.

Of course, I made the mistake of accidentally going public with this whole moving out thing before I was really ready to. I'm getting rid of a lot of stuff, so naturally I put a pile in the hall for people to dig through (keeping up with the tradition of Portland being a friendly free-pile city). I wanted the stuff to actually go away, so I went on Facebook and mentioned the pile on my status.

BAM! Just like that, the world put two-and-two together and began to ask me why, when, and where I am moving.

I realize these are all fair questions. But why is unnecessary, when is scary, and where is just plain unknown. Because I can say I'm going to Florida, but then people want to know what I'm going to do in Florida, if I'm going to move to Florida, am I coming back to Portland, where will I go after that, and do I have a place in mind, and what will become of my rock and roll career, and will I ever get a job or will I just spend my days bumming around the country on free flight vouchers I received after getting bumped from a flight that I didn't pay for to begin with because I was a radio contest winner?

But on top of feeling nervous and frantic, I am really quite excited about all of this. I mean, who knows where this trip is going to take me.

And Florida seems like a great place to start. Mostly because I've never been there, I know people there, and I've had palm trees on the brain ever since I watched Johnny Depp drunkenly stumble around in "The Rum Diary" (it was a mediocre film, but it inspired me to go somewhere warm).

So, bring on the new year. Unlike the Mayans, I have a good feeling about 2012.

Sandwiches Are Beautiful, Sandwiches Are Fiiiiine, I Like Sandwiches, I Eat Them All The Tiiiime...

I used to love the community kitchen, but recently it's become a breeding ground for awkwardness and anxiety. It's also just a general health hazard these days (thank you, sloppy people that smell like hamsters). I've been back on my trusty sandwich diet, throwing in a microwave dinner here and there so I can experience a little variety without actually leaving my room and cooking things.

However, I recently had to perform an ethnic cleansing on the inhabitants of my refrigerator (which is an inappropriate way of saying that three out of four lame items in my fridge were out-dated/stinky so I decided that the fourth item was guilty by association and threw everything away). I fully intended to go to the store in attempts to rebuild the food community in the fridge, but I put it off because grocery shopping really isn't that fun. And when dinnertime rolled around, I decided to get over my recent anti-social tendencies and brave the kitchen with a box of noodles.

It was okay at first. The Poet was in there drinking coffee and it was just like the old days. But just when I made myself comfortable and put a pot of pasta on the stove, Creepy Niles Crane entered the scene.

I'm not sure if I've ever talked about Creepy Niles Crane before. The best way I know how to describe him is this: He looks exactly like Niles Crane from the show "Frasier" but acts like a character that belongs in a Kafka novel. He's weirdly intense and something about him always makes me nervous. Maybe it's the fact that he's so open about his interest in sadomasochism, or the way his eyes light up when he talks about watching lions tear their prey apart in animal documentaries. He's also the guy with the infamous bed bug problem. *shudder*

As a side note, I definitely heard him hit on a girl once by asking if she wanted to come over to his place and have a look at his bed bugs. This poor girl simply stared at him and said, "Do you really think that line is going to work on ANYONE?"

Anyway, Creepy Niles Crane comes in, throws his coat on a chair, and sits down with a heavy sigh. I stir my pasta, hoping that prodding the noodles with a spoon will make them cook faster.

"Do you know a reliable brand of throat antiseptic?" Creepy Niles Crane asks, a very matter-of-fact tone in his voice.

The Poet and I look at each other.

"A reliable brand of what?"

"Throat antiseptic," he says. "You know, to make your throat go numb. I want one that works really well."

There's an awkward pause.

"It's for a friend. A sick friend. Sore throat," he says quickly.

I continue to stir my pasta and tell him to just get some cough drops.

At this point, Silent Black Man walks in with a sack of potatoes.

I don't really know the full story on Silent Black Man. I know he doesn't actually live here. I think someone picked him up at Occupy Portland. I'm not really sure where he's sleeping, but I know he's staying here somewhere.

The best part? He doesn't speak English. So NO ONE really knows what's up with him.

And when he walked into the kitchen with a sack of potatoes and grabbed a giant knife, I nearly jumped out of my skin.*

Of course, he was just using this knife to chop the potatoes, but the way he held it was slightly unnerving.

Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane was busy reflecting on his lack of success with women.

The Poet: "Was it just me, or did I hear you ask a girl to come back to your place and look at your bed bugs?"
Creepy Niles Crane: "Yeah... It didn't work... I think I need to work on my approach. I think how I said that wasn't quite right..."
The Poet: "You think???"

Creepy Niles Crane went on to talk about his bed bug problem in detail and I immediately felt itchy all over. Silent Black Man continued to chop potatoes in a corner. I decided that my noodles were done and was dismayed to find that all of the plates were dirty.

I looked for a fork and decided to just eat out of the pan. Or maybe I would just put the entire thing in tupperware and take it back to my room... Except that The Chef had made a point out of throwing out any and all tupperware once upon a time. I casually searched for a take-home vehicle of some sort. Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane starting going all philosophical.

"Time," he said ominously. "Time moves so fast. Time."

Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. But he wasn't done being on a soapbox.

"Sometimes, I think I could spend my entire life thinking about getting out of this chair and then I would die in this chair."

No one in the room knew how to respond to that.

So I casually scooped up my pan full of noodles and made a less-than-graceful exit.

"Good luck getting out of the chair," I said.

This is a mad house, I thought to myself as I made my way back to my room. This is a retirement home for hipsters and lunatics. HOW DID I GET HERE? THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE. THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE.

I then realized that I too am guilty of living my life as though I'm sitting in a chair I don't know how to get out of. And I don't know what my story is going to be about, but I don't think it's supposed to be about a girl who spends her life eating sandwiches on 82nd Avenue while waiting for something more interesting to happen. It's definitely time to get a better grip on things and make stuff happen.

In the meantime, I can at least go to the grocery store and stock up on lunch meat.


*Please know that I would have been just as spooked if he was a Silent White Man or a Silent Asian Dude.

Something Fun That's Going On Today...

So I've gotten involved in a contest on YouNow and I'll be going up against 8 talented musicians today at 6pm Eastern Standard Time. I'll be broadcasting a live performance from my apartment, which is pretty exciting. If I'm in the top three, I move on to the next round of the competition.

I hate to shamelessly self-promote on here, but I would love to see some of your friendly little avatar faces in the virtual audience. Using the site is really easy - you can just log in with your Facebook account and then you are free to vote/comment on anything.

It should be a pretty good show. Looks like I'm up against the following people:

- Guy that sounds like Johnny Cash
- Guy who sings like he's in Creed
- Blonde chick who plays piano
- Guy with cool stage name
- Chick with bubbly personality
- Guy with guitar and beard
- Boy who loves boy bands
- Guy I'm FB friends with but don't actually know

I expect the competition to be fierce. I also expect it to be totally entertaining.

Hop over to YouNow.com in a couple hours and check it out? :D

Here's To Awkward Transition Times...

So the countdown has begun. 26 days until I move on to my next adventure.

I think I would be more excited if I knew what that meant. But the truth is, I don't know what that means. I have no plan. I have about a dozen half-baked ideas and a couple fairly undesirable back-up options, but no real concrete plan.

I've been thinking so much over the past few days that I've probably given my brain a rash. It's gone past the point of productive thinking and has reached into the realm of anxiety-driven thought loops. I know I need to knock that off. Because as overwhelming as the future often seems, it's only going to get worse if I paralyze myself with stress.

I keep saying I want to leave this town and it seems like it's time. I mean, I almost punched a hipster at a vintage clothing store the other day. If that doesn't mean it's time to leave Portland, I don't know what does.

The good news is that I still have those vouchers for Southwest Airlines that I received for getting bumped in February. And they'll be expiring soon, so I really should use them. I don't even really know where I want to go, I just know I want to go somewhere. I watch the bargain flights everyday. I should probably just book one and go, go, go.

...And do what when I get there?

I can hear the phone conversation now...

Me: "Hi Mom, I'm in Saint Louis..."
My Mother: "What are you doing in Saint Louis???"
Me: "I'm not really sure, but I got a last minute bargain deal on the flight and I think on the way back I might get bumped!!!"

I sometimes wish that life came with road maps...

Heavy Stuff...

Today, I've been going back and forth between feeling completely optimistic about the future and feeling as though I'm going to throw up from anxiety. Right now, I'm leaning towards the latter of those two feelings. The level of nervousness I'm currently experiencing is probably totally unnecessary and logically I know this, but the future is a very unknown place and my move-out date will be here in a month. Somebody get me a barf bucket, please.

I'm also still heavily processing something scary that happened a couple of nights ago. I told myself I wasn't going to write about it because I don't want to dwell on it, but my mind keeps pressing the replay button on the mental video tapes. It's a lot heavier than the sort of stuff I normally blog about, but I think it's probably important to get it out of my head. So here it is...

I went to bed early on Saturday night and woke up to my phone ringing at two in the morning. By the time I was awake enough to look at my phone, I had a voicemail from The Fonz. I figured he was probably drunk dialing me or something, but when I listened to the message I was shocked by the urgency in his voice.

One of our friends was going to kill himself.

I heard voices in the hallway, so I threw on some sweatpants and poked my head out of my door to see what was up.

It was one of the two guys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes." We all knew he was having a rough time, but we just assumed he would get through it. But late that night, he posted a Facebook status that was obviously a suicide note and disappeared. He texted his roommate (The Other Gnome) to announce that he was not going to come back.

The Fonz had called because he needed to borrow my car. The Other Gnome had a wild hunch of where this guy might be and they were on a mission to go find him. They ended up borrowing someone else's car because I didn't answer the phone. But while they were out driving around, The Fonz called me again to tell me to look downstairs.

"Now we think he gave us a false lead and he's actually somewhere in the building," The Fonz said frantically into the phone. "Can you go check the weird bathroom in the basement and see if he's in there?"

I called The Poet and told him to check downstairs. I was not about to go creeping around the basement of this spooky building in search of my friend who might very possibly be dead. So The Poet went on a mission to check every hidden corner of the building and I had nothing to do but pace back and forth in my room.

I held my phone in my hand and waited for news. I checked my friend's Facebook page, read his suicide note, and swore silently to myself. It seemed hopeless. He had made up his mind and now he was dead somewhere. My friend was dead.

The minutes seemed to last forever as I waited for the phone to ring. I had to do something, so I made a sandwich. I wasn't even hungry, but I needed to do something with my hands. So I sliced up some cheese and prepared my brain for the inevitable bad news. My friend was dead. I ran a mental slideshow of memories through my brain...

The night in the kitchen when I met Gnome for the first time...

The time we sat cross-legged in the hallway together and ate pizza during and art opening...

The ironic Mary and Jesus shirt he wore all of the time just to be weird...

The night he drunkenly stole the fire hose sign from outside my door and yelled "We're all going to hell...in a hand basket, bitch..."

The way he always won at pool by hiding his opponent's balls in the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossing them in the holes when no one was looking...

The times he made me laugh so hard I nearly cried...

The constant piano playing...

The suit he wore specifically for my birthday party...

The time we had a jam session in the courtyard and it was a disaster because he can't really play guitar and I can't really play accordion...

The spiked iced tea he made for everyone, which turned out to just be straight vodka that was flavored to taste like iced tea...

The night he told me that I had the power of rock and roll...

I mechanically placed some deli meat on my sandwich and looked at my phone again. Nothing. I was frustrated that there wasn't anything I could do to help. And I was horrified at the fact that one of the most talented, funny, and brilliant people I know was miserable enough to kill himself.

I then realized that I never told him how talented, funny, and brilliant he was. This was equally horrifying.

There was a knock on the door. It was The Poet checking to see if I had heard anything new. He had found nothing in the basement. I reported that I didn't know anything and offered him half of my sandwich. So we sat on my floor and nervously ate sandwiches, waiting for news.

Suddenly, there were loud voices in the hallway. People running and yelling "HE'S HERE!" The Poet went out to catch the action but I stayed in my room. I didn't want to find my friend's dead body. I just don't know how to deal with that.

Fortunately, he was alive.

He was in the bathtub room, lying in a sleeping bag inside the bathtub. He had a backpack with him. Someone grabbed it and found three knives inside. They called the police.

The good news is that he made it to the hospital. And he's still alive. I am so thankful that he chose NOT to do it.

But I still found the whole thing unsettling. And the next night, when I found myself at a bowling alley with my gay best friend from high school and a bunch of people I didn't know, I discovered that being normal took a conscious effort. Like, "I'm just going to smile and not act like I was up all night thinking my friend/neighbor was dead."

No one likes to talk about death, especially suicide. But I'm here to say that people probably should talk about it...

Really I wish I could just write one song that would make people stop wanting to kill themselves.