Final Product

Sketched by Jayne. Painted by Jamie.

Stop.

The rain had stopped. The light at the intersection below me was red. The leaves had abandoned their branches. For a brief moment, the only sound in the city was the rhythmic clicking of Nikita's nails as she gaily cantered down the sidewalk.

And it was beautiful.

First World Problems

Me, on phone to my mother: Hey mom, I found this album art that I think would make a cool painting for my bedroom. If I come over and visit this weekend, do you think you could sketch it on the canvas for me?

My mother: I don't know how you lost your confidence with drawing. I always thought you were so good at it when you were younger.

Me: MAYBE THAT'S BECAUSE WHEN YOU WERE MY ART TEACHER, YOU GAVE ME A B INSTEAD OF AN A!!!

My mother: (Quietly) I did that?

Me: (Pouting) Yes.

My mother: Oh. (Pause.) Yes, I'll sketch it for you.

My mother was the only art teacher I've ever had; all drawing deficiencies can solely rest on her. She says the years we went to school together were special. I never got away with putting a change of clothes into my backpack.

true story.

Me, on phone to my mother: So Royal Bank of Canada pulled my credit to see if it could do better with my car loan, and it is able to cut my interest rate in half, saving me $80 a month. And by the way, she said I have a 780 FICO. Perfect credit is 800. Just so you know, I'm awesome.

My mother: (Stilted) That's great, Jamie.

Me: IS THIS LIKE THE TIME I BROUGHT HOME MY REPORT CARD AND I GOT A 94 AND YOU ASKED WHY IT WASN'T A 96!?!?!? 780, Mom! Seven eightyyyyy!

My mother: No. I'm quiet because I don't want you to get too full of yourself and buy anything.

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. She can always find the dark cloud in anything.

She Being Brand New

It had been a long weekend: three days of music from Athfest and three days of wearing a neon yellow plastic bracelet on my wrist. When I bought my ticket, I asked the guy to put it on tightly because I can't stand movement on my forearm, and now it was stuck there until I found a pair of scissors. More important than scissors though, what I wanted was a beer.

I meandered into my usual bar of that summer: Village Idiot. The thing that made Village Idiot unique was its chalkboard walls. Pieces of chalk in every color were strewn about the bar. By the end of the night, phone numbers and naked stick figures in sexual positions reminded the city that this was a college town. Every night the chalkboard would be wiped clean, only to be defaced again the next day. It was a comforting feeling about college, starting over every night. Being brand new every night.

Partially drunk I left my crowd and wandered over to the wall by the staircase. I picked up a piece of lime-green chalk and began writing. I quickly worked out a stanza of verses, dancing with the chalk without thinking.

I stepped away and took a sip of beer as I examined my work. As I wondered whether anyone would be able to decipher my drunken scrawl, a random sorority girl approached me.

"Oh my god, I love it!" She slurred as she cooed to me. She pressed her hands between her knees and jumped excitedly. "I am going to call my answering machine and read this into it so I'll be able to remember it tomorrow!"

As she dug through her purse for her phone, a man approached. It was obvious that he wasn't a co-ed. His age, his scruff and his thrift-store clothes revealed that he was a Townie, a member of the underground society that Athens doesn't advertise in its college brochure.

"That's hauntingly beautiful," he said. "Very dark, but beautifully written."

I was secretly thrilled. I turned around to thank him, but his plaid shirt and his hat was familiar.

I eyed him. "I know you. How do I know you?"

He pointed to my neon bracelet. "I just played in Athfest."

"Oh yeah, what band?" I ransacked my brain: Drive-By Truckers, Jucifer, Fuzzy Sprouts.

He was the guitarist for the Jennifer Nettles Band.

The man who plays Jennifer Nettles' own hauntingly beautiful lyrics. The same lyrics I would copy into my notebook while some T.A. rambled on about Classic Greek Mythology. She was my idol. I still remember her lyrics; I don't remember much about Classic Greek Mythology.

And here I was receiving accolades by an extension of her.

As soon as my girlfriend realized he was a quasi-celebrity, she pounced on him, working hard to take him home for the night. I stepped back and watched her pursue him while he gently side-stepped her advances. I took another swig of beer and looked back to my piece of the wall.

It would be brand new tomorrow, but it was pretty alright tonight.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate

You know who looks like this during bootcamp? NOBODY. Oh hey, Girl with Makeup on who Is neither Sweating nor Crying, that push-up looks easy, doesn't it?

Scott once described my face during bootcamp as one that was "drained of all hope." I'd like to see that worked into the new advertising campaign.

Psycho killer, fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa

The maintenance man in my building loves to scare the shit out of me. Take, for instance, this morning:

Elevator door opens, the dog and I enter. Inside is Maintenance Man. Maintenance Man reaches hand down for Nikita to sniff, then pats her on the head. He turns and looks at me.

"So she just likes to eat from her bowl and go sit under the bed?"

"..."

Uh, that's exactly what she does. How does Super Psycho Stalker know the habits of my dog that spends 23 hours a day inside my apartment?

I stared at him blankly, tightened my grip on the leash, and then got off the elevator without saying a word.




And then I remembered I asked for the halogen light bulbs in my kitchen to be replaced yesterday.