humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • It’s hard out here for a hippie.

    I’m having the hardest time being a hippie lately. I had no problems last year– never brushed my hair or wore makeup, carried my life in a sack, lived wherever I felt like it. Life couldn’t have been better.

    But now I’m in Los Angeles.

    Chihuahuas wear designer clothes and you’re an oddity if you don’t have a German-engineered car. Plus, my adult acne requires I wear some fancy foundation for anyone to take me seriously, and I was forced to buy some decent jeans due to my exhibitionist butt crack. So, I’m now feeling like ‘one of them.’ I’m a paradox– surrounded by creative directors in Diesel jeans by day and meditating in lotus at night. It couldn’t feel more weird. I know a guy who just paid $50,000 for a couch (‘It is the focal point,’ he rationalized). Some of my friends are struggling to raise $400 to send a year’s supply of water to a village in Africa. Where the hell do I fit in the mix? If I could, I’d sell that couch, pay off my student loans, and go to Africa to deliver the water myself. Does that make me a hippie or just some chick who says she’s a hippie but is just lazy and wants to use travel as an excuse for never having to work?

    I don’t know. But the best part is that I don’t have to know. Because I live in Venice Beach! You could wake up in Venice Beach stuffed in a cannon. You could crawl out of that cannon and find an eyeless homeless man, a guy selling cotton balls and taser guns, and a yuppie jogger pushing twins in a five-thousand-dollar stroller. And none of this would seem weird. And you’d say to a man playing bongos, ‘Excuse me, do you know why I woke up in a cannon?’ And instead of looking at you as if you had five noses, he’d tap his friends on their leathery shoulders and they’d all help you find out why you awoke in this cannon. And all together you’d find a guy sleeping in the sand who remembered that you were at the local freak show (the one that features an assortment of 2-headed animals) and that you volunteered to shoot yourself from the cannon after downing a magnum bottle of Opus One (bought for you by this Hollywood big shot at a bar down the street for $749 plus tax). And then you’d hear that the freak show owner stuffed you in the cannon but ran from the cops right afterward because he’s also the owner of the medical marijuana joint across the street that was getting raided. You know the one, next to American Apparel. And so you fell asleep in the canon until now when you just awoke to the aforementioned plus a dude frying up worms on a pocket kerosene grill, not because he’s homeless but because he’s a shaman and these particular worms are from Tibet and will help him with his Tantric sexcapades, about which you don’t want know– trust me.

    It’s a strange place, this Venice area. On the beach, it looks like a scene out of Rishikesh, India– free yoga, dirty dreadlocks, street sleepers, seedy taverns, and marijuana. Lots of marijuana.

    Four blocks over is where the hippies become pseudo. Here the marijuana is legit, the bars have bouncers, and the coffee shop baristas draw hearts in the latte foam. The dreadlocks on this side of Venice were professionally installed by a guy with thick plastic glasses and expensive skinny jeans. The yoga classes run upwards of twenty bucks.

    It’s strange, this paradox of lifestyles. But I love it. Because I’m neither nor. I’m not one but both. I am a daily contradiction. I like chocolate and bread pudding. I want it all. I’m every woman. It’s all in me. And there’s no point in choosing now. So, I’m gonna ride my 400-dollar bike down to the free yoga and meditate the day away with the drum circle. And then maybe wash it all down with a plate of foie gras in truffle oil. (Ok, I would never eat foie gras, but the vegetarian shit I would like doesn’t sound fancy enough to make this dichotomy sound so astounding. So just imagine something really awesome & pricey on a plate served by a super cool hipster with funky pants and Converse.)

    Venice is it.

    Macho men that spend sunny weekends choreographing dances on their roller skates. Where else?

  • Do they even make Bud Dry any more?

    Why can’t I ever spell license or exercise?

    Wasn’t dating easier in junior high when we called boys on 3-way and got our friends to talk to them about their feelings?

    Am I the only one who cringes in remembrance of ruined white shorts when I see the Japanese flag?

    Why do musicians think it’s cool to sample sirens in their music? I have pulled over twice lately due to sirens coming out of the radio.

    Why are the dishes always dirty even after I wash them?

    Why don’t more people just agree with me?

    What are babies thinking? Maybe they’re agreeing with me but can’t say so.

    Why is farting so taboo if everyone does it?

    Why ask why? Try Bud Dry.

    Why does that one sock never make it into the washing machine?

    Why is dyslexia so hard to spell?

    Why do our taste buds prefer croissants to carrots? Damn you, creator!

    Why do all men’s colognes remind me of frat parties?

    Why are there so many rules?

    Why is it sometimes so hard to do the right thing?

    Do aliens think that humans are like cars because they run on a weird brown liquid that they must ingest every morning?

    Why do we continue to ask each other how we are when the response is always ‘fine’?

    Why do we always respond ‘fine’ when people ask us how we are?

    Why can’t I resist butter?

    Why do I always have to pee right before the movie starts?

    Why do I feel obligated to give a tip to the guy who pours my wine into a glass?

    Why didn’t Benicio del Toro respond to the Craigslist ‘Missed Connection’ I posted about him?

    Why do people always seem to say ‘long story short’ after they’ve already told a long story?

    Why are polish and Polish almost the same word? I’ve been fooled at car washes before.

    Does Anonymous get mad when he sees his quote? And when he tries to claim it’s his, do people just laugh?

    Why do we argue so much about questions to which we’ll never have answers?

    When did we stop clapping upon plane landings? I guess we got over the amazement. I wonder how many other things we now take for granted.

    Why did we create this whole system of money and working? Bad idea.

    What was the original meeting like where the designers unveiled the UPS uniforms? Did the corporate guys like the brown at first or did they have to be coaxed into the brown?

    Why are you reading this? Go volunteer or something.

  • A decade is ten years. That’s a long time.

    It’s April 8th, 2010.
    I have one month left of my twenties.
    Holy.
    Mackerel.

    I’ve spent a lot of time hiding the fact that this day was coming. I omit the year whenever I can. I respond “I’m in my twenties” when people ask my age. Because, for most of my life, I’ve dreaded May 8th, 2010. I’ve dreaded the wrinkles, the chest freckles, and all the expectations that I failed to meet. But here I am, facing them all. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

    And, actually, I don’t really want to.
    Because the twenties…. well, the twenties were brutal. Incredibly fun and inappropriate, but difficult. They say the twenties are all about figuring yourself out. But they don’t usually say this until you’re turning thirty. Upon my twentieth birthday, I wish someone would have said, “You’re gonna try a bunch of shit in the next decade. And some of it you’re going to absolutely love. And some of it is going to make you feel either disgusted with yourself or sad or confused or just plain mad. But you have to go through this stuff so you can see what you’re all about. So do it. And don’t look back. But try to learn from every situation.”

    But nobody said a word about that. So I found myself waking up in random hot tubs and crying in showers and screaming all the way to work. And I didn’t understand what it all meant, so I just kept waking up in random hot tubs and crying in showers and screaming all the way to work. But I didn’t take the time to learn from all that stuff until I recently took the year off to mull it all over. Here’s what I could have learned:

    20 – I turned 20 in Spain. This was around the time that I drank too much street calimocho and threw up in my boyfriend’s mouth. No lesson learned then, but upon further review, I should have seen: I needed to control my alcohol. And that the guy who simply wiped his chin and took me home was a keeper.

    21 – I got kicked out of a strip joint on Sunset Blvd for being a belligerent eye-roller and taking off my top, even though I was simply a patron and did not possess any of the assets required of a stripper. Should have learned: To control my alcohol. And that I should cross off ‘stripping’ from the list of back-up plans (still have yet to do that).

    22 – Freaking out about my steadily climbing grad school debt, I finally stopped drinking to focus on getting a job. I focused a lot on that and only that. So it all went by in a flash. I only remember wearing slutty outfits and having a panic attack that showed itself in chronic foot itch. I was in South Beach! Should have learned to balance.

    23 & 24 – I lived in London, Sao Paulo, NYC, and SF. Should have noticed I was more interested in traveling than advertising. WHY didn’t I see that then!?

    25 – The chronic foot itch came back on the first day of my first job. All I could think about was the year’s lack of spring break. Should have realized that this job was a mere stone on the path to something bigger. Like most things are.

    26 – Moved in with a boyfriend after knowing him three months. Should have learned to NEVER move in with a boyfriend after knowing him three months.

    27 – I shot lots of commercials and actually enjoyed myself with clients. Never trusting myself, I cowered in the corner and became the girl who always said, ‘I don’t know. What do you think?” I should have realized I’m actually good at my job.

    28 – I slaved away for 16 hours a day doing more than I could handle. Should have learned how to say no. And that being married to a job (especially one that doesn’t really help many people) wasn’t how I wanted to live my life. Oh wait, I did learn that. So I…

    29 – …traveled alone and finally learned all these lessons all at once. But most importantly, I learned to listen to myself so that future lessons won’t take another round-the-world trip to sink in.

    In honor of these confusing yet exhilarating years, I will spend this last month of my twenties reliving them all. I plan to get totally wasted, travel, fall in love quickly, work feverishly, and perhaps take my clothes off in a strip club. And I will also go skydiving and make an eggplant parmigiana because I want to. Yes! This will undoubtedly be a great month. I will let you know if I make it to 30.

    The year was 2000. I wore my jeans up to my bellybutton. My haircut looked like a mushroom, and I drank tequila for sport. And then I wondered why I couldn’t meet a decent guy.

    Ok, yes I had mushroom hair, but do you see that six-pack? Hot damn. I still thought I was fat. Could have learned to love my body and use it to my advantage. Sigh.

    2008. Better hair. No more padded bras. No more tequila. Getting closer. Plus, I finally realized that relationships are the most important! That’s when I left everybody I knew to go traveling. I swear it makes sense kinda.

    This is the face of learning. Sometimes it takes a wooden pillow and a mosquito net to get the brain to make sense of stuff.

  • L v L

    Laurenne: See, Lawrence. Everyone was so supportive after that last post. So many even offered to help me find a job. Not only are the people I know pretty amazing, I am too. So there, bitch.

    Lawrence: Yeah, whatever. You’re so lazy. You couldn’t even get a blog post up about this for the whole week. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Lazy lazy lazy.

    Laurenne: I had 5 interviews this week! And I had to spend one day eating croissants.

    Lawrence: I can’t hear you.

    Laurenne: I read a quote from Quincy Jones today, Lawrence. It said, “Not one drop of my self-worth depends on your acceptance of me.”

    Lawrence: Um. I think he was talking about people in the music industry. Not his own ego.

    Laurenne: Well, I’m talking to my ego. And it’s not talking back. Not one more word about my cellulite. It only looks like that in the bathroom lighting.

    Lawrence: That’s what you say, but–

    Laurenne: Shut Up!

    Lawrence: You just–

    Laurenne: Ahem.

    Lawrence: You just bought three shirts from Miley Cyrus’s clothing line at WalMart.

    Laurenne: All right! You win again. I’m pathetic. But not for long, Lawrence. Not for long.

  • Talking to yourself out loud is better than talking to someone else in a cafe about Les Miserables.


    I’m sitting in a cafe right now among laptops and half-finished screenplays and an unemployed man who just said,“It’s a Republican system of laws that puts you in jail after 3 strikes. It means you could get life for stealing a piece of pizza. It’s as if the Republicans have never seen Les Miserables.”

    It’s awesome. I fit in. I’ve got my laptop and my intense grin that says, “I’m a writer. I’m writing right now.”

    It’s day two of amusing unemployment, and so far so good. Last week, the ad agency where I was working told me that I should start looking for other jobs, as they were feeling antsy and might want to try out other people. Then on Friday they told me to never come back. Via email. The job wasn’t permanent in the first place. And it’s not like I leaped out of bed each morning and ran there with glee. So this whole firing thing is really no big deal.

    But it hurt. I started thinking I wasn’t good enough.

    And I realized: Rejection is the pits. I knew it before. I mean, I’ve been rejected a gazillion times, the most memorable from:

    *Duke University.

    *Plenty of guys in high school (several of them calling me a lesbian).

    *Popular girls in elementary school. Once in 1st grade, these older girls (at least fifth graders!) befriended me on the playground and hung out with me for a whole week! I finally felt the joy of having sisters. And when they found out I wasn’t Nina Schrilla, the chick from a few houses down, they never talked to me again.

    *A recent date. We met in a bar and ran into my friend from high school. He went home with her.

    So, it’s not like I’m a stranger to rejection. I’ve thought a lot about this little demon and have boiled it down to a few hard facts. Not really. Just one: Our egos want everybody to think we are perfect in every way. And when I say ‘we,’ I’m speaking for ‘most people,’ and when I say ‘most people’ I mean me, Laurenne. Because how do I know what other people’s egos are saying?

    My ego, Lawrence, is an evil bastard, and he insists that everyone think I’m the funniest, most intelligent and most beautiful girl in the world. He also wants twenty-year-olds to think I’m their age, Benicio del Toro to think I’m marriage material, and people at make-up counters to step back when they see me and, instead of try to sell me something, say ‘Oh, you don’t need any of the stuff we sell here.’ So even when middle management at a job I don’t really love tells me they’d like to try other people, Lawrence gets pissed and convinces me that I’m no good, ugly, and fat. That’s just what egos do– cause unnecessary pain.

    For example, I just had a hard time spelling ‘unnecessary’ right there and Lawrence told me I must be stupid. Argh, Lawrence! Stop saying that. I’m smart. See… that’s how you kill an ego. You have to not listen to him, and he will eventually lose his voice forever. Start by saying the opposite of what he says. For example, Lawrence will say ‘Why am I a male ego? You’re really a man trapped in a woman’s body that’s not even that womanly because your cup size is A. You should be more feminine so that people don’t start a betting pool to see when you’ll go in for your gender reassignment surgery.’

    Then I should respond, “You know what, Lawrence? I am beautiful and feminine when I want to be. And I choose to never file my nails because I would rather spend my time downloading illegal episodes of 30 Rock. It’s a choice, and I’m sticking to it. And dog gone it, people like me.”

    Soon these comebacks will come more naturally, and Lawrence will die forever. Until then, I will occasionally doubt my sanity and my self-worth. But that’s okay. It’s what we humans do.