The Boys I Have Dated: Austin

Hey boys and girls! You know what time it is?

It's time for more embarrassing stories about men I have dated!

Yay!

This time chapter is entitled Austin.

If you're not up to date with all escapades that would make Carrie Bradshaw shed a tear for me, then you can catch up here: Pre-LA, L.A.- Year 1, L.A.- Year 2, and L.A.- Year 3 + 4. (This invitation excludes anyone who goes by the name of "Mom" or "Dad" and has the last name of "Modery". I'm super serious this times, guys, you really don't want to read these posts. This will cause awkward conversations for the next few weeks otherwise. Turn away now!!! DO IT!!!).

#13. You were the first guy I went out with in Austin after fleeing Los Angeles. "Going out" is a nice way of putting it. More like invited me to your house for a kegger, then a few nights later to coffee where you made me pay for everything. That's like ten red flags rolled into one. You were a good-looking guy with a nice body, but acted a little awkward and clueless. It's funny how in the beginning one perceives awkward and clueless as everything else but exactly what it is. You invited me to your house where you bitterly lived with your sister and put the your awkward and clueless moves on me. One of those, "oops, my hand fell next to your body...oops, now my hand is on top of your body...oops, now I'm moving my hand in an upward/downward motion...oops, I'm just going to finish this." This is the only thing I will say nice about you- you're good in the sack. Everything else about you makes my skin crawl. Including the last thing you asked me before you said you didn't want to see me anymore, "Can I still use your employee discount at work?" We pretend to be friends, but you know that I'm convinced you ate paint chips as a child and you keep your distance from me.

#14. You were 19. That's all I have to say about you.

#15. You were 35 and you should have known better! You weirded me out because you'd hang out at the local coffee shop and do your best Zoolander impression as girls walked by. You quite possibly spend more time doing your hair in the morning than everyone in Austin combined. You wear the official Austin rocker outfit of a white v-neck, black jeans, cowboy boots, and Raybans and I'm convinced you're anorexic. You pursued me (and probably twenty others) for months before you broke-up with your girlfriend who you supposibly love so much (this I found out later). I guess your persistance finally broke me down and I agreed to go on a date with you. Like clockwork, you put the moves on me and when I didn't instantaneously jump in the sack with you, you dumped me like a hot potato. There was something about you I liked though. You made me feel good. You knew how to treat a lady...man, am I fucking idiot.

#16. You were #15's friend and quite possibly bi-polar. Though I live by the mantra of having no regrets, you are the one person that I would be more than happy never having wasted twenty hours of my life with. You were an actor....from Los Angeles. I move to fucking Texas and I go out with the actor from Los Angeles. Reading that sentence makes me want to beat my own ass. I guess you were good looking. At least you thought you were good-looking. You liked to remind me how handsome, caring, generous, and well hung you were. Almost like you were trying to convince yourself. I fooled around with you one night and you acted like I wasn't even there. The next morning you sent me a text saying, "I enjoyed the immensely- pun intended". If you were making a comment about your big penis again, I swear to God, you should be punched in the face. I finally (FINALLY!!! HALLELUJAH!!! PRAISE THE LORD!!!), had gotten to the point where disrespect and bad behavior didn't turn me on, so I told you to get lost... and you went ape shit. You called me screaming, telling me I had a huge ego, that I was insane, and that you hated me. Then you asked me to come over. Then you would laugh manically. Then you would call me a Jew. P.S. You finally stopped harrassing me and I hope you go back to L.A. soon where you belong, you fucking crazy person.

#17. ...

What have I learned about my time dating in Austin? That assholes are getting old...and I'm growing up.

Welcome, You Hipstercrite

GOODBYE PLASTICLA...HELLO HIPSTERCRITE!

A new blog about a former L.A. hipster living in Austin, TX.

*Footnote-

(Considering I have no plans in the near future to move back to Los Angeles, I've decided to change my blog name from PlasticLA (a not so subtle hint to my feelings towards Los Angeles) to HIPSTERCRITE (an equally unimpressive, forced blog name).

PlasticLA has been my blog for exactly three years now and she's gone through many incarnations- all directionless. She first started as a young assistant's commentary on the film industry and the city of Los Angeles itself. 

It was boring.

See for example, "Trades Today on This Beautiful Thursday Morning"

...Really?

When the realities of her subject matter began to stifle her creativity, she abandoned, no I, me, (no more third person), I, abandoned the blog for a good year or so (I don't want to admit it, but wouldn't want to deny it's role in the matter- I was nursing a child-like broken heart and a drinking problem as well. Mm hmm.)

It wasn't until a 6 week gig in Chicago that ultimately led to me leaving my career, that I felt the surge of creative juices flooding back. I filled books and books of my writing. I wrote poems (yucky), I wrote songs, I wrote poems about writing songs, I drew pictures, I spilled food on the notebooks and doodled around the stains, I made friends with Robert Blake (that's a whole 'nother story). I started PlasticLA back up. I felt good. I felt alive for the first time since I moved to Los Angeles...so I got the fuck out of town.

It was supposed to be a temporary thing. I sublet my apartment back in L.A. and I was just going to tool around the country a bit. I ended up in Austin, and well, to quote my favorite Talking Heads' song, "I guess that this must be the place", because here I am, with no intention on leaving for awhile. Through this whole transition, the theme of my blog shifted focus. I decided the blog would serve a better purpose as a place where I could discuss what I discuss best- the trivial grievances and hipster interests of being a nonplussed, over-privileged twenty-something film school dropout/wannabe-writer, living in the city.

Maybe one day we'll be partners again, PlasticLA, but in the meantime I'm going to keep writing about my 20's- you already have enough young, disillusioned Angelenos writing about your wonderful plasticity.)

On with the non-prescription glasses and fake mustaches!

In Honor of my Mother (a brutally embarrassing coming-of-age story)

My mother wanted to keep me in an arrested state of development. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's that most parents don't want to see their little babies grow up. Or maybe they don't want us to become familiar with our burgeoning sexuality and have us shame the family by getting knocked up at 15. Maybe they're just prude. Or asexual. Which might both be the case with my mother (Yo Mom, if you're reading this, STOP RIGHT NOW!)

At 13 when most girls had freshly shaved appendages and a new found interest in what Victoria's Secret had to offer, I was still tomboyin' it with furry legs and a sports bra that may or may not have stunted my breast growth. Mom told me there was no reason to grow up so quickly and like so many stupid stupid children, I believed what my mother told me.

Take for example her neglecting to introduce me to tampons.

For years, when I got my period, I'd walk around with a bulky pad between my legs. The official adult diaper (no, well, I guess that would be Depends, wouldn't it?). I even wore those puppies in the pool! Those guys soaked up water like a sponge. I'd rise out of the pool with a water-laden bulge in my neon blue dolphin-covered one piece suit.

I'm pretty sure I looked like I had a penis.

I was oblivious at the time but now I can only imagine kids' faces as I climbed out of the pool magically sprouting a dick. I'm surprised rumors didn't spread around school.

"Did you see Lauren at the pool the other day? I think she may have a bigger penis than you, Steve."

The awkwardness of the lead weight cradled in the crotch of my bathing suit forced me to run like a monkey across the pool deck as I scrambled to sheild myself in a towel.

Fast-forward to two years later. I'm working at my first job in an Italian restaurant. My period surprise ambushes and I must have forgotten to put those hateful little pads in my purse that evening. They're not the easiest thing to carry around in your purse, you know? Do you know how embarrassing it is at 15 years old to have a gigantic maxi pad plop onto your feet when you reach for your wallet? DO YOU???

I was stranded! I knew normal people didn't use maxi pads so I was terrified to ask around.

I scavenged the restaurant for a co-worker whom I knew would understand my situation.
There weren't any. I worked with a bunch of sassy young women who read Seventeen- the official magazine of tampons.
I was screwed. I was at that point where I was going to have to get creative with whatever was lying around the restaurant. Luckily, Rachel walked in as I was about to stick wax paper in my underwear.

Rachel was cool. Her and I got each other. She didn't give me a perpetual "duh" look while smacking her gum like the others.

"Oh my God, Rachel! I just got my period. Do you have anything? You know like a tampon or maybe a maxi pad."

"Only a tampon bigger than my boyfriend's penis." (Amendment- Rachel says that this is not exactly how the exchange went down, but I'm going to leave it. This is how I remember it. I'm sorry, Rachel.)

"Oh."

Exactly what I wanted to hear.

My mind flashed to later in the evening, a customer commenting on the "spaghetti sauce" on the crotch of my pants and realized I had no choice. It was either the super jumbo tampon or a taking the chance on a bunch of wadded up toilet paper in my underwear for the rest of the evening (and we all know how that will end).

I took the crude object from her hand and locked myself in the bathroom.

I carefully peeled back the paper like a popsicle stick.

What the hell is this!?

Ok, there is an outer container, then something inside it. Do I shove the whole thing in my crotch, or just the smaller piece inside? But it's made of cardboard!!! I don't think that I should put that in my body. I guess it's just the fiber glass feeling piece I have to put in there.

I pulled the tampon from the cardboard and put it in between my legs like a plug.

Surely this thing can't go ALL the way inside!

So, I work for the rest of the evening with a tampon bigger than someone's boyfriend's dick sticking half-way out of my vagina. It hurt like a son of a bitch. I was walking around like someone stuck a stick up my ass.

Or vagina.

I had the look of dog shitting as people gave me their orders. The pain was unbearable, but it was mine and mine alone. I couldn't tell anyone my predicament.

As I walked in to the house later that evening to pull the shrapnel from my battered cootch, my mother stopped me in my tracks.

"Are you ok? What's wrong?"

"Ma, I had to use a tampon tonight and I don't think I did it right."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I only stuck it in only half-way. It hurts!"

She could barely contain her laughter.

How.

Dare.

She!?!?!?

I was in this awful predicament because of her!

This was all her fault!!!

I stormed off into the bathroom where I pried the evil, spiteful object from my body all the while having to listen to my mother call all her friends, shrieking, "You'll never guess what my daughter just did!" I dug out the trusty ol' chastity belt of a maxi pad and slapped it into my underwear.

Ooohhhh, that feels so much better.

That night, as I forced myself to lie on my side so I wouldn't period all over my bed, I thought about the tampon.

If I used it right, my life would be so much easier. I wouldn't have to worry about rolling over in my sleep. Better yet, I could swim without worrying about the pad floating up to the surface of the pool!

The next day, I took my tip money from the night before and bought myself "tampon lites" at the supermarket. Now knowing that I had to push the tampon ALL THE UP, I pushed it as far is it could go.

Wow, it doesn't hurt!
It disappears!

I felt liberated! I could walk and swim and sleep freely now! No more worrying about magic penises and "spaghetti sauce" on my pants. I WAS FREEEEEEE!

I walked into the house strong and confident. This was the beginning of a new Lauren. Little did I know I had a long way to go.

It would take me another three years to learn about trimming the little caterpillars above my eyes and the beast that once partied with my maxi pads down below.

Looking back, I can't be angry at my mother for not explaining these things to me. Did I endure ridicule and embarrassment because of it? Sometimes. Did it make me want to rip out my ovaries and bury them in the dirt? Maybe. But I did learn something priceless from it. A very valuable lesson that I will carry down to my children. Forget drugs and sex, talk to your daughters about the positive attributes of tampons. It will save them a lot of pain and heartache (and therapy).

Love you, Mom!

Ok, You Won Me Over, SXSW! (All Because of SWEETHEARTS OF THE PRISON RODEO)

Despite running into the guy I dig wth his no longer ex-girlfriend, I managed to have a good night tonight. I actually enjoyed you, SXSW! Did you hear that? My one and only film I will see at the festival was SWEETHEARTS OF THE PRISON RODEO...and I'm ok with that because this movie is amazing. I'm lucky enough now to be working for the team that was a part of the making of this movie.

It's the sort of film that makes you want to go out and change the world after viewing it. In short, the film is the true story of the women who participate in the Oklahoma Prison Rodeo. We follow four women as they tell us their stories and their hopes, fears, aspirations, and dedication to the rodeo. As we learn, the rodeo is solace for these women. It gives them something to look forward to and will be the only time they see outside the prison walls. This film gives a face to the countless women behind bars (sadly, most of the women are serving long terms for drug related charges). The ones we forget about, the ones we don't care about, the ones we feel deserve to be there. This is a story about the human spirit and how everyone deserves to have it pumped with life. I write terrible reviews. Just go see the movie if you can.

After work, I headed over to South Congress where American Apparel held a secret show up on the roof. The L.A. bands, War Tapes and Jesus Makes a Shotgun Sound, performed. Both were decent though I have to say the latter's band name sucks ass. War Tapes was good, but nothing new. They had a nice L.A. sound a la The Bravery or The National. Jesus Makes a Shotgun Sound looked like Arcade Fire. Their music, not so much. They were an experimental band that had way too many band members with unwashed hair.

My camera was dead. I took swigs from countless strangers' whiskey hidden in their backbacks, and ate cold pizza on the roof of someone's car. The night was warm, my heart was sinking, and I was with people I can call my friends.

Ok, I Feel a Little Bit Better About You Today, SXSW

...but only a little!

It's because the weekend is here and I'll feel like a giant loser if I don't at least participate in one event. I'm on the guest list for the Perez Hilton party which is being held in an old Safeway off the freeway. 

An old grocery store off the highway.

Another thing I love about Austin. A line of limos waiting out in front of an abandoned grocery story that is attached to a Riteaid frequented by people who sit in the parking lot with their silvery-rimmed Cadillacs. 

But SXSW, there is nothing that really makes me want to venture out into your parking lot traffic and parade of boys and girls that look like a.) residences of Williamsburg b.) American Apparel employees (so much irony in this sentence) c.) fans of 60's counter-culture (way too many couples wandering around looking like Peter Sellers and Britt Eckland circa 1966). The only shows that seem remotely interesting (pretty much Devo), I can't get into. Who gives a crap that Metallica, Indigo Girls, Third Eye Blind, Fastball, Jane's Addiction, and Echo and the Bunnymen are all playing (what are we, 38 years old?). Yoah, wait a minute. I threw Echo and the Bunnymen in there but they are actually kind of cool. 

Your movie schedule looks pretty bad ass though. A lot of interesting documentaries like SWEETHEARTS OF THE PRISON RODEO and OBJECTIFIED. I even have tickets to get into any SXSW screening and they're still sitting in my car.

Man, I bet that I'm going to regret all my nay-saying once this festival is done...

Fuck You SXSW!

It just took me an hour and fifteen minutes to get somewhere that should have taken me twenty minutes. At least I got my vegan mint chocolate cupcake on the trip (which makes me sound vegan, but I'm most absolutely not. I'm not even vegetarian). This traffic is worse than L.A.! At least in L.A. you know you have no choice, so you very early on give in to the fact that you will be in your car anywhere from 30-90 minutes at any given time. However, in Austin, one knows it shouldn't be this way and it's frustrating to be stuck on a three lane highway for over an hour with a bunch of minivans with McCain/Palin bumper stickers.

I was forced to watch your pony show of hipsters along the way as well, SXSW. Thanks. Like I don't see enough of them on a daily basis. Then you bring all the others from around the country out. If I see some greasy haired, Wayfarer sporting, skinny jean wearing asshole one more time, I might throw up my vegan mint chocolate cupcake on them (the fact that I keep mentioning a fucking vegan mint chocolate cupcake makes me a hipster by default).

And now some douches are performing next door with their fucking Moog and I'm just about to go over there and ram their Vocoder down their throats.

South by Southwest: Or How I Learned to Hate it Before it Even Started

We are submerged, under attack. The city of Austin is pushing through Day 1 of the South by Southwest Festival.

Typically having been interested in attending the festival in years past, I immediately mentally disengaged the second I began reading the official and non-official schedules a few weeks ago. Then seeing the armies of Angelenos and New Yorkers trudging the streets with their badges in strategic placement around their chests, I decided it was best if I stayed home and sat in my underwear watching reruns of shows I've seen at least 8-10 in the past. My own little private SXSW.

What has happened to me? Instead of going to the countless parties I got invited to last night, I stayed home and died my hair (a hazy dark blonde bordering on swamp green that I'm not so sure about). Have I become that jaded? Had I already gotten my fill of industry parties and festivals a few years ago when I was a personal assistant in Hollywood?

So far I've managed to stay away from all the hubbub. I work on the east side, and though this area will have it's fair share of parties, so far there is no sign of any agonizing traffic caused by road blocks and clueless teen drivers from Dallas or Houston...

Fuck...Just as I write this, a band has begun playing in the loft space next door to us. The walls are insulated by ceiling tile and nothing else, so needless to say, it sounds like the band is sitting in my lap. I guess I can't escape it. The insanity begins...

54 Flavors of Choice Fatigue

(This is a recycled story because I've been dried up, burnt out, and with head in the sky)

Standing before me, amongst the big sky backdrop of Suburbia, Texas, stood Super Wal-Mart and Super Target.

I needed toothpaste and undereye concealer (a necessity ever since 7th grade when a classmate told the school I was a cocaine addict), so I decided on the lesser of the two evils and pulled into the stadium size parking lot of Super Target*.

Super Target boasts a grocery store AND retail store. Anything you could possibly want can be found there. You can furnish your entire house, fill up your refrigerator, flare up your closet, and entertain yourself with a plethora of options at Super Target. Want California grown avocados? Super Target's got 'em! Want visually displeasing bedding from a sell-out designer? Look no further! Need your fix of forced sardonic dialogue and excessive pop culture references? Get the entire series of "Gilmore Girls" on DVD...at Super Target!

It's easy to get side tracked at Super Target. I found myself wandering into the produce section, picking up fixings for a salad, then subsequently veering into the condiment aisle. I stood, staring at an entire wall of salad dressings. Now, I have difficultly choosing a salad dressing to begin with. At one point two years ago, I had 13 salad dressings in my refrigerator to represent my indecisiveness with life. I scanned from top to bottom to see what Kraft in particular had to offer me. Kraft had to offer over 50 different types of salad dressing there at Super Target that day. 54 types to be exact. I counted out every single one, loudly.

For example, this is what one had to chose from if one liked Italian dressing:

Zesty Italian
Tuscan House Italian
Creamy Italian
Golden Italian
Caesar Italian
Italian Vinaigrette
Free Caesar Italian
Free Zesty Italian
Light Done Right Italian
Carb Well Light Italian
Carb Well Italian
House Italian Reduced Fat
Light Done Right House Italian
Reduced Fat Light Done Right Zesty Italian
Reduced Fat Roasted Red Pepper Italian with Parmesan
Special Collection Caesar Italian with Oregano
Special Collection Classic Italian Vinaigrette
Special Collection Italian Pesto
Special Collection Parmesan Italian with Basil
Three Cheese Italian

The phrase "choice fatigue" came to mind. "Choice fatigue" or "choice overload" is the theory that too many choices leads to unhappiness and paralysis in decision making. Well, I think I had just proved that idea correct. I stood there in the salad dressings for 20 minutes. I bounced from intrigue to confusion to pissiness. I left the salad dressings completely empty-handed, exhausted, and angry.

When I discovered the theory of "choice fatigue" earlier that year, it was as if a light had been turned on. Being a frustrated, nonplussed twenty-something, this explained a lot of things. Everyone nowadays is faced with countless options in their daily life, but Generation Y was born into it. In the beginning of 2008, I quit my career. I wasn't happy and I didn't know why. I purposely cleared my slate and decided to start from the scratch. I then spent the following months confused and immobile. I could go in any direction. The possibilities were infinite. The infiniteness terrified me. I could go back to school. I could move anywhere in the world. I could try to climb the corporate ladder. I could not shave my legs and paint fucking leprechauns all day (not fucking leprechauns but fucking leprechauns).

We're told we can do EVERYTHING, and by God, I was afraid to do anything. Normally a girl who always knew what she wanted, I felt like I was drowning in the sea of option.I thought long and hard on why I felt such paralysis.Why does choice make life more difficult? Nothing is permanent, yet why do we lay such burden on our decisions? Is it because our lives are temporary and making the wrong choice could set us back precious time? Or have we just gotten too exhausted (or too lazy) to contemplate multiple thoughts nowadays? I realized that for me, is was the former. Then it hit me. I'm losing more valuable time by being afraid. Yes, we're pelted by the assault rifle of options on a daily basis, but we can't let it stop us from living our lives .I made a u-turn with my shopping cart and headed back to the salad dressings. I picked out two salad dressings that day and it felt good. That evening I had the most delicious salad I had ever tasted. A salad made with the freedom I had found in making a choice. Any choice. I've tried to live according to that principle every day since.

Now only if the asshole at Kraft who approved 54 salad dressings could limit his.

*My current financial situation and lack of knowledge of the area is currently preventing me from shopping at the independent Mom & Pop shops I'd rather be spending my money in.