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.

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.

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.

Fun New Facts

Last night was a rough night at the artist's community. I might write about it tomorrow or I might just move on and be thankful that no one is dead. I am exhausted right now, but I can report the following facts:

I gave my notice today. I am moving out on January 11th.

I don't know exactly where I'm going on January 11th. I just know that I can't stay here.

The fundraiser I mentioned in my last post was miraculously successful and we raised enough money as a community to save our two friends from being evicted. I am in awe of the final score...
Human Kindness: 2
Eviction: 0

I also learned tonight that sometimes, when things seem overwhelming and complicated, being a gay man's date to a Christmas party at a bowling alley is the best thing you can do for your mental health.

More coherent thoughts later. It's bed time for Lauren.

Peace and love.

Tis The Season...

Two of my friends are being evicted because they can't pay their rent.

They both recently found out that they have to leave tomorrow. One just got fired from his job because his boss didn't like him. The other had a miscommunication with his publishing company and discovered that the money he was counting on from his new book won't be in his hands until February.

My heart breaks for both of them. The one guy is such a caring, generous person and the other guy is easily the smartest man I know. I hate that this is happening to them. The genius guy has enough friends in town that he can couch surf for awhile, but the other guy just moved here and is currently freaking out in his room because he doesn't know where he will go.

It's sick. I hate the way the world is set up sometimes. I mean, if someone has to get evicted, it should be the scary drug addict, the guy who has bed bugs, or the lady who's stench is causing local gas mask sales to escalate. It shouldn't be the prolific writer and the guy who's been known to give his last $5 away to people eating mayonnaise sandwiches in the kitchen. That just doesn't make sense.

Of course, the whole community is trying to throw together a last minute pile of money to save these guys. But most of us here are barely able to pay our own rent. It's unlikely we'll be able to properly save both of them.

Such a stupid time of year for this sort of thing to happen, too. Merry Christmas...Here, have an eviction notice! P.S: It's 30something degrees out there, bring a coat!

It's all upsetting. I know things like this happen everyday, but it's not supposed to happen to people that I actually like.

You Know You've Lived In An Artist's Community Too Long When...

I know that at the beginning of this month I announced that I was going to post every single day and I have already messed that up by missing yesterday.

That's because yesterday was the sort of day that inspired me to look out for my own mental health take a brief hiatus at my parents' house in the country (which is where I am now). Nothing significantly terrible happened, it was just a combination of...

- the bed bug scare
- over-hearing the people that smell like dead hamsters loudly declare that they definitely don't have any corpses in their room
- locking myself in the basement while doing massive loads of laundry
- waiting for an eternity to get back into my apartment (the maintenance guy stayed up all night playing video games and I had to wait for him to wake up and take a shower)
- flooding my bathroom floor while taking a shower (my drain has problems).

There was definitely a point in there when I was near tears. It was the bathroom flood that did it.

So I did what any mature twenty-something would do: I cleaned up all the water on the floor, threw the rest of my dirty laundry in the car, and drove to Mom and Dad's house.

I'll go back tomorrow, armed with a supersonic cover for my mattress and a stomach full of home-cooked food. But sometimes, a mental health day or two away from the city is necessary.

I know I've talked about wanting to move out before, but this time I think I'm actually going to go through with it. This bed bug thing has made me wake up and realize that my beloved artist community is actually pretty gross.

I think I'll make a snarky list about it...

Ten Ways To Tell You've Lived In An Artist's Community For Too Long:

1. When you hear a dog barking in the hallway, you're not sure if it's an actual dog or just your eccentric neighbor.

2. Whenever ANYONE offers you baked goods of ANY kind, you ask them to recite the ingredients to make sure there won't any weird surprises an hour later.

3. All of your friends refer to you as "the heterosexual one."

4. The very thought of your next door neighbor's constant cloud of incense and marijuana makes you want to vomit all over her hemp door decorations.

5. You are the only person you know who doesn't have an event in their past that can be referred to as "the nervous breakdown."

6. "RENT" used to be your favorite movie but now you can barely sit through it.

7. You're tired of eating stinky vegan food at potlucks.

8. Your friends call you by your existential commune nickname, "Sweater."

8. The little old Asian man at the local mini-mart has a one-dollar lottery ticket ready for you when you walk in.

9. You put two 8's on this list because it is your creative right to do so. You are willing to argue with anyone and, if prompted to, will even deliver a 3 - 5 paragraph statement regarding the meaning of this artistic choice.

10. You are the only girl you know who shaves her armpits.

11. You keep a list in your journal entitled "People Who Are Likely To Go Postal."

12. One of your birthday presents was a gigantic can of PBR wrapped up in festive wrapping paper.

13. You've seen way too many naked people just by being in the wrong room at the wrong time.

14. When you're coming home and you see an ambulance nearby, your instinct is to worry that someone finally either over-dosed or committed suicide.

15. The friends you had in college now refer to you as "the hippy."

16. You know several ways to cook Ramen.

17. The very word "kombucha" makes you want to hurl.

18. Whenever you tell stories about your living situation to people who don't live there, they can't stop laughing and probably think you're making it up.

19. You can make fun of hipsters in approximately 999 different ways, despite the fact that some people mistake you for one at times.

20. Your diet consists primarily of coffee and sandwiches.

Ack. In case you couldn't tell, most of these apply directly to me. I'm exaggerating a little bit for the sake of comedy, but not much.

It's probably time for a change...

I'm not always good with change. Hmmfph.

Click Here To Be Grossed Out!

I am freaking out right now.

It was bad when I knew one of my neighbors managed to grow maggots in her room.

An actual conversation I found on her FB page after the incident

It was bad when a lady and her son moved in and somehow managed to make their entire hallway smell like hamsters.

The weird thing is, there are no hamsters in their room. Only one conclusion is logical: They ARE hamsters.

But now, a guy just a couple rooms away from me has BED BUGS.

I hear about those in the news all the time, but I've never personally known anyone who has actually run into them. They've always seemed like somewhat of a distant, unimportant threat. But now, knowing they have made it into THE BUILDING WHERE I SLEEP, I'm freaking out a little bit.

Naturally, I became psychosomatically itchy the minute I heard the news (which was about an hour ago). I checked my mattress. I changed my sheets. I checked everywhere that they could be hiding. Luckily, there was no sign of them, but I'm still edgy about sleeping here tonight. Maybe I'm being overly neurotic, but those things can travel fast.

I feel a cleaning rampage coming on...

Contacting The Living

So things have been quiet around this blog lately. I've been out of my normal blogging routine and all the hits I've gotten in the past week have been from electronic cigarette companies wanting me to write reviews on their products because I hang out with a bunch of smokers. Even though these cigarettes can be programmed to taste like everything from pastries to cocktails, I just don't think my blog is the right place for that.

I also think that it makes more sense to just eat a pastry, drink a cocktail, and smoke a cigarette than to mess around with a nicotine-dispensing gadget that supposedly tastes apple fritters and margaritas. But maybe that's a very twentieth century mentality.

Plus, I don't even smoke, so the whole issue of electronic vs. real cigarettes is fairly irrelevant on this blog.

But I digress. I am in my favorite cafe with a large piece of pie and I did not come here to write about the evolution of smoking equipment.

Funny how I was invited out to two different clubs tonight and I chose to wear a turtleneck and update my blog in a coffee shop while stuffing my face with chocolate espresso pie instead. I don't know if this means I'm growing up and becoming more responsible or if it just means I'm suddenly a really boring person. It probably doesn't mean either of those things - it just means I wasn't in the mood to stay out all night at some scuzzy dance club and end up having to be the sober one that drives everyone home at the end.

Gah - I am the boring/responsible one. When did that happen and how do I make it stop?

Responsible or not, I did partake in some interesting shenanigans last week. I have an alliance of sorts with The Night Manager Nerd (my mother always told me to make friends with people who have keys...I don't exactly know if she meant go talk to girls at Pizza Hut for them when they're too shy to do it themselves so that they end up with a hot date and are forever indebted to you, but whatever), so I cornered him when he was outside my window drinking beer and asked him for a favor.

Me: This is going to sound weird, but I'm going to ask you for a favor...

Night Manager Nerd: What's up?

Me: Can you let me into The Chef's old room?

Night Manager Nerd: Uhhh...

Me: I know he moved out yesterday, but they haven't rented the room again yet and he asked a few of us to go in there after he left and perform a cleansing ceremony. You know, with candles and all that crap. But there will only be a few of us and we'll clean up.

Night Manager Nerd: Well, I suppose I can unlock the door and then pretend not to know about it if anything happens...

Me: Cool, thanks!

The cleansing ceremony was a story that The Poet had helped me make up before I went to talk to The Night Manager Nerd. The Chef did not leave a last will and testament that involved hosting a seance in his old room. But we were bored and we missed him, so we decided to say goodbye to him the Blue Mountain way.

Let me back up a little bit.

The Blue Mountain Institute was founded by The Chef and The Fonz last spring. Inspired by The Big-Haired Feng Shui Lady (who made color-coded maps of the building for everyone in an attempt to get us all onboard with Feng Shui), The Blue Mountain Institute was an ongoing joke that threatened to become a reality at various public events. It mocks the new age movement and is just downright absurd. For example, different branches of The Blue Mountain Institute include Eye Contact Therapy (where The Fonz stares at you for ten minutes) and Rebirthing In The Shower Room (a ceremony involving a slip 'n' slide and a lot of ketchup).

There is also a branch for Contacting The Living.

This was The Chef's favorite. He used to make us laugh so hard by sitting at the kitchen table and pretending to contact someone who was in the next room. Maybe you'd have to be there to appreciate it, but it was always hysterical.

So there we were - me, The Fonz, The Fallen Nun, and The Poet - armed with our candles in an empty room that once held an eccentric painter. We passed around a single can of Pabst and solemnly stared at the candles.

The Fonz: Can you hear us, Chef?

Me: I'm getting a reading...

The Fonz: Me too...ohmmmm...

Me: He's somewhere...

The Fonz: A train...a plane...

Me: He's somewhere and he's drunk!

The Fonz: He's drinking a six pack of Rolling Rock!

The Poet: Why do we only have one beer???

The Fallen Nun: *obnoxiously plays an accordion*

I feel as though The Chef would be very proud to know that we attempted to contact him.

I have contacted him in a more reliable, traditional way (email) and learned that he made it to Finland. He's done painting and is going to concentrate on his musical career.

An image of him screaming "LOVE, LOVE WILL KEEP US TOGETHERRRRR" out the window through a cardboard tube immediately came to mind with the words "musical career," but you've got to give him credit for going out and doing stuff. I spend a significant amount of time daydreaming about foreign countries and rock tours and spontaneous leaps of faith, but I am yet to actually make these day dreams happen.

Someday. Things will happen.

Gah. And the award for the weirdest blog post goes to... (drum roll) this lovely thing that you are reading.

Ah well. At least it's not about cigarettes.

This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal

It's been a weird week. Forgive me if this post is more sentimental than most. A year ago, I moved into this wacky artist's community along with a whole hoard of eclectic strangers. Now, leases are ending and people are moving.

Ten. Ten people are moving from my floor. It feels as though the rapture came and left me behind.

The Poet is left behind too, along with The Fonz and The Dancer. Also, The Mad Scientist is still in his laboratory becoming the next Edgar Allen Poe. But the mass exodus of neighbors was dramatic and a bit depressing.

This week seems like a series of scenes from a film:

The Chef making dinner for us one last time and announcing that life is not a dress rehearsal.

A party/impromptu recital in the basement, where bottles of wine were passed around in circles and a boy played the piano while The Chef yelled "THIS IS NOT A DRESS REHEARSAL."

Sticking my head out the window and waving farewell to a hipster gnome who is moving to New York City. My next door neighbor stuck her head out the window too and I felt like we needed to start singing about how we weren't going to pay last year's rent.

Eating donuts with The Chef and The Poet outside on the picnic table late at night, listening as The Chef told us we needed to get out of town, make art that represented our personal truths, and live our lives as if we might die tomorrow.

Finding a six-page typed manifesto under my door (courtesy of one of my writer friends), recapping the year and encouraging everyone in their various artistic endeavors.

Going out to a bar with a big mess of people and laughing about all the things we've experienced together over the past year.

Waking up early to give The Chef a big hug before he bumbled off to Finland. This was the cherry on top of a very bittersweet week and the catalyst for the inevitable water works display that was destined to happen at some point. He even left a note addressed to the community, saying that he was leaving behind his beloved "sound sculpture" (yes, that would be the air mattress with train whistles and pan flutes shoved in it...) as a gift to the community.

Raiding the workshop after The Chef left and rescuing some of the paintings he left behind:

It's strange how The Chef hasn't even been gone for twelve hours and the place already seems strange and lifeless.  His room is empty and all that's left behind is an obnoxious air mattress and some bad paintings of Elvis.  A lot of cool people left this week, but I'm going to miss The Chef the most.  He was a great encouragement to me from the very beginning, not to mention my daily comic relief for an entire year.  I know he's the sort of person that can't stand to live in the same place/city/state/country for more than a year, but it's still sad seeing him disappear into the sunset like that.

"Peace and love," he said as he turned to walk down the hall for the last time.  "Good luck, rock on, love you guys, peace out."  I stood there next to The Poet and tried not to cry.  

I felt like the season finale of this sitcom had come to an end and the credits were rolling somewhere on some cosmic screen.  I guess all I can do is take all my memories and move on to next season's episodes.

This is not a dress rehearsal.  

My New Concept Album

I'm working on a concept album entitled "Seen And Heard On 82nd Avenue." Naturally, it's based on things I've seen and heard while both sitting on my front stoop and looking out my window.

Tracks include:

• "Is That Guy In The Park Sleeping Or Dead?"

• "Imma Shoot You!"

• "No I Don't Have A Cigarette And I Know That's Not What You Really Mean"

• "I Don't Care How Hot It Is Out Here - When You Look Like THAT, You Shouldn't Wear THAT!"

• "Wait Up, You B@#$% A$$ M@#$&% F@#$&%!"

• "Heyyy, Do You Folks Have Gaaanja?"

• "Somebody Get That Girl Off Of That Bicycle And Into Rehab"

• "Man With Turrets Waiting For The Bus"

• "Sorry, I Don't Have A Lighter"

• "Seriously Guys, I Do Brain Imaging For The Government!"

• "The Bus Stop Is NOT A Urinal!"

• "Here Come The Cops!"

• "Imma Cut You!"

• "We Are Not Being Abducted By Aliens" (this track is simply the sound of the bus stop being power-washed at 2am)

This album will surely come with a panoramic photo of the scenic 82nd Avenue. It will also come with a parental advisory warning.

You will LOVE it.


P.S: This is all a joke, in case you couldn't tell...

P.P.S: My neighborhood isn't really as bad as I just made it sound... I mean, I wouldn't recommend it to tourists, but I've never been beaten up or mugged.

P.P.P.S: I think I'm probably a city person, but I might be needing a break from the city soon. Can you tell? :P

More Reflections And Stuff...

Oh man. I'm currently at Peets Coffee inhaling a pumpkin spice latte and it's the best coffee-related drink I've had in ages. It officially feels like Fall now. It's weird to think that just last week there was a major heat wave. The air has shifted since then and that distinctive Fall smell has returned. The infamous Portland rain has made a few cameos in the weather report and I've even felt the need to wear sweaters a couple of times.

Personally, I'm glad it's fall again. I'm a true Oregonian in that I secretly hate sunshine and live for a good gloomy overcast day. And I would always rather be too cold than too hot (because really, you can always put on more clothes to warm up when it's cold but can you only take off so many clothes to cool down when it's hot), so breaking out my long sleeved shirts again was sort of exciting.

Also, Fall is by far my favorite of all the seasons. Winter is too depressing, Spring is too optimistic, and Summer is just too darn hot and frankly overrated. But Fall contains a sort of delicate beauty that makes me want to drink too many lattes and write bad poetry about leaves or something.

Fall does bring a certain element of nostalgia along. Maybe it's one of the things that is packaged in that crisp autumn air. It's undoubtedly a season of change, but it's also a season with a distinct set of memories.

This year seems especially nostalgic. A year ago, I was getting ready to move to the city and live with a bunch of wacky artists. I was meeting everyone for the first time. I was building friendships, making alliances, learning who to watch out for, and feeling completely accepted and supported as a creative individual.

A year later, I'm still here, existing in this big bohemian mad house made of brick. And it's been quite the year - I think I have enough material for one thousand sitcom episodes and a few feature films. But the times are changing. People are changing. People are leaving. I keep saying I want to leave too but I don't know where I want to go.

We had The First Of The Last Suppers last night in the courtyard. It started at dusk and we lit everything with candlelit. It was a good night but slightly strange. A handful of my favorite people are sticking around until they develop better plans, but many people are fleeing on October 1st.

The Chef is moving to Finland. He was my first friend here and is one of the most unique people I've ever met. I think I'm in denial over the fact that he's leaving. I'll still have The Fonz, The Poet, and The Mad Scientist (who's been coming out of his room more often and gracing us with his lovably odd personality), but none of them are going to stick train whistles in an air mattress or organize community Solstice celebrations.

And, of course, no one else is going to get drunk and sing "One Night In Bangkok" while spontaneously yanking on The Poet's nipples. Yes, that is a moment that happened last night and yes, i am still laughing about it.

But I digress. A bunch of other people on the third floor are moving too. It's a mass exodus, I guess. Feels like the end of summer camp, actually. You know, it's emotional and seems unfair and you don't want to move on from the fun you had in the woods, but you know deep down that you need to join the real world again and you look forward to bathrooms with running water.

I'll be honest and say that I don't always like change. But I guess that's just something that often comes with Fall.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This One Comes With Ugly Drawings And Diagrams!

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

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

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

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

Over and out, amigos.

Late Night Love/Hate Lists

I love it when...

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

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

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

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

I hate it when...

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

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

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

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

Deady McDead Dead

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

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

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

a) It's always stuffed full.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was the funeral and requiem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooray for sandwiches.

Updates And Stuff...

So I'm all done with my house-sitting job. I think I managed to get the place all cleaned up and back to normal. On Thursday, The Studio Musician came over and we turned the basement into a recording studio. I sang into a microphone for about six hours and at the end of the day we were three tracks closer to the finish line. I can't even begin to describe how exhausted and accomplished I felt at the end of that day.

I'm really excited about this little five track album and can't wait to let you guys hear it. I'm pulling out all the big guns. When all is said and done, this CD will have all of the following things:

- sound clips from old horror films

- badly pronounced German lyrics

- a song about the end of the world

- me singing back-up vocals to myself (in stereo!)

- a perfectly manicured pop orchestra (think: Abbey Road)

- a little punk guitar action

- an organ playing a cadence you might hear at church

- a cheesy, yet potentially face-melting guitar solo

- an epic five minute song with no real chorus

- the word "cerebellum"

- a chord progression that screams "grunge"

- slightly melodramatic and theatrical vocals

- a musical collaboration with the local poet

- keytar!

Dude. I can't wait till this project is actually done and I can show it off.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to make The Want Ads into a real band... I think I have people coming to audition today but nobody responded to my last email... So I don't really know? Stupid Craigslist interactions. Hmmmfph.

As for news from the commune... The Management has started raising everyone's rent. Except they're doing it randomly. And everyone has a different percentage that their rent is raised by. So that's messed up and will probably be the catalyst for World War Three around here.


Except battles with The Management have been raging before that happened. Remember a couple of posts ago when The Chef got in trouble for putting a peaceful banner out of his window?


Now they're hanging out of a whole bunch of windows. Solidarity in honor of freedom of speech, yo. Let's see The Management try to shut that down.

I think they've given up on this particular battle. So far, the only opposition I've encountered was from the guy that lives below me. I got a little carried away with my banner and let it hang all the way down the side of the building, blocking the window below me. One day, I came home to this charming little note taped to my door:


My reaction?

- There's a guy here named Tom?

- Has he lived below me this whole time?

- Oh man... I bet he was the guy pounding on the ceiling the time The Fonz and I just had to have a midnight dance party to Milli Vanilli. I'm still really embarrassed about that. I should meet Tom at some point and tell him I don't actually like Milli Vanilli.*

- I remember looking at room 207 before I moved in... isn't it tiny? Like, dorm room tiny? How on earth are there 17 house plants in there?

- More important question: Why are there 17 house plants in there? Does Tom have a obsession with jungles? Is he growing a small army of cannabis in his window or what?

- Whatever. The note was nice enough and I can never say "no" to a request that comes packaged with an awkward doodle.

So I fixed the banner, which is still proudly waving away outside my window.

Anyway, I've got to wrap this up so I can go deal with the auditions (or lack thereof). Gah. Why does finding a back-up band seem like such a daunting task sometimes?

Peace out, kiddos.


* Okay, I secretly like Milli Vanilli.

Mad Scientist Alert

I am convinced that the man across the hall from me is a mad scientist.

I know I have talked about this particular character before. I've dubbed him "Mr. Merry Christmas Forever" because of the way he charismatically wished everyone a Merry Christmas until about March. He's a very fascinating, intelligent human and though he rarely comes out of his room, I feel like we're actually kind of friends, or at least solid acquaintances. I guess in the sitcom that is my life, he plays the role of the nutty-yet-lovable neighbor who appears in the hallway long enough to offer a profound thought or deliver a one-liner.

He's always been strange, but he's gotten weirder over the past eight months. A couple of weeks ago, I made the following list in my journal:

REASONS THE GUY ACROSS THE HALL IS A MAD SCIENTIST

- He calls his room "The Laboratory"
• He says he's writing in there all the time, but what is he REALLY doing?

- Sometimes, his door is blocked off with black duct tape
• What is he BUILDING in there?

- The silent, beautiful, mysterious woman he lives with
• Is she his lover?
• His sister?
• His assistant from a small Eastern European country who doesn't speak any English?
• The first prototype in his army of clones?
• An android robot he created?

- The Hair
• Does he put gel in it or does it stand straight up on it's own?
• Did he take a lawn mower to the back of it?

- The Walk
• He always looks like he's on his way to ring the bell tower
• Really, what's with the limp?
• Is he just being melodramatic or does he have gout?

- The way he enthusiastically greets people in the hallway
• Nothing says "I secretly have a whole room full of hideous science experiments" like a hearty "GOOD EEEEEVENING!"

- He's probably one of the smartest people I have ever personally met
• In the words of The Poet, "That man has way too many IQ points to be normal and sane."

- Sometimes, he keeps his chest full of notebooks outside of his door
• The notebooks are all FULL of crazy, illegible handwriting*
• Some have charts, drawings, and diagrams

*(Yes, I sat in the hallway one night and flipped through this guy's notebooks like the good little voyeuristic creep that I am. In my defense, I had his permission to do this.)


This guy is TOTALLY a mad scientist. I am convinced.

Lost In Music, Caught In A Trap, No Turning Back...

So no one has pooped in a bucket yet, but I'm sure it's coming. And The Chef is still around, but everything is ballooning into a bigger controversy. Meaning that a bunch of building code violations have been revealed and now there's an impending legal battle. Not to mention the rumor that we're all going to eventually die of asbestos poisoning and possibly other things. It's what we get for thinking that it was a good idea to live in what was formerly an abandoned retirement home. No matter how much white sage you burn, there are things about the building that will always be a little bit toxic.

Luckily, I'm house-sitting for about a week and a half. I get to hang out with the world's sweetest pit bull in Southeast Portland. Burn my latte and call me a hipster, but this is my favorite part of town.

Now if only I can figure out how to work the television here, everything will be perfect. The thing has a trillion remotes and I think I pressed the wrong button on one of them last night. I was doomed to an evening of watching Ye Olde Fuzz Channel. Fail.

In other news, I've decided that I'm going to be done wallowing around in mediocrity and I need to own my life. Meaning, I need finish the album, get a back-up band together, and create a scene. I think I'm holding auditions this weekend if I can get my act together. I'm trying really hard to give the impression that The Want Ads has more than just one person in it. We'll see how that goes. The Poet is acting as my band manager. I need to get him one of those wooden paddles that the manager of Spinal Tap carries around. Painted pink, of course.

I'm also figuring out the cover art for my CD and have spent way too much time in the past week in my bathroom taking pictures that look like this:

As far as other items on the rock and roll to-do list go, I am perfecting my ability to slip in and out of a fairly convincing British accent. Pretty soon, no one is going to know what nationality I really am.

I'm either onto something great or I've hit the infamous Quarter-Life Crisis hardcore. All my friends at The Nursing Home For Artists are very encouraging, but many of them are going through similar crises (of both Quarter-Life and Mid-Life variety).

I'll just keep up the madness and see what happens.


I even went all out and made a Facebook page for my band (become a fan? :D). Everyone knows that nothing is official until it's on Facebook. So now it's official. I'm here to rock.

Except I still have to put myself through the vicious daily cycle of self-doubt. I really just need to get over all of that. And I will. But there is always a moment in the day when I have too much time to myself and realize that pursuing The Rock Star Dream is actually a very scary thing to do.

But it would be tragic if I didn't give it my best shot.

I think my sentiments can be best expressed through a song by Sister Sledge:

That's all for now. Peace out, kiddos.

Have You Heard About The Turd?

I've been laughing all evening.

It all started yesterday. The Management has been on a rampage lately. An email went out informing us that we could no longer hang whatever we wanted to on the walls. The email explained that if we want to put up art, we have to get it approved by The Management. The threat is that things will get taken down if we don't play by the rules.

That's beyond ridiculous. This is supposed to be an "artist's community." We're the ones that live here, so we should put whatever we want on the walls. We shouldn't have to ask them if it's okay and we definitely shouldn't have to worry about anything being taken down.

When I was in high school, I wrote a rap song about Freedom Of Speech. I'm tempted to call a meeting with The Management and bust it out, but my rap career is far behind me.

Anyway, so many people got upset over the email that The Management sent a follow-up email in attempts to settle everyone down. This one was very long and unnecessary, but there was one part that caught my attention:


First, we want to be able to hang work that is respectful of the environment in which the work is displayed. There is some artwork that is not appropriate for public, or semi-public space. For an extreme example, work made with feces or raw meat that smells and is unhealthy would not be appropriate (I have had this happen in other art venues, so its not out of the question to happen here).


I don't think anyone here would have thought to put feces or raw meat out in the hallway and call it art. The whole thing was so ridiculous that I just had to make a bunch of signs that said this:

HAVE YOU HEARD
ABOUT THE TURD?
EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT
THE TURD IS THE WORD!
Coming soon:
“Poop In A Bucket”
A performance piece
and art installation
on the 3rd floor

I swear, I'm usually more mature than that. But if The Management is going to treat me like a third grader, I'm going to have to start throwing the word "turd" everywhere. It's just how it goes.

It started out as just a couple of signs, but then The Poet and The Chef caught on to me and encouraged me to make more. We ended up putting them all over the building late at night. I went to bed feeling radical, accomplished, and very, very amused with myself.

I woke up to a text message from The Poet informing me that all the signs were gone. I couldn't believe it.

I went into the kitchen to find The Chef hard at work on an artist's statement for "Poop In A Bucket." He read it to me and I nearly cried I was laughing so hard.

This is what it said:


A time based self generating work celebrating the diversity of open sourced sustainability into cohesive holistic creation. Reflecting much of the origins of nature and life itself, and the deconstructed consummation of unified, intentional and the chaotic into systemic absolution. An exploration and celebration literally into the acceptance and dialectic opposing denial inherent in community building designations and appropriations.

Deeply exploring the ongoing compulsion and underlying societal psychological memes in the pursuit of this intercultural expression, relating attitudes, ecological dynamics, and basic human rights, sometimes denied, like downtown, for example.

Work resulting in an vast oeuvre in a sometimes dynamic continuum from the intimate personal inner expression, into an outward manifestation with purpose, need and urgency, often with a magnitude of proportion.

These primal responses enabling the creator and viewer alike the full experience of the works denouement : in a gallery setting, a hallway, a paper bag, a bucket, an editorial, a policy statement, a broken agreement, a corporate office, a modest building of humble origins harkening back to a simpler exposition, or bravely forward with technological apps.

POOP IN A BUCKET captivates!


So the signs went back up, this time accompanied by The Chef's ridiculous statement. I couldn't believe that The Management had confiscated them already. I mean, those things were gone first thing on a Saturday morning! Ridiculous.

At one point during the day, one of my neighbors informed me that they were going to call the local paper and try to get "Poop In A Bucket" listed in there. I also heard that The Chef was threatening to send his statement out to various media outlets as a press release. I decided to wash my hands of the whole ordeal. From there on out, I would have no idea where the concept of "Poop In A Bucket" came from.

Shortly after that, The Poet knocked on my door with some news (I can always count on that man for current information). He had figured out who had taken the signs. It was not The Management at all.

It was the crazy lady that lives downstairs.

I don't think I've talked about this particular character very much, mostly because she's so absurd I don't know where to start. But here she is in a nutshell: She's in love with The Poet, she makes her own fake eye lashes, she has episodes of extreme agoraphobia in which she has to order people to bring her mini-donuts from the gas station, and she is currently reinventing her style into a look she simply refers to as "Elizabeth Taylor: The Rehab Years."

So she saw the signs last night and was outraged. And she crept around the halls at three in the morning, taking them all down because she believed a whole hoard of "venture capitalists" were going to make a visit to the building soon and she wanted it to look professional.

Of course, she did not suspect that the signs were put there by little ole me. She naturally assumed it was all The Chef's doing. And though she is usually great friends with The Chef (when they hang out, it's strangely reminiscent of 90's Brit-com "Absolutely Fabulous"), she called him and blew up at him over these stupid "Poop In A Bucket" signs. Of course, The Chef wasn't about to tell her who really made the signs, so he just told her to get over it.

Now we just have to wait and see what The Management does when they see the signs on Monday.

This is all way more controversial than it should be. Also, I have a fear that before this is all over, people will actually be pooping in buckets and I will secretly be responsible for it. But I guess that is what will happen when you try to shove censorship rules onto a bunch of artists.

Ack. I feel a rap coming on...

Free speech is important to me
Without it we would be in agony
We'd be a communistic country
Yo Karl Marx, that wouldn't work for me!

Like I said, my rapping career was short lived...

Anyway, that's all I've got tonight. Stay tuned for more drama and hilarity!

Your Daily Dose Of Commune Drama

I'm angry.

The Management is building a case against The Chef. They are trying to evict him. They are taking the stance that he is crazy and shouldn't live here anymore.

Sure, The Chef is eccentric. Sometimes he's downright profane. He's a loud alcoholic who is never afraid to express his opinions. He takes up a lot of wall space with his paintings of babies shooting laser beams out of their eyes. He occasionally disrupts art openings with his noisy, psychedelic air mattresses.

But he isn't crazy. He's not dangerous. In fact, he's an important part of our community. He drives us all nuts sometimes, but the halls are way too quiet whenever he leaves. He gets in weird power struggles with people out of boredom, but he also gets stuff done. He's the reason we have a big friendly wooden table in our kitchen instead of plastic break room-style tables. He was one of the main forces behind getting us a decent refrigerator. He's also the guy who pressed a recent investigation of some pipes in the building that turned out to be full of asbestos (and we wonder why everyone is sick all the time...). He's a little rough around the edges and will tell people he doesn't like to f@#$ off. But he's got a very kind, generous spirit underneath the gruff exterior.

Actually, I think The Chef was my first official friend at this place. He gave me some soup in the kitchen the first night here and told me my music was beautiful (he had heard me practicing). A couple of nights later, he knocked on my door and invited himself in to drink beer out of a mug and eat cheese puffs on my couch. At the time, it was a bit awkward for me. I mean, it's not everyday that a chubby old guy comes into your room and starts crying over lost love.

But The Chef quickly became one of those people that always sides with me. He gets drunk and cheers at my shows. He's offered to design stage costumes for me (usually his vision involves fairy wings and too much glitter). He eats out a lot and keeps me updated on which pizza places have the cutest boys. He gives me pep talks in the kitchen when I'm unsure of where my life is going. And when I update my Facebook status to miscellaneous David Bowie lyrics in the middle of the night, he is always the one to complete them.


Really. If they need to get rid of somebody, they should evict the scary kid on the second floor that trashed the kitchen a few months ago. He's much more dangerous than a quirky old man who brings a three-eyed oil painting to a dance party as a date.

I also think they should get rid of Tweaked Out Elvis Costello if they are indeed trying to evict people who are a detriment to the community. He's gotten downright creepy, not to mention he's perpetually high on a whole cocktail of mysterious illegal substances. I really wish The Management would stop complaining about the artistic peace banners that The Chef flies out of his window and start cracking down on people who have closets full of "that new French diet drug."

I've always known life wasn't fair, but this whole thing is just ridiculous to watch.

Of course, The Poet isn't about to let them actually evict The Chef. He's going to go have a few words with The Management. Meanwhile, a bunch of us are going to figure out how to make banners and fly them out our windows in protest. If done correctly, it will be a bit of a "Save Ferris" moment.

And if that fails and they really do evict him, we'll just have to hide him as if he's Anne Frank.

A very loud, drunken Anne Frank. Hopefully it won't come to that.