I bet you're beginning to wonder...

…how Lauren survives on the weekends sans internet access. Well, I’ll tell you…I don’t really. A typical weekend involves, in no particular order:

“What kind of talk is that? It’s un-American. Did George W. Bush quit even after losing the popular vote? No. Did he quit after losing millions of dollars of his father’s friends money in failed oil companies? No. De he quit after knocking that girl up? No. Did he quit after he got that DUI? No. Did he quit after getting arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct at a football game? No. Did he quit…”

Lots and lots of Family Guy.


Stupidly and spontaneously playing in the rain, all by my lonesome. Oh yeah, and smoking while doing it. Ha! Hear that Dr. Pinkstaff? Although, admittedly, it wasn’t the smartest idea, considering the rain picked up midway through my walk, when I was the farthest from home, without a coat or umbrella, and coming down with a cold. (Intelligence factor: ZERO)


Three hours wasted attempting my personal statement, to little avail. Though I did master writing my name in Katakana. Rock on!


And…more cemeteries. Honestly, how is a weekend complete without at least one trip to visit the dead? I don’t know, there’s just something oddly attractive and simultaneously disturbing about Japanese graveyards…I have a slight (aka full-blown) obsession. More pics of my sordid necropolis adventures on Buzznet. You know you’re tempted.


Dostoyevsky.

Finally, trying to sort out my top three Zeppelin songs. I think I’ve narrowed them down to:
1) D’Yer Mak’er
2) What is and What Should Never Be
3) A Foggy Day in Vietnam
Not their most popular, but my favorites nonetheless. If I had to add a fourth, it’d be Houses of the Holy just to appease Prof. Clark, or, maybe The Ocean, just for Willie Ho.

Oh, and somewhere in there I found a new song of the moment.

My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist
In pre-war Paris
Smuggling bombs for the underground.
And she met my father
At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.
He was disguised as a Russian cadet in the employ of the Axis.
And there in the half-light
Of the provincial midnight
To a lone concertina
They drank in cantinas
And toasted to Edith Piaf
And the fall of the Reich.

My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy
And left for the cattle
But later was found by a communist
Who'd deserted his ranks
To follow his dream
To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.
I get letters sometimes.
They bought a plantation
She weeds the tobacco
He offends the nation
And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear."
"Sincerely, your sister."

So my parents had me
To the disgust of the prostitutes
On a bed in a brothel.
Surprisingly raised with tender care
'Til the money got tight
And they bet me away
To a blind brigadier in a game
Of high stakes canasta.
But he made me a sailor
On his brigadier ship fleet.
I know every yardarm
From main mast to jib sheet.
But sometimes I long to be landlocked
And to work in a bakery.
--The Decemberists

So there you have it…you’ve been enlightened.