Guys, I played grownup bingo for the first time yesterday and it hurt.

Grownup bingo is not for pussies, but as I learned yesterday, I’m one giant pussy.

It takes a brave man or woman to sit in such a high-stress environment surrounded by dialogue boxes of smoke and florescent lights loaned from UT’s football stadium.

If you’re unfamiliar with how grownup bingo works, I will give you the lowdown. I’m going to give you the lowdown through the eyes of a 7 year-old because that’s how I felt yesterday (and I’m feeling lazy today): we were in this BIG pink room in parking lot near the highway and there were all these tables filled with people smoking cigarettes with these big, metal balloons next to them (the 29 year-old in me will translate that to “oxygen tanks”). We bought bingo sheets and some of us even bought these little computer thingies that help you mark your bingo cards. I bought a bingo marker with a shiny blue top! I also bought two bingo sheets which meant I had to look at 24 bingo cards every time a number was called. My brain hurt. It hurt real bad. Next time I play, I will buy that little computer thingy that helps me search the cards since NOBODY ACTUALLY PLAYS BINGO FAIRLY ANYMORE (the 29 year-old me talking). I looked like a giant goofball (29 year-old translation: “pussy”) with my shiny blue top marker and two bingo sheets and no computer thingy. All the people with metal balloons were laughing at me! Just like in school.

(Note: I’m fairly certain it is against the law to have an ass-load of cigarette smokers hanging out next to a bunch of oxygen tanks, but that is how my memory serves me. To me, a bingo hall is the phrase “get rich or die trying” personified).

I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to grownup bingo, though I’ll admit that the confusion of it all was slightly exhilarating. I was a fish out of water; I had no idea what language the bingo players and staff spoke, and truthfully, I’m ok with that (I keep telling the disappointed 7 year-old in me).

Below is a photo of our bingo marker POWER. The allegiance of individuals who still use their markers and NO machines. We are kind of like the Power Rangers, but sadder.

I’d like to wish a very happy birthday to my creative idol.

Since I was sixteen years old, David Byrne has been my guiding light for creativity.

I first fell in awe when I watched the 15th anniversary DVD release of Stop Making Sense. Seeing him choreographically stumble at the end of “Psycho Killer” absolutely blew my teenage mind. I had never seen anything like it and I vowed that I would always approach art with such fearlessness (I haven’t always succeeded, but I continue to use this day as inspiration). Whether it’s music, film, art or literature, Byrne can’t stop creating, and the beauty of his work is that it’s not always great. Regardless of the hits or misses, Byrne will never give up. A rule that every artist should live by.

Like many wistful children from small towns, I often dreamt about a life in 70s and 80s East Village, New York City. I became enamored with the musicians and artists that came out of the scene: Talking Heads, Andy Warhol, Patti Smith, Basquiat, Nan Goldin and Glenn O’Brien, to name a few. I didn’t always like their art or their lifestyles, but the fact that they unabashedly created all of the time piqued my artistic interests. Some of them broke through to stardom, some of them died and some of them continued wading in a pool of grime. Their stories helped to create a scene that continues to inspire individuals everywhere.

I feel sorry for kids growing up now. The past 20 years haven’t produced strong creative idols. Once the 90s hit, many children drank the Britney Spears Kool-Aid. I am a child of the 90s, but was lucky to be raised in an environment where music and art of substance mattered. Even now, I have no knowledge of Top 40 drivel. Maybe this makes me a snob, but so be it. I’d rather be lost in a world of old records, than knowing the words to Beyonce’s latest tune (eh, that whole sentence makes me sound like a huge jerky snob, but you you know what I’m sayin’, right?)

Lately I’ve been thinking about the serendipitous origins of a band that became popular a few years after the East Village scene and in a much colder climate. The Replacements began after a janitor, Paul Westerberg, overheard a group of wayward teens creating music in their garage. He enjoyed listening to them, and was later asked to jam. The rest is history.

How often do you hear that story anymore? Don’t get me wrong, I know they still exist, but they’re definitely not the norm. Now our “idols” are picked by an “American” vote.

Manufactured musicians and artists are not my idols- a janitor from Minneapolis is my idol.

A dorky kid who grew up in Baltimore, went to Rhode Island School of Design, started jamming with some artist friends, moved to New York City and began playing at an East Village underground hotspot known as CBGB is my idol.

The less-than-special youth with only big dreams to rely on are my idols.

What is your David Byrne-stumbling-at-the-end-of-Psycho-Killer moment? The moment where an act of art struck you so strongly, that you haven’t been the same since?

Are you one of those people that when strangers ask you how life is you draw a complete blank, figuring that life has become so monotonous nothing is worth talking about? You stand there with the faintest bit of drool trickling out of the corner of your mouth and begin zoning in on squirrels playing over the question asker’s shoulder? It physically hurts to think about and articulate the happenings in your life. That physical pain and frustration turns to rage and you begin growling at the person; they run off and you’re left staring into a gaping void known as your life.

Or when a true friend asks you how life is, you scramble to find something to gripe about because you have no idea why? Instead of saying “LIFE IS GRAND!” (which it is) to the question of your well being, you respond with, “Eh, I’m ok. Yeah, just ok. I’m fairly certain the right side of my body is dying with more speed than the left and I’m not sure I ever want to get married or have babies- unless they help drive up the traffic of my blog. But that would make me a terrible human being, right? RIGHT?! TELL ME WHO I AM?!!!”

I realized that I am one of these people recently.

My theory on why is this: I’m one of the lucky ones. L….ife has…. treated me…. w…ell (I have difficulty typing that sentence out of fear I will now jinx myself). When I hit my twenties, I started to lose sight of who I was. I was in a constant state of bewilderment and frustration which led to ridiculous amounts of whining. As I slid into my late twenties, life got better, but I forgot how to say “LIFE IS GRAND!” when people asked me how I was. And though I’m much happier in my late twenties, I still have large goals and dreams that I have not accomplished, and in my jumbled thinking, LIFE IS NOT GRAND! until all goals and dreams are accomplished, so then I can focus on more GOALS AND DREAMS AND EVENTUALLY TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!

It’s all poppycock.

LIFE IS GRAND! even when it isn’t. Even when you wake up with a dizzying sinus headache that causes you to brush your teeth with Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap. Or even when you get a nail in your tire on the freeway from all the construction going on around you. Or even when you don’t get that job you thought would change your life. Or even when you lose your job. Or even when you want to leave your job, but you’re too afraid to follow through with it. Or even when you fight with your significant other. Or even when your shitty significant other dumps you. Or even when you chip your front tooth and look like an adorable chipmunk. Or even when you make a movie, write a book or create a piece of music and not everyone likes it.

So when you find yourself bitching about nothing or drawing a complete blank when someone asks you how life is, respond with “LIFE IS GRAND!”

Or in the words of Gob Bluth, respond with “Incredible… I’m having an incredible year” (and then high-five them awkwardly).

(girl, lemme get you some eye makeup remover)

Dear Lauren,

Whoa, girl, whoa.

Hold onto your still firm butt (bitch!)- it’s about to get all kinds of shitty in here.

You’re excited right now. Excited to begin your adult life in Hollywood, the place you dreamed of going to as a child, but boy oh boy, are you going to feel like the essence of canine fecal matter on the bottom of someone’s shoe very soon.

Your twenties are going to feel like those old wooden roller coaster rides that make you both mentally and psychically ill.

Am I going to throw up? Did someone just throw up on me? Did I just break a rib from being tossed into the side of this rickety coaster car? Will my fate play out like Fabio with a bird smashing into my face? Am I about to be catapulted hundreds of feet into the air and impaled on the little kids’ swirly cup ride? 

Life is full of so many questions right now.

You’re going to spend the first half of your twenties drinking alone in your tiny-ass apartment, taking photos of your drunk ass with a point-and-shoot because you’re a.) narcissistic and b.) think they might come in handy for a Lena Dunham-type narcissistic art project pertaining to the narcissism of twenty-somethings (you have no idea who Lena Dunham is because she’s still in high school). You also don’t know who M83 is, but you’re going to be listening to a lot of them while laying on the floor crying and writing unintelligible Bukowski-inspired poems about how lonely you are.

You’re sad because you’re away from your family and friends, you haven’t met a support group in LA yet (you will realize that you indeed had one right before you decided to leave 5 years later) and you have an incredibly stressful job as a personal assistant. You want nothing more than for someone to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be OK, but you will not find that. You will, and I still can’t figure out why, go after men who do not want to tell you that everything is going to be OK because they are as lost as you were.

If life was like a low-budget sci-fi rom-com with a weak story, then I should be telling you not to make some of the stupid decisions you’re about to make, most of them involving men, but in truth, I’m glad you made them. These dumbass decisions made us who we are. All those dudes- the wannabe actor who looked like Wes Bentley on a bad day and only called you after 2am, the wannabe musician who lived on a Scabies-filled mattress in a cabin in the woods and the wannabe comedian who didn’t want to put you before his work and now has a cable TV show (now that I’m older I can simultaneously respect and resent that decision)- all that heartbreak and wondering what was wrong with YOU (I’ll tell you now- there is nothing wrong with YOU except for the fact that you go after douchebags or men who were not ready or willing to date you or anyone else) is 100% worth it because it brought us to where we are today.

After your move to Austin at the age of twenty-five to reassess your life, everything starts falling into place the way you’ve always dreamed of. It doesn’t happen right away, but by the home stretch of yours twenties you meet a nerdy cowboy filmmaker (the kind you used to write about!), become a freelance writer and co-write and co-produce a film. Can you believe it?! Somehow you got your shit together, girl. I’ll give us a candy bar today as a symbol of this achievement (remember when I berated you earlier in this letter for having a firmer ass? This is what you get!)

We’ll be turning thirty in one month.

One month!

Remember how you couldn’t imagine life after thirty? It seemed so far away, so unattainable. You thought you were left wandering the barren wasteland known as your twenties forever. But now they’re almost over.

Want to know what almost turning thirty feels like? It’s scary and thrilling all at once. Scary in that you’re most definitely no longer a kid, but thrilling in that this is when life really starts happening- for good or for bad. You do not miss the confusion, bad decision-making and stress pimples of your twenties. Don’t let me fool you, life is not about to get easier- we will just know how to handle it better (though about once a year you still enjoy a drunken narcissistic photo-taking-filled evening soundtracked by M83).

Love,

Lauren

I’ll be honest- I’m a newbie fan. I recall reading about Doctor Who in the nerdy sci-fi magazines I purchased in the 90s  due to my love for The X-files, but I have little experience with the series from 1963-2005 and have only watched the the series pertaining to the Ninth and Tenth Doctors (Christopher Eccleston and David Tennant). And up until last week, I enjoyed Eccleston more than Tennant (which lead to a public shaming from many of my Doctor Who-loving friends). Now that I’ve completed the end of Tennant’s second season, I’ll admit that he appeals to my feminine senses. When Tennant plays it serious, he’s a brilliant actor, but when he’s manic, waaa-elllllll, he says “well” and other words that sound like Sean Connery on cocaine. I can’t understand what the hell he is saying when his Doctor ADD kicks in and the majority of the time his manic rants are when he’s divulging important information about a.) why the planet is ABOUT TO DIE!!! or b.) why he has some doohickey that he can use JUST THIS ONE TIME!!! to save everyone and everything. I end up feeling like my grandmother, turning to Geoff and shouting, “WHAT THE HELL DID HE JUST SAY?! WHY IS THE EARTH ABOUT TO BLOW UP AGAIN?!”

But to avoid another virtual shaming, I will just say that Tennant is cute and perfect and shiny and wonderful and delightful as the Doctor. Are you happy now?

I’ll probably be writing about Doctor Who as I dive more into this delightful world, but in the meantime I wanted to show you an amazing collection of Doctor Who dolls created by Austin-based artist and blogger Crafty is Cool.

Allison, the brains behind the incredible patterns on Crafty is Cool, was commissioned to create all eleven doctors and the TARDIS by a very loving wife of a Doctor Who fan (Allison’s blog post about the project can be found here). Allison has done incredible work and has won the praises of Conan O’Brien, Pee-Wee Herman and Jimmy Kimmel. Her work as been featured at the MOCA and her first book will be released at the end of the year (read more about her story here)!

If you’re a crafter, you can purchase the patterns for all eleven doctors and the TARDIS here.

How incredibly cool are these?

On a side note: Geoff has a Fourth Doctor scarf and plans on going as Tom Baker for Halloween and wants to recruit me and nine others to dress up as the other Doctors. If anyone is interested in creating an eleven-part Halloween ensemble with us, let me know!

We happened upon a snake ball yesterday.

It’s not as cool as it sounds.

Before yesterday, I always thought a snake ball is when prepubescent male snakes put on their bow ties, ask to borrow their ‘rent’s Caddy and impress the female snakes with their dance moves learned from watching Michael Jackson clips on Youtube (at least that’s what I would do if I was a male snake).

A snake ball is exactly what was described above, but without the clip-on ties or awkward Thriller arm-waving that looks more like Alien Hand Syndrome.

A snake ball is when an ASS-LOAD OF SNAKES crowd around a female and try to get it on with her.

A snake ball is something that makes me nearly poop myself and become a dead weight that my friends have to drag around until I understand that the snakes are a.) not interested in biting us and b.) would have difficulty biting us in the water even if they wanted to bite us.

We were tubing on the Guadalupe River in Gruene, Texas. I’ve written about this perfect little Texan town before. Located about 45 minutes from Austin, it is an absolute MUST if you want to get away from the big city , experience nature and buy overly-priced, locally-made pickles or jalapen0 jam for loved ones. It is such a sweet little town that when the sole officer manning the town’s sole intersection noticed our friend’s broken flip-flop, he offered to Duct Tape it for him.

THE COP MO-FO’ING OFFERED TO DUCT TAPE A FLIP-FLOP! And his name was Homer. And he’s awesome.

Gruene is also the home of the famous Gruene Hall, the oldest dance hall in Texas. After our tubing excursion, we watched The Doc Marshalls, a self-described Americana, Country and Cajun band. Any band that features a slide guitar, accordion AND electric violin is aces in my book (side note: as I listened to the Doc Marshalls and watched the crowd get their zydeco dancing and two-steppin’ on in the dance hall, I thought about that fact that I a.) never would have imagined I would become a Texan and b.) kind of love being a Texan).

But back to tubing!

Of course I have zero photographic evidence of this snake ball I told you about. For you advanced tubers, you know that carrying anything of value with you while tubing is a dumb-ass idea. In fact, tubing in general is a dumb-ass idea, but we love it and we do it anyways (I’ve heard stories about people breaking toes, noses, losing valuables from deceased love ones and calling the police because they were so drunk they thought they were being kidnapped on tubing trips).

The snakes were first spotted by my boyfriend who didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to cause mass hysteria amongst our flotilla of four. Then the snakes, numbering in about 10-12, were subsequently spotted by the rest of us because we were essentially surround by them. The snakes got spooked by us and we were spooked by the snakes and thus began a Keystone Cops-type scramble from both parties as we all tried to figure out which direction to go. The snakes turned into squirrels, trying to swim in front of us, but quickly figuring that that was a bad idea and headed back to the banks. We, not sure if the snakes were going to leap out of the water and bite our faces, also became confused and followed suit. First we tried paddling backwards, then forwards, and at various points motionless and waiting for Death to ascend from the Netherworld to take us away.

After this stressful dance with humans and nature, I became completely useless. I refused to move or to put any appendages in the water. My boyfriend and the rest of our group were forced to pull me around for the next 20-30 minutes as I remained completely immobile with the permanent look of frozen Han Solo on my face.

After the second Bud Light Lime-a-Rita in my system, I started to loosen up and felt that not only could I handle seeing another snake, I could also jump out of my tube and wrestle that snake to the bottom of the river.

Besides the SNAKE BALL PIT OF DEATH, it was a quiet day on the river and we encountered no other tubers. However, it was a champion day in the world of nature and we had a couple of noteworthy moments.

We spotted:

-(1) Hawk picking up a snake from the river.
-(1) 8-inch long centipede that bit my boyfriend through his ridiculous mesh tubing tee.
-(500+) Turtles, mostly the common Sliders, but also several large Snapping Turtles.
-(3) Children of the River, a.k.a. Standy By Me children with gravelly voices that lurk the muddy banks picking up turtles and snakes.
-(3) Stoners, covered in leeches, but slow to realize that they are covered in leaches; said they were there looking for their keys that they lost yesterday, but admitted that they weren’t “looking very hard”.

*I did in fact drink two Bud Light Lime-a-Ritas, but have never and will most likely never wrestle a snake.

I avoided finishing this post all week because it was just too damn hard to tackle. You grow up, try to survive and the last thing you want to do is dig up memories from your childhood. Not because the memories are bad, but because you know you’ll never have those moments back. It’s easier to look forward than to realize how much time has passed.

My father visited me last week. We went on typical dad-daughter adventures. My father moved away when I was a little girl and though we didn’t see one another often, we talked on the phone frequently. He was and continues to be a big part of my life in an unconventional way.

Seeing him is always emotional for me. When I was little, it would hit me very hard. Now that I’m older, I try not to dwell on my emotions too much, but they typically get the best of me once I watch him walking through the airport door and later that evening when I’m alone with my thoughts. Here is a story of how I try to make sense of those feelings.

________

I recall lying in bed, hearing my father’s snores that weren’t there. I’d recreate the sounds because I missed him so badly. Who likes the sound of snoring? To me, it was the most beautiful noise.

While my Dad was visiting last week, he took a nap in the other room while I napped on the couch. I heard the noise I had longed for so many years ago. It was subtle and I was reminded that his snoring was quiet.

It’s interesting what time will do to you. I didn’t feel the pangs of longing upon hearing the noise. What I felt was a strange disconnect; I’m no longer that little girl.

Or is she still in there?

It’s typically not until my father leaves that it hits me hard. And I can’t tell you exactly what hits me, or what thoughts come to mind. All I know is that I cry uncontrollably. I have to. I assume it’s the little girl who used to stand by the window making herself known again.

I no longer am left wondering what is going through his mind. He tells me. He tells me that a man is lucky to have a daughter. He hugs me at the airport and briskly turns away before he or I can catch the other crying. He reminds me every single day how proud he is of me, what a good job my mother did and that he can’t wait for more adventures.

To every man out there who has a daughter: you have no idea how much you mean to her.

When I was younger, we used to love going on adventures. Sadly, I grew up, we moved to different states and life got away from us. Recently we decided that we needed some good one-on-one time and do what we d0 best- have adventures. No significant others, no plans and not a worry in the world. We traveled to San Antonio and Gruene, but our Kennedy assassination vacation to Dallas was postponed to another time due to the devastating explosion in West, Texas, which nestles on the main freeway between Austin and Dallas.

Tomorrow I will write more in-depth about my father, but today I wanted to post pictures from the trip. A lot of people have pointed out that my dad looks like Anthony Bourdain. What do you think?

Sourdough, shrimp, Grandma’s Humus, vinho verde, olives, aged cheddar cheese, Dad, Arrested Development

 Palms over Lake Travis

Everyone’s favorite spot to bring the parents- Hula Hut

River Walk, San Antone

Mexican Manhattan, San Antone

There’s not basement in The Alamo!

C.C.- the official cat of The Alamo

A B&B overlooking the river in Gruene, Texas

The famous (and oldest dance hall in Texas) Gruene Hall

Dad looking stylish at 60!

After learning of the horrific attack at the Boston Marathon yesterday, it quickly dawned on me that my dear friend Kate was at the event. I learned that she was OK, but less than a mile from the finish line before the bombings. Being a Bostonite and avid marathoner, the attacks particularly hit home for Kate- as it did for many of us.

Kate asked me to share with you her account of what happened yesterday and to implore you to focus on all the stories and images of good circulating the web. You can read more of Kate’s writing here.

__________________

We live in a smartphone world.  You can order food, deposit checks, and stalk your ex all in one finger swipe.  Unfortunately you can also access horrific images without even getting out of bed.

There are countless eyewitness accounts out there surrounding the tragedy of the Boston Marathon.

This is mine.

I wasn’t a registered runner but part of the bandit tradition.  I waited at the light at Chestnut Street and Comm Ave. to join my friend on the dreaded Heartbreak Hill.  It was her first marathon, and she had raised $5,000 for the charity “Voices of Hope.”  She wore a neon green shirt with her name on the front, the charity’s name boldly printed on the back, and the names of cancer survivors, cancer patients and those who lost their battle to cancer scribed in between.  The shirt also bore good luck messages from friends, families and the middle schoolers we work with.  Her shirt alone represents the good that exist in this world, and the best part about it was that it wasn’t unique to the runners on the course.

As I waited for her to come into view, I was able to see a tiny portion of the shirts worn by the estimated 2,500 charity runners.  Countless messages of inspiration ran past: people running for loved ones, people running for strangers, people wearing messages of their own battles conquered, as a woman who wore a shirt that announced, “I am the face of arthritis” and people running to honor the memory of battles lost, to heal their grief and contribute hope to the future.

People ran in zebra suits, tutus, plush hamburger belts, hotdog costumes and even Crocs.

The crowd screamed any name that came into view, whether a charity name, the name of a college or a name written in sharpie on the arm of a determined runner.  One man even wore a shirt that read “Sooee, sooee” to encourage the crowd to hog call.  I recalled my first Boston marathon injuries from 2008: blistered fingers from ringing a cowbell furiously, a sunburned neck and voice that was no longer. I was just a spectator then.

I rocked, chomping at the bits to join these runners and false started at every neon green shirt that came into view.  When I saw my friend Elise, I shot into the crowd screaming, “Let’s do this!”  Elise had over 18 miles under her belt already and was elated by the crowd.  Boston will do that to you.  I got to witness the other side of the marathon- the receiving end of the energy. I told her my favorite running quote of all time, “If you are losing faith in humanity go out and watch a marathon.”  I told her, “This is the good in the world,” as we passed a man on stilts walking 26 miles for a children’s charity.

We listened to various versions of Elise’s name (Elsie, Alice, etc) and acknowledged each one.  We slapped the hands of college students until our hands hurt. We chanted USA and screamed with our hands above our heads.  I took pictures and videos and these will be the images of my eyewitness account.   My original plan was to jump out of the race around mile 23, but I physically couldn’t.  It would be like leaving a party at 7 pm.  I wanted to stick it out and witness my friend’s moment of crossing the finish line of her first marathon. I wanted to soak up the crowd and take in every moment that is Marathon Monday.

We were stopped less than half a mile from the finish line.

We already have plans to go back to that spot so Elise can officially complete Boston.  Elise deserves her moment as do all the runners who committing to countless hours of training and fundraising.  We are already committed to run the 2014 Boston Marathon. I know I’ll have to raise $5,000 to run as a charity runner for our school district, but I am determined that is possible now more than ever.  People want to help; people want to do good.

Please don’t define Marathon Monday by the vicious act of one, but instead by the inspiring acts of thousands.  The world isn’t a sick place- there are just a handful of sick people in a beautiful crowd of millions.  I urge everyone with every ounce of my being to avoid the photos of the tragedy that plaster the Internet.  The images that we all need to see right now are the euphoric faces of the runners, the crowds ten people deep, Team Achilles featuring runners with artificial limbs, the runners in their 80s, the runner’s pushing wheelchairs, Team Hoyt, or the couple who married just after finishing.  Please share any positive pictures and stories that you have from Monday.  These are the images that restore your faith in humanity- the images that represent the marathon, the images that are Boston.

The paternal unit is visiting this week (JFK assassination vacay in Dallas commence!), so I’ll probably be a lazy-ass blogger and post a bunch of photos.

Today’s photo is of our closet and what I discovered while  cleaning over weekend.

This is how you know you’re dating an artist…or Patrick Bateman, as some of you were kind enough to point out.