Wine-o? Blogger? Same thing, neither look good on a resume.

Dearest readers, I am drunk on really expensive wine, so I am going to tell you all of my woes. Granted, I write the same while drunk as I do sober, which, I suppose, is a talent.

Here’s the thing, I have so many blog posts in the works right now, but I’m having issues.

What issues, Lauren?

Thanks for asking, dear reader, I am thinking of changing my name to something a little more gender neutral, you see. So I need ideas, because I am not a very good chooser-of-names (which is the technical term, possibly Latin). Send me your name ideas, please!

As I have just caught this, I apologize for the two sentence paragraphs that this post will be made up of. Remember, drunk disclaimer.

While I, or should I say we, pick a name, the new layout, and official website name, is on hold. I know, it’s hard for me too. Upon login I make a very disturbed face, something similar to Lil Wayne drunk .

Stellar, I know.

What else is on the docket? Well, I don’t know if you follow missed connections or not (if you don’t, leave this blog, straighto… p’cha), but I have recently come across my favourite person, quite possibly ever, going off on a very eloquent rant about Faggity Ass Fridays. If you have yet to read this, you can check it out here. Whomever you are, you had better just confess to being, um, awesome, now. I am putting out a reward of three scandalous photos of myself and daily icanhascheezburger highlights for a week to whomever can give me names and locations. Send out the dogs. And by “dogs”, I mean gays.

What else can I update you on? What else can top that picture of Lil Wayne? Liz fucking Feldman. While her middle name is not fucking, at least not as far as I know, it should be. Why? Because I’d get with that. Also, she’s hilarious, dear reader, and you must check her out. Most recently, she’s been working on The Jay Leno Show to come up with gems like this:

Who doesn’t want a Twittering grandmother? I certainly want one, all of my family drama on Twitter? Follow that.

I feel like I’ve exhausted myself at this point, but “keep it locked” for upcoming music posts, and lesbian lolcats. Oh, you just wait.

Have I had any hot chick pictures yet? No? Here you go:

Oh, Im cheeky while drunk.

Oh, I'm cheeky while drunk.

One Trick Ponies

Well, this is flattering.

Well, this is flattering.

That was the name of our band, until we realized someone was doing bad covers better than us under a different name, so it’s been canned. But, fear not listeners (and users of earplugs, strategically placed pillows, and the timely consumption of too much alcohol) because we are back-ish. Renee and I decided together that we should be a band many a Monday ago, during some female vocalist night at Grumpy’s (the name of which eludes me). I, however, decided we should be in a band together after Renee passed out on night on stage at the Pound, after singing far too much Amy Winehouse and drinking far too much vodka cran (far too much for Renee amounting to approximately three “big boy” sips). After prying the microphone from her surprisingly strong grip, lifting her off the floor, and, since I’m so smart, bringing her back to the bar, I knew she was the one… music-wise, that is.

When did Renee know that she wanted to be in a band with me? Well, I’m not her, obviously, but if she were here, I’m sure she would say the first time she saw how stunning I look in person…

Anyways. Our band kind-of, sort-of got off the ground, but it’s not exactly in the air. Band practice (formerly known as) One Trick Ponies style is practice for ponies who have yet to learn any tricks, really. Essentially we just get drunk, chain smoke (I wish I took pictures of my ashtray, seriously), and talk about everything except for music. Renee and I had “band practice” last night after Jesse and Brian left; we realized my guitar was a hopeless case, my tuner is broken, my ear is not as good as it used to be, and there was much to talk about. In our defense, there were two sing-alongs.

Bands are so frustrating. Don’t do it.

Post-Party Monster depression

I’m a terrible movie watcher. Not so much because I can’t sit through one (although that is generally the case), but more so because I just never get around to watching them. Well, Monster Ball got me in the mood to watch Party Monster… what a gong show. Renee and I sat for a good hour and a half in Jesse’s bed, and I mean, it started off great. Parties, illicit substances, dress up; fantastic. Death, falling-outs, webs of lies? Not so much.

I left that movie quite depressed, and I don’t even do drugs, so it’s not like I was emotionally invested in any of the characters. I do, however, enjoy the odd dress up party. Odd in the sense of once in a while, as well as odd in the sense of extremely obscure. Not Eagle vs Shark. Before reaching the end, all I wanted to do was go to a big party; I even played Ladytron on loop for two days. That, friends, is commitment to a lifestyle that I don’t even lead. 

Speaking of parties, last night I ended up at 737. If you live in Montreal, it’s on the top floor of that building with the circling light. If you don’t live in Montreal, the club is right underneath a big light which scans the skies all night, just to clear that one up. Anyways, it was quite the night. Jesse’s friend’s sister’s birthday party… I think. 

The club was cheesy, really cheesy. It was bump and grind central, people did the Soulja Boy dance, and I got rip-roaringly drunk; as someone in my situation must. The situation in question has yet to really be discussed, that post may take me a couple of days to build up… the lesser situation is the fact that I was in a club that was packed with girls in polyester dresses that barely touch their thighs, and “men” with collared shirts underneath some brand-plastered t-shirt. i haven’t had my hand (et all) grabbed by so many men before in my entire life. The moral of the story is don’t go to 737, and don’t watch Party Monster before you plan on going to a rave. 

Life lessons, clearly this will help all of you in the future.

Party logic

Did I ever tell you I could read thoughts?

Did I ever tell you I could read thoughts?

With four-day weekends come four-day benders. And I have recently become a testament to that fact. Yes, my hiatus has had nothing to do with my sex life, rather, it has to do with the fact that I have some crazy friends, some crazy get-togethers, and some crazy-high alcohol tolerance. This past weekend (and when I say weekend, I mean Wednesday evening through to Sunday night), I partied to my heart’s content. Conversely, I also partied to my liver’s discontent

    Between the underground clubs, the bar hopping, and piling all my friends into my apartment, I can say that I know what makes a good party. If no one has passed out or thrown up, by the end of the night, you probably didn’t have enough booze to go around. Either that or I haven’t challenged the newcomer to drink-for-drink. The latter is actually quite probable, and thus I won’t leave it out. At each of this weekend’s adventures, someone seemed to be passing out. And that someone always seemed to be Renee.

    Renee is Jesse’s little sister, granted she’s still older than I am, she’s kind of the group baby, she has recently been brought into our little group. And no, I didn’t play drink-for-drink with her, come on, guys. We were at The Pound on Friday, and Renee, after singing an incredible (and incredibly long) set, passed out on the stage; mic in hand, empty glasses all around her. It was pretty epic.

    On Saturday, I hosted what was supposed to a champagne and Breakfast at Tiffany’s party. We watched 20 or so minutes of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, drank many a bottle of champagne, downed bottles of wine, and a 1.4 L bottle of vodka, and everyone else seemed to be doing recreational drugs. I, as the group prude (I know, right? I don’t know where I find these people either), did not participate, rather I ended up going for a nap, only to have Xan to forget to wake me. In all fairness, I’d been running off four hours of sleep from the previous night’s/morning’s party. Xan and Jesse did eventually wake me, however, to announce that they were going and that Renee had puked all over my couch. It was awesome. I, still half a sleep, wandered into my living room, to find my couch covered in baking soda paste, Renee teetering around, and just general disarray. I repeat, it was awesome.

    The morning after, or afternoon rather, as I was awoken by Xan’s frantic phone call at 1:30 p.m., involved much cleaning, eating, and many phone calls. It seems everyone was up in arms over my couch, while I was only up in arms over my bathroom. You know that girl from The Exorcist? Imagine if she were a wine-o. Yeah.

    Anyways, everyone was calling, feeling bad about certain goings-on, and what I don’t understand is why they were so worried. Yes, my couch covers will be out of order until I get them dry cleaned (for free, none the less), but other than that it was a good night. People are far too preoccupied by the negative. So many things happened that night which  were positive. She puked, so what? As previously stated, if no one pukes or passes out, I consider the party to be an epic fail. And I was just glad it was Renee, or else I would have had to take one for the team, or something. And that would just be embarrassing. 

    On the bright side, I like having friends that I can take a nap around at a party, without being worried about waking up with poorly drawn peni(?) on all my visible skin

[ First posted: 24/11/08 ]

    Life is good.