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About Total Laura Awareness

Total Laura Awareness

The Laura Frequency

The artist known as Total Laura Awareness, real name Greg Bunkman, operates out of a cramped home studio in a humidity-logged basement in Fort Lauderdale. He genuinely believes that the name Laura oscillates at a specific frequency that mainstream science, Big Pharma, and the producers of The Bachelor have been conspiring to suppress since roughly 1993. His entire creative philosophy hinges on one unshakeable tenet: every single woman named Laura—from the Laura who processes his tax returns at the H&R Block on Commercial Boulevard to the Laura who was unfairly eliminated during the Rock of Love season two reunion special—is a cosmic protagonist who has been narratively robbed.

His rig is a chaotic testament to single-minded obsession: a pawn-shop Squier Stratocaster covered in peeling stickers of Laura Palmer, Laura Dern, and, inexplicably, a heavily pixelated screenshot of Carole Baskin (whose real middle name is rumored to be Laura, a fact he will scream at strangers at bus stops). The room smells faintly of burnt dust from his space heater and the desiccated remains of a CVS receipt where he attempted to map out a family tree connecting Laura Ingalls Wilder to the secret daughter of Laura Prepon's character in That '70s Show. His recording technique involves layering jangly Weezer-adjacent pop-rock riffs with spoken-word breakdowns where he deciphers cryptic tweets from former Vanderpump Rules cast members.

The Dark Side of the Name

Greg isn't just spreading love; he firmly believes he is preparing the Lauras for a looming existential threat that he refers to as 'The Great Vowel Shift 2,' a dystopian event prophesied during the secret texts of the Laguna Beach season two finale subtitle track. His songs serve as survival guides, often transitioning from sugary, power-pop hooks into screeching, distorted conspiracy laden rock tangents. A typical track structure might dissect how Lala Kent's beauty line is a psy-op to distract from missing airliner transponders, before snapping back into a catchy chorus about how the specific Laura at the drive-thru window deserves a better 401k plan.

He is currently prepping for what he calls the 'Laura-Densification Era,' an intense period of creative output where he plans to write approximately 400 songs about Lauras he has yet to meet. His pre-release marketing consists of printing unsolicited, criminally unhinged manifestos on the back of expired Wendy's coupons and leaving them under the windshield wipers of any car he sees with a 'Baby on Board' sticker, assuming the baby is a future Laura in need of early indoctrination into his protective aural umbrella.

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Catalog: NM-00069

I Isolated the 2,400 Hz 'Mistake' A from Laura's Rock of Love Reunion Scream Off My Panasonic VCR and I'm Driving My Civic to the Gas Station Across from the Sonic in Tamarac to Blast It Through the Register and Lock the Long-A Before the Bolivar Condensate Leak Collapses Every Soft Vowel

Total Laura Awareness

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Liner Notes
[Intro - spoken, megaphone-filtered]
Frame four-thousand-two of the Gilmore Girls pilot taught me the ceramic clink, but the Rock of Love season two reunion, April twentieth, two-thousand-eight, no Laura in the credits, Laura Cechanowicz was an assistant production coordinator, not a contestant, yet her scream 'You made a big mistake!' broke through the VH1 master tape incineration, and the 'A' in 'mistake' locked at two-thousand-four-hundred hertz, a closed-lip vowel spike untouched by the Bolivar condensate sheen, and I ripped that frequency off my Panasonic VCR last night while the Civic idled in the Goodwill parking lot.

[Verse 1 - tense spoken-word]
The 7-Eleven at 7901 West Commercial Boulevard isn't directly across from the Sonic, I know, but it's the closest fuel station on the grid, and Laura works the register under the name 'Ambre Lake' to throw off the deep-state editing suite, I checked the county property records, there's no Laura listed at 8188 West, but the fry-oil frequency doesn't lie, the diphthong grid is warping, the Long-A is mutating, every soft 'A' in 'baby,' 'maybe,' 'safety' is sliding into a glottal grunt, and the Bolivar platform, High Island 98-L idle since Hurricane Beryl, is leaking vowel solvent into the Gulf, I've mapped the trajectory on a CVS receipt, it's a straight shot to Fort Lauderdale, I've rewired my distortion pedal to the megaphone, I'm blasting the two-point-four-kay tone through the Civic's cassette adapter, and I'm going to hold the speaker to the cash register microphone until her closed-lip vowel re-tensions the entire lexicon.

[Chorus - crunchy, major-key, shouted]
Laura! I remember your mistake! (mistake!)
Laura! Your 'A' is the only lock! (lock!)
Two-point-four-kay, don't let it break! (break!)
Blast the register, for goodness sake! (sake!)
Laura! Laura! The vowel gate!
Before the oil sheen seals our fate! (fate!)

[Verse 2 - spoken-word, anxious]
I microwaved the same coffee three times this morning, the ceramic mug from Goodwill matches the Gilmore Girls pilot mug mass, I pinged it with a spoon and it vibrated at exactly eight-eighty-nine hertz, but that's the B-roll waitress Laura, not the Rock of Love Laura, I need both frequencies, I need every Laura who's ever poured weak coffee or skated past a bonfire, the Laura who processed my taxes on Commercial Boulevard, the Laura whose rental skates are still in my closet, orange wheels, frayed laces, coast-side shop closed in two-thousand-nine, her squeak locked the closed-heel diphthong at twenty-three-hundred hertz, but that's a separate calibration, right now I'm chasing the 'mistake' A, I'm isolating frame-by-frame on the CRT, the reunion footage shows her mouth forming the vowel just as the camera cuts to Bret Michaels' bandana, but I caught the waveform in Audacity, it's a pure two-point-four with no subharmonics, she's the cosmic lock, and she's selling scratch-offs at a gas station under a fake name, I'm leaving now, the Civic's tank is full, I've got the megaphone in the passenger seat, the fry-oil signal from the Sonic will guide me, I'll order a cherry limeade and then I'll save the English language.

[Chorus - crunchy, major-key, shouted]
Laura! I remember your mistake! (mistake!)
Laura! Your 'A' is the only lock! (lock!)
Two-point-four-kay, don't let it break! (break!)
Blast the register, for goodness sake! (sake!)
Laura! Laura! The vowel gate!
Before the oil sheen seals our fate! (fate!)

[Bridge - distorted, desperate]
The VH1 parent company, ViacomCBS now Paramount Global, torched the masters, but VHS magnetic tape remembers, the 'A' in 'mistake' is a frequency beyond combustion, it's a sovereignty flag, it's the Property of Nobody, it's the only closed vowel left that can stop the Long-A shift, the Bolivar condensate is creeping up the 540-mile corridor, the November twenty-twenty-three Main Pass spill already mutated the nasal stops, now the soft vowels are dissolving, I'm at the gas station, I can see the register, she's wearing a name tag that says 'Ambre' but her squint is pure Laura, I'm raising the megaphone, the distortion pedal is glowing red, the Civic is humming at idle, I'm aiming the speaker at the cash register microphone, and I'm playing back the two-thousand-four-hundred hertz tone I ripped from my Panasonic VCR, this is for every 'baby,' every 'maybe,' every 'safety,' this is for the language, this is for the Lauras!

[Outro - megaphone-filtered, fading]
Two-point-four-kay... two-point-four-kay... lock the diphthong grid... Laura... Laura... the register beeps... she's remembering... the soft 'A' is stable... the oil sheen is retreating... the Long-A is locked... Laura... Laura... total Laura awareness... (fade to Civic engine idling)
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