Don't Judge A Book By It's Cover...

Important things first:

I found my cat mug. I know that some of you were worried.


It was laying in the communal sink first thing yesterday morning. I gave it a very thorough scrubbing and made preparations to kill the fatted calf in celebration. I tried to ask it what happened, but it remained silent and refused to tell me of it's misadventures. Silly cat mug.

I'm just glad it made it home safely.

In other news, I almost cried last night when my studio guy blew me off yet again. The story this morning is that he fell asleep and forgot that we had a meeting planned. I guess it's understandable and I plan on forgiving him, but I've had a rough time working with musicians lately and last night's incident didn't help my frustration.

It didn't help to discover that Amanda Palmer played a ninja gig in town last night. It was free and I missed it because I was busy waiting around not checking Twitter. I actually didn't find out about the show until this morning and it made me want to crawl back into my bed.

I love music, but I'm beginning to think there's something wrong with musicians. I know, I know, I am a musician and there's probably something wrong with me too. And I really don't mean to offend anyone, so take everything I say with a serious grain of salt. But it seems to me that all musicians have that one obnoxious trait that you just have to deal with if you plan on working with them.

Take the guy that stood me up last night, for example. He's a great musician and I'm pretty sure he's genuinely a nice person. I think we're actually sort of good friends. He's got a great ear and loves to pretend he's George Martin throughout the recording process (meaning that sometimes perfectly manicured symphonies show up in my tracks).

So what's the catch? He's flaky! And maybe it's just karma getting me back for my own ongoing state of mild flakiness, but he takes the flaky thing to a whole new level. This is not your average "I'm a couple days past the deadline" kind of flaky. This is the "I went to Kansas for a month and forgot to tell you" kind of flaky. This is the "It will be done on Tuesday... no, Saturday... no, next Tuesday... no, next Saturday..." kind of flaky.

There was a point where didn't hear from him for weeks and I decided that I should just start throwing songs at other people. After all, the halls are full of creative-types here. Surely someone could help me out.

So I examined the list of local suspects and came up with the following options:

1. Pretentious Art School Hipsters That Wear Matching Ponchos And Ride A Vespa.
The Good: They have a really expensive microphone and will record for cheap.
The Bad: Their skills seem mediocre at best and they really like editing nature sounds into the background of tracks. Also, they think they are the hottest thing to ever set foot in Portland. Probably has something to do with the matching ponchos.

2. Guy Who Was Supposedly Kicked Out Of Portugal. The Man For Being An Alcoholic.
The Good: He's experienced.
The Bad: Um, he's an alcoholic.

3. Sensitive Singer-Songwriter Guy With Schizophrenic Tendencies.
The Good: He's very efficient, talented, etc.
The Bad: He appears to have a very significant mental illness.

4. Guy Who Appears To Be In His Own Solar System And Probably Has Some Form Of Asperger's Syndrome.
The Good: Charges ridiculously low prices and is secretly a sound-mixing genius.
The Bad: Conversation is difficult. Also, he's a bit unpredictable.

I chose Option 4, mostly because The Poet had a hunch about it and I've learned by now that he's right about things. For example, if he tells you not to go to Texas with your friend and her cousin, you better stay home because it's all a front for a drug smuggling operation. Anyway, he kept saying "Why don't you try Option 4? I think you should just give Option 4 a try..." At first I was too busy trying to make plans with The Pretentious Art School Hipsters to give it much thought, but that wasn't going in the direction I wanted it to go and I thought "Well, I've got nothing to lose..."

So I rounded up a buddy (there was no way I was going into that room alone) and handed my newest song to this guy.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: So, here's my song.
Him: Cool. *loads it onto the computer* So didja have a lovely day today?
Me: Yeah, it wasn't raining. How was your day?
Him: *spaced out look* *smile* Great! I was picking up candy wrappers downtown! I found some real cool ones!
Me: Okay...

He also informed me that though he plays guitar, he considers his main instrument to be the gourd flute.

This is not going to work, I thought to myself. I'm going to have to make things work with those hipsters.

It was at that moment that the project finished loading into Logic and he began flying around on his computer like he was controlling the Star Trek Enterprise.

And less than a week later, he handed me three tracks that actually sound pretty good. Consider my mind blown.

Don't judge a book by it's cover, boys and girls.

Will figure out how to upload said tracks and share them with you soon.

In the mean time, I've got more tracks to finish, a flaky musician to track down, and a couple of music videos to shoot.

Oh yeah, and somewhere in there I need to figure out grocery shopping.

I also need to fix my sink, which is a big, rusty, clogged-up, uncooperative mess. I brush my teeth in the shower these days...

You know you want my life. :P

Attack Of The Bad Art

I'm angry.

Somebody took down my "Poop In A Bucket" signs.

I'm sure it was someone from The Management. They've been showing the place to a lot of new people lately and it probably looks bad for business.

Honestly, I'm surprised the signs lasted this long.

Ironically, a new show opened up in the gallery tonight that is really just two steps away from being "Poop In A Bucket."

This is a show about eggshells.

This is beauty.  

This is art.  

This is the product of someone who had to eat a lot of omelets.  

Eggshells.  This is about eggshells.  

I will end my commentary before it becomes too scathing...  

Instead, I will show you pictures of my other favorite art show... "When A Friend Is Sometimes A Stranger."

Now, I feel bad making fun of this one because it was created by someone I actually really like.  But there's no denying the fact that this exhibit is nothing but large Sharpied outlines of hipsters on butcher paper with a pretentious title slapped onto it.  I'm going to state the obvious and say that I made that kind of art in the first grade.

The question is - if these things can pass as legitimate art, why is The Management so quick to hate on "Poop In A Bucket"??? 

I guess the title isn't artsy enough.  I should have called it "When A Bucket Is Filled With Excrement."

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

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

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

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

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

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



























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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deady McDead Dead

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

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

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

a) It's always stuffed full.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was the funeral and requiem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooray for sandwiches.

Hip To Be Square?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slightly More Hopeful Than My Previous Post...

It's been quite the week.

Rain storms.  Rejections.  Car problems.  Never-ending headaches.  The end of a project that I loved dearly.  The growing fear that something in my very own room is constantly making me sick.  The reality that being an unemployed hipster brat is not as fun as it looks on "Portlandia."  Unattractive moments of self-doubt.  Loads of uncertainty.

Encouraging words from my wonderful neighbors.  Never-ending support from my family.  Love from you guys out there in the great big blogiverse.  Late-night emails from the commune's unofficial concierge urging me not to give up on The Rock Star Dream. 

New goals scribbled down on the tattered pages of my journal.  Comprehensive step-by-step plans of action, some more practical than others.  A bucket full of cleaning supplies and a brain full of ideas.

This is my time, my golden age.  This is the part of the show where I decide not to let myself mope around and get stuck in the mundane mud.  This is when I figure out how to completely go after everything I want to be and totally own it. 

Easier said than done.  But it's all worth a shot. 

In other news, I've been having these kinds of verbal exchanges with the people I meet lately:

Me:  I live in an artist's community...
Random Person:  Oh, I think I've heard of where you live...isn't it a retirement home for hipsters?

Me:  I live in an artist's community...
Another Random Person:  Oh cool!  What's that like?  Is everybody, like, sleeping with each other and painting pictures about it?

I should just start telling people I'm a freelance hippy.  I actually thought about putting that down on my taxes but somehow I don't think the IRS shares my sense of humor...

That's all I've got tonight.  Peace. 

A Bad Night To Be A Hipster

Last spring, I had the privilege of seeing Kimya Dawson in concert.  If her name doesn't ring a bell, you might know her as the quirky hippy lady that does the music for "Juno."  Anyway, I might be romanticizing things, but that concert was a catalyst for all sorts of life changes.  Meaning I returned my business suit, started a blog called "TRASH ROCK TOUR" (which would later be known as "lauren vs. reality"), and decided to pursue my dreams.

That's a very simplified explanation, of course.  I can't blame Kimya for my entire journey down this bohemian rabbit hole, but she definitely played a part in my detachment from "balloon world."  So when I found out she was going to be in town playing at Backspace again last night, I called Ryan (a.k.a: Kimya's #1 Fanboy) and we bought tickets.  Anticipating another magical evening of inspiring folk music, we jumped on a MAX train after band practice.

The trip downtown took a little longer than we anticipated and the MAX was full of awkward characters (i.e:  a wannabe gangsta with a speech impediment, a woman who was going to pop out of her itty bitty tank top at any second, etc.).  When we finally got to Backspace, it was almost time for the show to start and there was a line of Kimya fans stretched out down the sidewalk.

Reluctantly, we got in line.  There were more boys in line than there were last time.  There were also more heterosexual couples.  Last spring, it was a bit of a lesbian festival. 

Anyway, as we got closer to the door, we noticed a few things:
1)  A sign that said completely different information than what was on the site we bought tickets from, including the start time of the show and the fact that Kimya Dawson was the opening act for a folk punk band.
2)  Kimya was already onstage playing "The Beer" (one of her best songs and we missed it!)
3)  We had missed half of Kimya's set!

I think it was at this point that I said something melodramatic along the lines of, "Ryan, if we don't get inside in time and miss all of Kimya's set, I might just cry!  I might just cry right here on the sidewalk!"

Fortunately, we made it inside before there was any crying on the sidewalk.  But the room was packed and there wasn't really a good place for us to sit/stand.  We settled on a spot near the bar.  People kept pushing to get past us and I could see the top of Kimya's poofy hair at best.

But the music was still wonderful, despite all of the disappointments.  "Loose Lips" still made me grin and "Walk Like Thunder" still gave me goosebumps.  I love how raw and honest her songs are.  I think I've said this before, but it's the kind of music that reminds me why I insist on playing the piano instead of getting a "real" job.

Her set was over way too soon.  I went to go order a drink to cope with my post-Kimya depression.  I quickly discovered that they were out of PBR.

It was a bad night to be a hipster.

On top of that, I kept losing Ryan because he took off in the direction of Kimya whenever he spotted her poofy hair.  The number of times he attempted to ambush her like an awkward fanboy was downright comical.  

Ryan in fanboy mode while I'm busy being an angry hipster

The punk-ish band took the stage and they weren't bad.  They were called "Defiance Ohio" and reminded me of Flogging Molly (but less edgy and not quite as wonderful...yes, I went through that celtic punk phase in high school along with the rest of the universe...don't judge...).  The music was fun to dance to but I probably won't run out and buy all of their albums.

Just watch, Defiance Ohio will become the next big thing and then this blog post will be right up there with the journal entry from the summer of 2004 in which I describe skipping band camp to go see They Might Be Giants at a music festival with my dad.  And I quote, "A band from Seattle called 'Death Cab For Cute' played before them.  We hung around for some of that so we could get prime spots for TMBG.  The place was packed so we didn't actually get to see Death Cab, but they sounded pretty good.  Finally, they ended and all these pierced punk rockers came pouring out.  All the nerdy, intellectual TMBG fans piled in!"  I then go on to describe how "beautiful" and "freak'n awesome" the TMBG show was.  Oh Teenage Lauren, you are so funny without even trying.  I think if I could relive that moment in time, I would put more effort into watching Death Cab.  I would also put more effort into removing the word "freak'n" from my vocabulary.

But I digress.  Back to things that are relevant.

I left to go to the bathroom in the middle of Defiance Ohio's set.  There are only two bathrooms at Backspace and they are both oners, so I found myself waiting in line for awhile.  The line was right by the Internet cafe part of Backspace.  It was also by an arcade-style game called "House Of The Dead 4."  Some guy in tight pants and a band t-shirt got in line behind me.  He wasn't completely gorgeous or anything, but he wasn't bad looking.  He starts talking to me and the conversation goes like this:

Guy:  I can't believe that people are back here on computers when there is a punk show going on!  What's up with that?
Me:  I know!  They really should be out there dancing.
Guy:  Yeah, for real!
*awkward silence*
Me:  Though are you sure you wouldn't rather be back here playing House Of The Dead 4?
Guy:  *laughs*  It's tempting, but I'm more of a House Of The Dead 2 type of person.
Me:  Personally I'm all about House Of The Dead 3.
Guy:  Rock on.
Me:  Yeah, House Of The Dead 3 is where it's at.
*awkward silence*
Me:  I'm kidding.
Guy:  What?
Me:  I'm kidding about House Of The Dead 3.  I'm not actually into it.
Guy:  Haha, yeah, you totally fooled me.
Me:  Yeah, I know.  Oh look, the bathroom is open!
*end of conversation*

Ugh.  When will I learn that trying to charm strangers with my neverending wit is usually a bad idea? 

The concert ended and we were able to successfully hunt down Kimya (I don't think Ryan was going to leave the venue until he was able to meet her).  We told her how much we loved her and snagged this wonderfully awkward photograph:

This is a happy picture.

I thought about taking a picture with her as well, but she didn't seem that into it and I didn't want to be too annoying.

So we left Backspace and ventured into the rain.  The trip home took longer than it should have because we lost track of where we were and we rode the wrong MAX to the wrong stop.

But that didn't stop us from dancing all the way home.

So last night ended on a high note.  I have always wanted to dance in an empty train car and now I can cross that off of my bucket list.

And that's all I've got for today.  Hope everyone is having a great Sunday!  Peace.

The Dream Of The 90's Is Alive...

So as some of you already know, Lorne Michaels is making a TV show about my city. This video crossed my radar a couple of nights ago:

I'm not really sure if I find it funny or offensive.

I laughed when I watched the video, but it also made me slightly uncomfortable. It describes Portland - and my life - a little too well.

I mean, it was only last week that I updated my work information on Facebook to look like this:

And I've spent way too much over the past month making purses out of duct tape. Look, this one is definitely art because it has a bird on it:

I spent all morning listing these purses on my new Etsy store. This was the first morning in a long time that I did not sleep till 11.

And what's my occupation? I guess I don't have one. I'm a musician.

I could go on and on. Like I said, the video was a little too close to home.

Of course, I'm still going to have to watch the show when it comes out.

So Nervous! AH!

On Sunday night, one of my new hipster friends from downstairs messaged me on Facebook to see if I could play an opening set at their show tonight. I guess their other opener bailed and they needed somebody last minute. I've been wanting to try doing a solo show, so I said "yes." I spent all day yesterday trying to assemble a set list. The show is in about eight hours. I'm freaking out here a little bit.

Once I get on that stage, I'm sure I'll be fine. But right now, I'm a nervous wreck. I could barely sleep last night. Aside from belting out three songs in the restaurant on Halloween, I've never done a show all by myself before. And tonight, I've got a whole 30-45 minutes to entertain an audience with just me, myself, and my keyboard. Just thinking about it makes me pee my pants a little bit.

My friends from the commune are all really excited for me. A lot of them are coming to the show for moral support. Sometimes I get really freaked out when people I know and love show up to watch me perform, but it's kinda comforting knowing that I'll have a small army of hippies/hipsters in the audience that will get drunk and cheer anyway if I do a terrible job.

I was so anxious last night that I didn't really know what to do with myself. I was trying to practice a lot, but I was being too critical of myself and it was becoming counterproductive. I drifted in and out of the kitchen, distracting myself with the presence of others and making tea in attempts to calm down. At one point, I announced I was going to bed and had every intention of sleeping, but ended up dominating a giant piece of cake instead. Oops.

It was a bit after midnight when I went back to the kitchen to destroy the evidence of the cake. The Chef was in there with all of the lights off, reading the paper and eating cereal in a corner.

"Lauren! How are you doing, girl?" he says, smiling warmly.

"I'm doing okay. A bit nervous about tomorrow night," I say.

"Aw, Lauren, you don't need to be nervous. This is what you're going to do: You're going to stop worrying about everything, you're going to go there, you're going to bring your beautiful little soul in there and get up on that stage and do whatever the hell you wanna do and it's going to be great. Just tell your story and make your music and have some fun. And kick ass. Yeah, kick ass! Just kick it. You have my permission. Just be your bad ole self and KICK SOME SERIOUS ASS, GIRL!"

At this point in the pep talk, The Poet enters the room. He had witnessed my neurotic pre-show antics in the kitchen earlier. "You're still freaked out?" he says.

"Oh completely!" I say.

"Why? We've been over this - you're a rock star!" he says.

"Yeah, you just need to kick some ass," The Chef chimes in.

They both look at me. I'm smiling now but I'm sure I still looked like an incredible ball of nervousness. The Poet gets a smirk on his face and lowers his voice.

"Do you need drugs? Because we can totally set you up..."

The Chef nods knowingly in agreement, then takes another bite of cereal.

I laugh. "Thanks, but I think I'm good with tea tonight, guys."

I went to bed eventually, then woke up this morning in a fit of "What-am-I-gonna-WEAR?!" I'm still not really sure what I'm going to wear. Probably the standard skinny jeans with something black on top. I've got some pretty outlandish things in my closet that I've dubbed my "performance attire," but I don't think a pub down in the hipster part of Portland is the place to pull that stuff out.

Anyway, I've got tons more to write about (you better believe it was a crazy weekend...dancing and car problems and hipsters - oh my!), but I should go practice a little bit more and take my traditional "rock star nap" in preparation for tonight's show. That is, if I can even concentrate on practicing and sleeping in this state of intense pre-show anxiety. Ack.

Over and out, amigos. Tune in tomorrow to hear how the show went.

Let Them Bleat Cake

I snuck into the attic tonight. It was quite thrilling.

For those of you who are just now tuning in, I live in a big artist's community that used to be a retirement home. It's a fairly creepy building and they keep the attic locked at all times. When I was moving in, the door to it was left open when I walked past it at one point, but I was too chicken to go up there alone. I'd be lying if I said I haven't been curious about it, though. I mean, it's the attic of an ancient building that is a little reminiscent of "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." Of course I wanted to see what was up there.

So tonight, when the second floor hipster crowd was walking around the third floor (where I live) looking for secret doors, I gladly showed them the door to the attic.

It was locked, naturally. Luckily, this guy who just moved here from New Jersey was with us. He knew how to pick the lock with a screwdriver. He did it a little too effortlessly, then just kind of shrugged and said, "Hey, I'm from New Jersey."

While Mr. New Jersey was picking the lock, Theater Lover and The Poet walked by and became instantly intrigued by what we were doing. A couple of other people heard us and came out of their rooms to see what was going on. By the time the attic door was open, there was a good group of almost ten people anxious to go inside.

Among those people was the really pretty guy who is potentially a gay porn star. Oh man, he's all kinds of gorgeous. I need to find out if he's actually gay or if he just has impeccable fashion sense. I should also find out if he's actually a porn star or if I just interpreted a conversation wrong. I think I'll be moving that investigation up farther on my priority list.

Anyway, back to the adventure of the evening. It was a pretty great attic - really big, dark, wooden, and creepy. Going up there with all of those people felt like the beginning of a horror film. Fortunately, no one died that I'm aware of. I really want to make a horror film up there, though. Or at least light a bunch of candles and have a poetry slam while sitting cross-legged on the floor. Now that sounds like a good way to burn the place down.

When we were done exploring, we went back into the third floor kitchen to tell Purple Hair and Mr. Syracuse that we had been in the attic. I expected them to be impressed and maybe even a little jealous, but it turns out they had already been up there. The nerve.

Everyone was in a much better mood tonight than last night. The vibe was really off last night. I blame it on the horrific community meeting that took place in the kitchen. It started out as thirty people bitching about things that aren't really that important and slowly evolved into being a meeting about how to have a meeting. It went on for two hours and I kinda felt like walking over to the oven and sticking my head in it.

Afterwards, I ventured into the second floor kitchen. The atmosphere down there is totally different than the cheery, welcoming sanctuary of the third floor kitchen. I've gotten into the habit of referring to the second floor as "Hipsterville." Their kitchen feels like a break room and lacks personality. I've recently befriended a few more of the hipsters down there though. They invited me to come down for dinner. As much as I love my hippy friends, I figure I should at least attempt to hang out with people my age.

It was a good time. And by that, I mean I'm not really sure if I had fun or not. Everything that people cooked was vegan and fairly weird. There was a ton of alcohol but no one really wanted to share with anyone else (this probably isn't that unusual, but I've gotten used to everyone drinking everyone else's wine in the third floor kitchen). There wasn't a ton of conversation, but it was completely acceptable and even expected to mouth the words along to Radiohead songs being played from a MacBook in the corner.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little bit. It was definitely a hipster scene, but I did have a good time. Well, I had a good time until Tweaked Out Elvis Costello showed up and spontaneously threw cake against the wall. I think he might have even said something like "LET THEM BLEAT CAKE! BAH!" It was funny, but that was definitely the moment when the party started to go downhill.

The Poet came in the room when Tweaked Out Elvis Costello was attempting to scrub cake off of the radiator. The meeting from earlier came up, specifically the topic of performance spaces in the building. It's petty, political, and probably not the interesting. Though it is an issue that I do have an opinion on and it does affect me, I'll avoid going into it at this time. All you really need to know is that the night ended with The Poet and Tweaked Out Elvis Costello yelling profanities at each other.

There are very few things that I hate more than yelling. Plus, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello was saying some stuff that was making me angry. It wasn't directed towards me, but some of his "The show in the kitchen was terrible" and "There aren't any good bands in this building" comments were making me feel a little attacked. So I awkwardly excused myself from the room and ran to the safety of the third floor kitchen, where I made a giant cup of Moroccan mint tea in attempts to calm myself down.

Gotta love commune drama. Gah. Most of the time, this place is a bohemian paradise. But every once in awhile, I swear there are cameras hidden somewhere and we're all on reality TV.

And with that, I should go to bed.

Goodnight, amigos. More stories to come, I am sure.

Halloween

I dial a number on my cell phone and listen to the phone ring for awhile. Finally, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello picks up. "Hey," he says, answering the phone in the most nonchalant, hipster way possible.

"Hey, yo, I knocked on your door and I was gonna be all like 'TRICK OR TREAT,' but you weren't there," I say.

"Yeah, I can hear that you're saying words but I can't really hear what they are."

"You at a wild party or something?"

"I'm in the restaurant downstairs. And I am drinking alcohol. YES."

"Cool, I'm about to head down there, I'll probably run into you."

"I'm sure you're probably saying something relevant but I can't hear you at all because there are so many people making noise."

"Okay bye."

I look at myself in the mirror, decide that if anyone asks what I am I'll just tell them I am a hipster, and head downstairs.

"LAUREN!" The Obnoxious Hipster spots me from across the room. He's dressed as Sherlock Holmes and is throwing back beers with the guy that's probably a gay porn star. I awkwardly greet them and then drift over to the corner where The Poet and Tweaked Out Elvis Costello are standing.

The Poet is wearing a red shirt, a suit jacket, and red shoes. "I am a Soviet supporter," he informs me. "I AM A COMMUNIST!" I can't really tell if Tweaked Out Elvis Costello is wearing a Halloween costume or not. He's wearing a hat and a tie and a vest. I asked him about it and it turns out it's just how he dresses.

Tweaked Out Elvis Costello hands me a drink and informs me that he's going to go smoke a joint on the sidewalk. The Poet joins him and I am left to fend for myself in a room full of Halloween Hipsters. I end up talking to a singer/songwriter guy that I've been saying the words "Hey, we should jam" to for about a month. Except it takes me ten minutes to realize who he is, because he's wearing a really elaborate costume. Fortunately, The Theater Lover shows up (dressed as a dead ballerina, naturally) and says his name before I completely embarrass myself.

The Poet returns alone. "Did you lose Tweaked Out Elvis Costello?" I ask.

He laughs. "Oh, he's still out there. He gets really into smoking that shit."

"Yeah I know," I say. "He seems like he's on another planet sometimes."

The Poet smirks. "Tonight, I think he's in another galaxy."

Tweaked Out Elvis Costello finally returns, bringing the distinct aroma of pot along with him. I look at him and wonder why I haven't seen him or heard from him at all in the past week. Then I realize that I probably don't really want to know.

Singer/Songwriter Guy says something about how it would be cool to bring instruments down and play them on the stage at the back of the restaurant. Next thing we know, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello is hauling equipment into the room. A keyboard gets set up. A microphone. A drum machine. I offer to go get my keytar so we can have a legit jam session but no one is really interested.

Tweaked Out Elvis Costello takes the stage and plays his crazy music for a good twenty minutes. There are retro church pews facing the stage and at this point lots of people are sitting on them and listening. There's a big screen right behind the stage and trailers for b-rated horror films are playing on loop without sound. I am sitting next to a bald man dressed as the gnome from the Travelocity commercials. The Poet sits behind me. "Do you have any idea what this kid is playing?" he asks.

"I think it's something he wrote," I say. "Or maybe it's Gershwin. Sometimes he plays things he writes and then they turn into Gershwin and then they turn back into originals."

"Wow," says The Poet. "Things are happening on other galaxies."

Finally, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello stops playing. He announces that he's not really sure what he's been playing for the past ten minutes and takes a seat on a church pew. It was at that point that approximately three people simultaneously asked me to play a song.

I am not a solo performer. I've always wanted to try it, but the thought terrifies me. I've never really gotten up and played songs I've written without having Ryan there to hide behind. But on this night, for some reason or another, I jumped onto that stage and I belted out a song about the end of the world.

When I finished the song, I looked up and realized that more people had come over to listen. I was going to go sit back down, but someone yelled "PLAY ANOTHER SONG!" So I played a song about zombies (in honor of Halloween).

They yelled for another. I asked if they wanted something campy and stupid or something not as campy and less stupid. They yelled for campy and stupid, so I played this one:

About halfway through, I began feeling like a complete retard. But people laughed. I played one more song after that and then offered the stage to Singer/Songwriter Guy.

"That was such a rock star performance!" proclaimed The Poet as I sat down. The Gnome gave me the thumbs up. I had somehow managed to tap into that rock and roll version of myself up there and I had done it completely solo. I was strangely proud of myself, not to mention a little shocked that I was able to do that so naturally.

When Singer/Songwriter Guy was done entrancing everyone with his poetic lyrics (oh man, I felt a little dumb sandwiching my quirky Amanda Palmer-meets-They Might Be Giants indie rock crap between him and Intergalactic Gershwin...), Tweaked Out Elvis Costello got back onstage. I went to go get some apple cider.

The owner of the restaurant met me by the cider and gave me a huge high five. "Lauren, that was awesome!" he exclaimed. Like most people, he was probably a little surprised I had that in me. I'm 87% sure that I'm going to be working in his restaurant when it finally opens to the public. And weirdly enough, I think my little impromptu performance just solidified my chances of being officially hired.

After Tweaked Out Elvis Costello ran out of steam again, a guy in an ugly sweater butchered something that sounded like rag time. Then someone yelled for me again, so I went up and played an instrumental medley of some of my "Goat Man" stuff followed by a weird song about icebergs. Then I noticed the restaurant was closing, so we packed up the equipment and called it a night.

The Gnome approached me and told me about how much he loved my song about giardia. "I had giardia once," he said. "It was terrible. It was like there was a blender in my stomach!"

"Oh man, that's bad," I say. "I thought I had giardia once. It ended up just being some other, more obscure parasite, but that's what inspired the song."

"Ew, yeah, those parasites are rough. They weren't ever really sure if I actually had giardia or not, but they had to prescribe me like, chlorine to make it finally go away."

Maybe next time I do a short set, I'll have a little more class and choose not to play a catchy song about explosive diarrhea.

But overall, I felt fairly on top of the world at the end of the night. I watched Tweaked Out Elvis Costello and The Poet smoke a cigarette on the curb for a little bit, but eventually got bored with that and went back to my room. I had a text on my phone from my friend Cyndi and I texted her back telling her I had just played an impromptu solo set. She replied with the following text:

"good things are wild & free. essentially, you rock. we can do all things through christ/god/jesus (buddha. the prophet. allah. lady gaga. lykke li. alcohol) who gives us strength. i'm proud of you!"

It was a text that made me grin.

And with that, I should probably go to bed. Happy Halloween, amigos. Over and out.

Scott Pilgrim Vs. Me!

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

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

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

I decided to go see it based on the following:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace out, amigos.

I Went To Canada When No One Was Looking

Home again! I left for a little bit, remember?

I went to Forks.

Don't tell Jacob this, but I'm on Team Chief Swan.

And before you click the "back" button or the "unsubscribe" button or the "alert all your facebook friends that Lauren has really lost it this time" button, I should clarify that Forks was only a mere pit stop on the way to a magical place called Canada.

Somehow I ended up with more pictures of Forks than Canada. Forgive me Father for I have sinned.

But I did eat Canadian bacon on my pizza in Canada. Does this earn me back any cool points?

I also went kayaking for the first time, which was absolutely incredible. I was so caught up in the excitement that I forgot to take any pictures. So you're just going to have to believe me when I say that I've kayaked into the ocean and am alive to tell about it.

This post is a little spastic. My apologies. I just got back today and am a bit tired. Life is continuing to move at the speed of light. When I got back to Portland I went to the open house of the artists' community I plan on moving to in September. Hipsters galore. There was a bit of a miscommunication and I won't be signing the lease tomorrow like I thought I would be, but hopefully I'll get all of that squared away soon. Otherwise I might have to declare it National Throw A Hipster Off Of A Bridge Day. Which would actually be a significantly bad move on my part, because I think I become a little more hipster-esque everyday and I don't want anybody throwing me off of a bridge. Even if it didn't kill me, it might mess up my hair and make me spill my PBR.

I should go to bed. I'm getting up in the morning to go to Steve's family reunion. I'm sure it will be fun and relatively painless, but it's my natural instinct to be terrified.

Anyway, that's all I've got tonight, amigos. It's good to be back on teh Interwebs!

Don't Stop Me Nowwww, I'm Havin Such A Good Tiiiime, I'm Havin A Ball

Look! I'm updating my blog! I am not dead! I am aliiiiiiive!

A lot has been going on since my last post. I went on a road trip by myself to Seattle and points beyond. Met up with various friends along the way. It was quite lovely, actually. I love traveling alone. Made it all the way to Idaho. Woo.

Drove home and promptly landed a gig helping out on the set of a music video for the band Kaiser Cartel. Spent a day running around Mississippi Studios with a shot list and a bag of lenses. Earned several hipster points.

Original Sound Trash recordings are slowly coming together. There have been a lot of technical difficulties but I think we're past most of that. I think. Ryan's the techie guy. I just press the buttons and sing when it's my turn to sing.

I've also recently joined a team of comedy sketch writers in creating a show for the local public access channel. The first meeting was last night and was quite hilarious. It was a fairly large group of people and everyone thought they were really funny. Not everyone was. I spent most of the meeting afraid to say anything for fear I would strike out harder than the old guy with the ten minute Lewis and Clark sketch. I connected with a couple of people though and we're going to create a sketch about the nation's first school for hipsters opening in north Portland. It will probably air on good old channel 11 in about October.

In other news, I applied for a spot in an artist's community in the city. I would have my own studio apartment with a bathroom and share a kitchen with a bunch of artsy hippies. It's a living situation that was created specifically for musicians, writers, filmmakers, painters, etc. I haven't heard back from them yet, but I think it would be really cool to live there.

Anyway, I feel like lately I've been traveling at the speed of light (that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit...and yes, I will make a supersonic man out of you). And then when I sit down to blog about everything I'm either too tired or don't know where to start.

But there's really no wrong place to start as long as I start somewhere. So there you have it. That's the Spark Notes version of what has been going on in the life of Lauren lately. I am not dead. I am aliiiiiiiiive!

(Photo from a band field trip to the beach. Possibly the greatest picture Ryan and I have ever taken together.)

Dirty Hipsters

Those indie kids never called me back.

With my luck, they probably read my blog.

In other news, the other day I got to witness some guy with tattoos and perfectly scruffed-up hair have a mini freak out at a deli because his sandwich wasn't vegan.

Oh Portland, how I love you. Hehe.

If you've never been to Portland, you can get a feel for it by watching this hilarious video:



Happy Saturday, amigos.