It's been great fun, and I hope I continue to learn a lot and eventually get much better. The one good thing about it is, unlike my stand-up, where I used to arrive 3 hours early to the venue to recite my act over and over and over, you literally cannot prepare for improv. You're funny and focused or you're not. My mom actually can't even watch "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" because she says she gets too nervous that they won't come up with something, when they're the LAST people who need to be worried about.

Anyway, so as part of perfecting the craft, we're required to see a few professional shows at the UCB theater throughout the course to see how it should be done, and a friend from class and I caught the late show tonight that included our teacher. It was very humbling and very funny, and totally worth the zero dollars it cost to get in with my student ID. Okay, that sounds backhanded. It seriously was awesome.

Anyway, so I'm walking out of the theater, and I see the teacher surrounded by audience members -- some regulars, someone I assumed was a girlfriend, other miscellaneous friends who caught the show. Let me just let you all into a little internal monologue as I was walking out.

*Oh, there's David! Should I say hi? Nah, he's probably busy with everyone congratulating him. But what if he saw me when the lights came up? Oh, and I said on Sunday I was coming to the show. I don't want him to think I'm some liar or a kiss-ass. Well, maybe a kiss-ass is okay, because when I was a teacher in Japan, I loved the kiss-asses. They tried the hardest! To gain my approval! Oh, he saw me.*

Dave: Hey!
Lauren: Hey, great show.
Dave: Thanks. It's Lauren and Aaron, right?
Lauren: That's us.
(He turns to his girlfriend.)
Dave: They're from the Thursday class.

*Thursday? Today's Thursday. Our class is Sunday. Should I correct him? WAIT, was it a joke? Improv people are always making jokes. Should I laugh? Too late to laugh now. Why didn't Aaron correct him? Is he wondering why *I* didn't correct him? God, this silence is excruciating. Think of something. COME ON.*

Dave: Yeah, the last class was great. Sunday.

*Is he correcting himself? Is this a joke too? AH, what to say? A humorous reference to class? To his show? To topical pop culture?*

Dave: (to girlfriend) So...where did you park?
Lauren: I guess I'm off. Great job again!

(Dave shakes hands with Aaron, and waves to me. I instinctively put my hand out, too, and he shakes it after a millisecond of hesitation.)

Lauren: Are girls supposed to shake hands? I don't know what we do. Salute?
(Awkward chuckle.)
Dave: I don't know.
(I salute him.)

And then I walked away feeling like that old Chris Farley sketch where he interviews cool people and acts dumb the whole time, and then ends up hitting himself in the head and saying, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" I want to stress that I have no reason to feel awkward. He is really funny, but I've been in the presence of funny before. I don't know what's wrong with me. I guess I was caught up in trying to be a humble audience member, improv comedian in training, student meeting teacher outside of class, don't try too hard to be jokey, but don't be boring either, and instead of juggling these things, I just kind of watched them splat around me.

As I was opening my car door, I did realize the upside to all this. I think I feel more comfortable on stage doing improv, than actually having a normal conversation with another human. That's something, right?

"Sex in the City tonight?"

I'm still holding onto my almost-rented DVD, and I kind of give him a weird look. I wonder if he's mistaking me for some regular. Well, some OTHER regular.

He must have noticed my raised eyebrow.
"Sorry, I'm just usually good at guessing people's movie tastes. Something with Meg Ryan?"

Now I'm feeling a little weird about what's in my hand. I shake my head again.
"I swear I have you pegged for a romantic comedy girl."

"Nope. Serial killer girl." I put Dexter (season two, disk two) on the counter. He looks disappointed and maybe a little afraid. He wishes me a great night a little too earnestly.

Come on. I don't really look like a romantic comedy girl, do I?

I was just asked by a fellow Starbucks patron if I minded watching over her stuff, and I cheerfully agreed before looking over to notice a table overflowing with textbooks, laptops, a pile of scary-looking documents, and a satchel that very likely contains uncut diamonds. So now instead of squinting over my computer, tabbing between job searches and lolcats (to keep my sanity), I have been enrolled as bodyguard to her life's work, and I have to keep looking up and giving the stink eye to every customer who enters. How long will this be? She muttered where she was going, which I foolishly assumed was "the bathroom," but she left through the only exit, and is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she said Mexico, and I made a verbally binding agreement to continue her important document research in the event of her death.

Seriously, what if *I* wanted to leave? I don't, but that's not the point. I deserve at LEAST a Starbucks lemon bar as payment.

Then when I got here, I had to ask the guy next to me if I could use his outlet, because this blasted laptop has the battery power of my Lemonade Passion Tea. This apparently obliged me to listen to his life story for half an hour, which actually was pretty interesting. He's an Indian American sitar player from San Fransisco and wanted to know what cool stuff was in the area. Then he was complaining because he came here to play with an international ensemble, and they're making him practice too much. But it is hard to apply for jobs and give tourism advice, so I eventually had to excuse myself.

Oh, and then, since this is LA, I saw a celebrity! Adam Arkin from NBC's "Life," watchable Mondays and Fridays! First season DVD now available! And their writing staff is very attractive.
Anyway, I saw him, and I smiled at him, and maybe someday he'll do me. That's how it works in Hollywood, right? I don't mind a silver fox.

Yeah, I guess getting out in public isn't so bad.

Jobs applied for this week: 15

Total follow-up letters sent: 12

Total jobs applied for: 35

Total responses received: 3

Self-confidence level: Been better

But: Still optimistic

First, if you're supposed to meet your friend at a Starbucks, park your car, and walk in confidently looking for her. If you don't see her right away, look for a table that has some stuff on it. Maybe she's in the bathroom! Ignore all the people at other tables "writing" and looking at you funny that you're surveying the Starbucks instead of buying a coffee and pretending to be important like they are.

Anyway, if you find a table with stuff on it, try to identify if your friend would own those things. Is she in town for the weekend? Yes? Then that's why there's an overnight bag with clothes in it. Has she been at the Starbucks for about an hour, just whiling away the time? Yes? Then it makes SENSE that there's a notebook on the table!

So just peer over and lift up the notebook cover to see if there's a name and -- OH, LOOK! There's a guy coming straight for you -- a high schooler, just leaving the bathroom, and his face clearly says, "Why are you all up in my business? I am not your friend Katherine."

And then Katherine calls and she's at another Starbucks entirely.

OR how about this?

You're at Panera Bread because your internet is still out at home, and you need the wifi. You're browsing the interwebs, but some people are having a business meeting at the other table, and the guy sounds really dumb. He's a writer, and he's blabbing about his book and his new pilot coming out on HBO, but you can't imagine that he's very interesting or creative, you can just tell. And he's making grown-up jokes and referring to the internet in a way that you just KNOW he barely knows how to turn on a computer. So when he says his URL, you smirk to yourself, "Oh, I've just GOT to see what this bozo has to offer." So you type it in.

AAAAAAnd, guess what? Of COURSE there's a splash page, complete with music blasting, and of COURSE he knows the music from his own damn website, and you fumble with the mouse, but you just want to close the TAB, since you've got all these job prospect websites open that you want to keep available, so to close this moron's page is really hard to do, and he's already staring at you and so is his wife, and GREAT, now you have to move. Move tables, but, yes, probably also Paneras, or possibly towns.

These are the stories of my life. I am a living parody.

I had a request for this one, so I put it up.
Find out what happens when Japanese people actually leave their desks and go to a party. In my honor. With alcohol!

My Goodbye Enkai!

Hi, I'm America Lauren. Not to be confused with Japan Lauren, confident foreigner, world traveler, and woman about town. And certainly not to be confused with Old Lauren, who did indeed live in the same place as America Lauren, but never left the house, had maybe 3 friends, and spent her 27th birthday drinking Jager alone while watching "Forensic Files." Well, America Lauren still watches Forensic Files, but only because she secretly wants to be a detective.

America Lauren has the same low self esteem as the previous two Laurens, and actually all Laurens through the ages, save for possibly 3rd Grade Lauren, who was so enamored of a certain 5th grade Dylan E., she got three of her friends to grab him, bind his arms, and perform a marriage ceremony on the steps of her elementary school building at recess. That was history's last known Self-Assured Lauren.

America Lauren was sad for about a month, leaving behind a group of people with whom she never thought it was possible to feel such a connection. This would have made for very boring and maudlin blog entries, so you can understand why they may have been omitted. No one wants to hear that crap.

She was, however, surrounded with a new group of friends, led by her BFF Melissa, who had not, in fact, forgotten she existed, and in fact, reminded her almost every day for a week how glad she was that Lauren was back. That was nice. I should have blogged about that. "Day 4 back in America. Melissa told me again how awesome I am!" No, I guess no one wants to hear that crap, either. That's for the personal super secret blog that's written on old-fashioned notebook paper.

America Lauren does not have a job. She applies for them almost every day. But this is part of life in this town, and it's not getting her down. Much.

America Lauren is eating healthy and working out. She goes out to see shows, and signed up for two classes to take up her free time (of which there is a lot). America Lauren plays Grand Theft Auto 4, and is really, really good at killing people.

America Lauren has finally broken that awkward seal (and even sufficiently detached herself by annoyingly referring to herself the entire time in the third person), and now we can get back to our regularly scheduled barrage of postings.

I won't have as much insight into the human condition of being an outsider living in a wacky land. I won't have daily updates on what my wacky Japanese co-worker tried to say to me at lunch. I won't have pages of pictures of strange Engrish or trips to temples.

But I'm still me, and the pact made to myself that I will stay the super awesome person I grew into over the past year will also benefit YOU, my dear loyal blog readers.

So yeah. America Lauren out.

Here's a lesson, kids. Don't play "Bet I Can Touch Your Paw Without You Slicing Me All To Hell" with my cat. He's really good.

Why did I keep challenging him to best 2 out of 3?

I was the only one laughing. (Hysterically.)

Tough crowd.

I need a job.

As a mother of three, I know very well that it's important to keep oneself busy on trans-pacific flights, even if you do look to be 28 years old, and clutching a children's Nintendo DS like it's the one thing keeping this plane afloat. But I find myself concerned at the obscenities you keep periodically shouting out at the game you seem to be playing, and I wonder how I should explain them to my children.

Not only are they crude, but many are nonsensical. "Shit balls" makes literal sense, I suppose, but I doubt you are realizing the full visual effect it leaves on some innocent bysitters who are, say, trying to actually sleep on this flight. "Fuck a shit" is not actually something you can do, as far as I'm aware, but I'd rather not let my imagination run too far with that one. "Bowser, you Cock Fest" seems a little more jubilant if you disregard the tone of your voice, but you say it with such anger, I actually feel a little sorry for this Bowser character. And between you and me, I imagine a Cock Fest to be something a heterosexual female should quite enjoy, but I'm not here to judge.

And what alarms me further is the frequency of these obscenities. It's almost as if you're losing the same level at the same place, every single time. I've even caught you turning to me, shrugging your shoulders, and gesturing to the game incredulously, as if you intend for me to fully understand your frustration and agree with your exclamation of "Balls!"
I do not.

Since you clearly cannot get past this level on a game that, I remind you, is marketed towards 10 year olds, might I suggest loading up an easier game -- perhaps "Take a Picture of Pikachu," the rip-roaring action/adventure where you wander through some tall grass, trying to take a picture of that lovable yellow scamp. If THAT is too difficult, why not use that camera you keep taking out and sighing at, as you scan backwards through the pictures, and actually TAKE a picture of Pikachu. You can use my daughter's stuffed one. Just give the game a rest, so I can get some.

Oh, and would you mind not putting your hand on the window and looking out longingly with tears in your eyes every 10 minutes? You're frightening my children.

Regards,
The Woman Sitting Next to You

I feel like a zombie. Partly from physical exhaustion, not having gotten an actual night's sleep in over 48 hours, but mostly from emotional exhaustion. Saying goodbye to my friends. Crying. Replaying having said goodbye over and over in my mind. Crying again. Crying on takeoff. Crying on touchdown. Crying when Justin picks me up and asks, "How was your trip?"

I take a nap while watching Planet Earth. I wake up groggy and way too late to hope to fix my sleep schedule to America Human Time. We drive to Blockbuster right before it closes (midnight) to pick up a free video game Justin has a coupon for. My choice. I don't even know what's out. I think about texting Kevin, who reads video game blogs like it's sustenance, but he's asleep. And, you know, 2,000 miles away.

I walk into the store. The twentysomethings behind the counter barely look up, and I catch myself staring at them, wondering why they didn't welcome me. Not necessarily with a loud "irashaimase," but, you know, SOMEthing. That's weird. It's stupid to think you've changed so much in just a year.

I pick up a game I remembered hearing about months ago. A man comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, miss?" and I jump, and think I've done something wrong. I'm definitely not used to strangers striking up conversations. Especially at midnight, especially in the Valley.

"Do you know what this movie's about?" He holds up "Angels in America." There's no plot synopsis on the back.
"Yeah, we did the play in college. It's really depressing. It's about AIDS, I think."
"Oh, I don't need depressing. I'm depressed enough. I mean, I'm not really depressed depressed. I just come here for entertainment, you know?"
I wonder if he's going to stab me. He wanders off.

We check out. I thank the lady behind the counter, and she looks at me funny, almost like she's just giving me a video, no big deal. Or maybe I'm misreading her. We walk to the car. I turn to Justin. "Wait, maybe I mixed up my plays. I wonder if that's the right one. All the plays I saw in college were about AIDS. Should I go back?"
"I think you'll be okay."

Then we drive home on the wrong side of the road.

From another time and place:

Japan Cats - No words.

From November 2007:

Dave's Samurai Festival - From the depths of Feudal Ireland

From December 2007:

Senior English - Teaching English to Grandmothers

From January 2008:

Nagano Ski Trip - Wicked Sweet

I'm gonna miss that bunch of rapscallions.