MySpace + MadSkillz in MS PAINT = VALIDATION (thanks www.icanhascheezburger.com!)

As you probably know from reading my last post, I have a myspace page now, and I need new cool friends. So I was browsing around myspace and stumbled on this page that had all kinds of cat pictures with absurd comments like "NO MOAR LAND BEFORE TIME SEKWELZ!" and I fell in love, so I had to draw something since I don't have a cat [ed.-but Holly does...hmmm...I must call her]. So....

I drawed that in MS PAINT. Took me a whole three minutes, or so. Just swish swish swish of the brush, fill paint bucket with different shades of gray, and add last minute text, and I was done. Then I uploades it to imageshack and put it in a comment for Happycat thanking him for the add on myspace.

And now if you go to his website and click on the About ichc link you will see my picture on the top! That's so cool! I'm part of an Internet phenomenon with my crappy drawing.

But the image is perfect for the site. Perfect for Tim and Eric, too...if they ever incorporated terribly awful MS Paint drawings in their show. So it just goes to show I need to get up off my fat ass and put my work out there in the right avenues for people to appreciate it. I know if I just went up to someone on the street and showed them my lame Happycat drawing, they wouldn't know if I was joking or serious, and would probably back away from me slowly. But here on the Internet, we know irony. We know when something is "soo koooll!!1!!" that it needs to remembered forever on some server's hard drive for all to see and make laugh.

Capital One is serving me papers

Some time today, or maybe tomorrow, I imagine a black Chevy suburban will pull up to my one bedroom apartment here at the Capri Lodge, and a man dressed in black will knock on my door.

“Sheriff’s department,” he will say. And then he will serve me papers from Capital One.

I’m not sure right now if I will open the door. If I’m home I guess I will. I mean, isn’t it a crime to not answer the door when the police come calling? I’ve committed no crimes up to this point [ed.-Being poor, young, and stupid it not a crime—yet.], I don’t want my natural anxiety and paranoia to get me in even more trouble than I am already in. It’s time for me to open the door, and face my fears.

“Hello, Officer. What seems to be the problem?” I might say, acting innocent. I’m tipped off to this encounter with the Coralville Police Department by my mother, who called me Sunday morning at nine am to tell me the Sheriff’s Department in Dubuque had already visited. Her first call, and her second and third, I ignored and continued to sleep—I had a full forty minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off to wake me for work. But by the forth call, I knew my mom was more serious than usual. I could tell by the ring that somebody had died.

But they hadn’t. Everything was fine. “Hello…Are you ok, Jonathan?,” my mom asked me, as I rubbed my eyes and tried to acclimate them to the light. “Uhh…yeah, I’m fine….,” I said. “Were you sleeping? Oh, sorry to wake you. But you know what, the Sheriff’s Department was just here looking for you…” She paused to gauge my reaction and to anticipate a last-minute confession. “No, Mom, the gun wasn’t mine! I didn’t sell that coke to that kid! I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no dead prostitute!” my sleep-addled mind wrestled with what crime had been discovered for which I had been accused. I received a call from my sister Holly a few days earlier telling me that she was accused of a hit-and-run in a blue Chevy pickup in Decorah, Iowa on the fifteenth. Despite the fact that Holly neither lives in Decorah, nor owns a blue Chevy pickup, and her timecard from Ripples Diner in Riverside states that she was clocked in at the time of the alleged accident, the police persisted because “Holly Kelly” looks so much like “Holly Kelley.” No one had bothered to double check the names. It was a simple case of mistaken identity.

It’s a shame I can’t use that excuse with my Capital One debt. I know and they know I owe them thirteen-hundred dollars. I planned on paying it back, but it’s been almost ten years now, I figured I could wait a little longer. I barely have money for rent and I can’t afford a car so I take the bus. My credit is terrible. My student loans are in default and my wages are going to be garnished soon. So Capital One serving me papers is the least of my worries here at the Capri Lodge.

“Make sure you go to court, Jonathan. If you don’t, the judge is just going to think you’re another one of those kids who doesn’t care—” “—I don’t care,” I interrupt. “I know, but if you don’t go to court and they default the judgment, you’re probably going to have to pay a fine, or interest, or something,” she reminds me. “What are a couple more hundred bucks? I don’t plan on buying a car or a house any time soon, so what do I care?” I say.

Right now I just want to get it over with. I hate waiting here for the Sheriff or whoever to serve me papers. I just want to make it quick. Open the door. Take the papers. Sign whatever I have to. 'Good day, sir or madam.' And then I can drink. It’s my day off, for chrissakes. It’s almost six in the evening, and I have tomorrow off too. I should be drunk by now. God, I hate my life sometimes.

Life sucks. Work sucks. This past weekend we broke a new Red Lobster record for most guests served. Eleven-hundred and thirty-some odd people came in to the Coralville Red Lobster and I fed them all from eleven-thirty in the morning to eleven at night without a break. When the restaurant is busy, everyone who comes in gets to eat, but those who work there don’t. These are the sacrifices that come with the immense responsibility of pushing buttons on a microwave and putting plates in the window to feed starving guests. You have to put aside your needs for the greater good; you have to go hours with a full bladder and an empty stomach. All for the fantastic rate of nine dollars an hour, thirty or so odd hours a week. The hours vary day by day, depending on how busy we are. Last Saturday I worked almost twelve hours straight, but the Saturday before that we experienced a February blizzard that caused the restaurant to close three hours early. I think I got a full eight hours that day because I volunteered to stay on until close. But most weekdays I come in at five and leave a little after eight with everyone else on the line. With two weekdays off each week (it’s nearly impossible unless you request time off to not work a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday) I average a little less than thirty hours a week. At nine dollars an hour, after taxes that adds up to less than a thousand dollars a month. I live paycheck to paycheck—I can’t afford to pay Capital One over one month’s pay.

I’m open with my financial situation because I really don’t care anymore. I don’t care who knows I’m in debt. Maybe I’ll be in debt the rest of my life, maybe I won’t. I recently read an MSN Money article on ‘being poor and loving it’ while checking my Hotmail account, and it said you have to live life to the fullest while living within your means. The article stated, in my own words, I should cherish that six pack in my quaint apartment, because I can’t afford to go out and have fun with friends from work. Saturday I made probably eighty bucks after taxes, and Joe, one of the servers walked out with over three hundred in his pocket. God, I should be a server. Damn my social anxiety…

I’ll probably never get a car or a house, and I’ll probably never get out of debt. Or my writing will finally take off, and with my first big book deal I’ll pay off my debtors. I’m going all-or-none in this thing I like to call life. I like to think it makes me daring, but I’m only playing Russian roulette with blanks. I like to think at my ripe old age of twenty seven that I know more than my mom. ‘I’ve seen things that would make her head spin working at Red Lobster, she doesn’t know what trouble I’ve seen, she’s not me, she hasn’t lived my life, I’m going to be famous someday, then she’ll see you can follow your dreams and don’t have to get stuck working at a bank the rest of your life!’ and more clichéd tripe [ed.—Clichéd tripe, sounds like a new species of fish at Red Lobster… “Tonight’s fresh fish are tilapia, salmon, rainbow trout, and clichéd tripe…” the servers will tell our guests next month in order to make that essential guest connection to keep our customers coming back in record numbers…God I need a better life. February has sucked balls.] I tell myself when I listen to her nag at me on the phone. But what come out when I get my chance to speak are monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgement. “You’re going to answer the door when the police come knocking, Jonathan, aren’t you,” my mom says. “Ugh...” I say uncommitted. “Come on, Jonathan, you HAVE to appear in court. Maybe you can work something out…” “Mehsh…” I say. And ‘buh’ I say to Capital One. Hrmpf to my debt. I don’t even care enough to use words or complete sentences anymore. Life has beaten me down. Ok, fine: Mom, the Po-Po, Capital One, you’ve all won! I surrender. Let’s get this thing over with so I can go back to drinking. I have to work a double tomorrow. Gotta go make that money for the man. [ed.-Maybe I won’t answer the door. I haven’t eaten all day so I’m going to walk down to Hardee's and get myself a thickburger combo. They’ll probably just send the papers in the mail like they do with my student loan crap…]


THE END

Disclaimer: It appears to me I might appear to be a typical tortured alcoholic writer. That is because I am. I’m a booze-addled man-child trying to speak out for my generation. And my generation likes Jager. I’m just the vehicle for the collective subconscious, and booze is my muse’s fuel. I can’t help it. I have a disease. A DISEASE. Yes, I am told, alcoholism is a disease. Like AIDS or something, only cooler. You don’t die as fast and you get to have fun drinking. There, are you confused yet? Am I an alcoholic writer or just a drunken deadbeat who needs to grow up? You decide, America. You decide. I’ve given up trying to decide who I want to be. The scary thing is I wrote this whole thing completely sober.

Yeah, I know. I’m surprised too.


Mmmm...that burger was good. I feel better now.

Peace, Capital One.

Hello. My Name is John and I suffer from social anxiety. (in unison)--Hi, John.

World Beer Tour Night At Old Chicago (2 of 3)

Hi. My name is John and I have social anxiety. (-in unison, "Hi John.")

I self-medicate with beer here at 'Old Chicago' in Coralville, Iowa.

This is my sister. She used to be on Alprazolam. Now she's an Army Wife. She likes to drink too.

I like to stare at the bottom of my beer for hidden messages when I'm nervous. This one looks like a yin-yang symbol, or the face of God, or something. It makes me feel better to look at an empty glass knowing a full one is on it's way from our server. She's nice. She doesn't judge me like the others.

This is what I look at after I've self-medicated. I really don't know who the hell this guy is. He bothers me.

My mom always told me when I was young, if you looked upon the face of God, you would die--you’d disintegrate, and become nothing. “Humans are mortal and have far too many flaws to view the perfect face of the Almighty,” she would tell me. If you died and went to heaven and you wanted to see Jesus, that was okay because Jesus was a mortal man—the Holy Spirit inside the body of Christ here on earth. But if you asked to see God, you would be sternly warned that doing so was suicide, even in Heaven. My mom told me that if you entered the room, or whatever space it is that God occupies, and you look directly at God you will go blind, much like she warned me about staring at the sun. But it didn’t stop there. Not only would you go blind, but if your mind tried to comprehend the complexity of perfection that is Our Lord, your head would explode into a thousand million little pieces; you would cease to exist. My mom told me this when I was ten. I’m not kidding. [ed.-That much pressure put upon a ten year old who desperately wanted to see the face of God, and please his parents, naturally led to indigestion and panic attacks.]

Around the same age, whenever I felt sick, my family would gather around me, and led by my father, would put their hands on my stomach and pray so that the spirit of the Holy Ghost might enter me and make me better. “Oh, Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name” my father would say, waving his hand above my abdomen, “Jesus, please make my son, Jonathan…Jesus please make my son better. In the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost, amen.” I remember my face would flush, and a cold sweat would break out on my forehead. Usually, I was only suffering from mild indigestion, but when I felt those hands upon me, I believed I was possessed by the Holy Spirit. I would experience a mix of hot flashes and chills accompanied by a cool sweat on my blushing forehead. What else could explain this miraculous feeling other than being possessed by the Holy Spirit?

Until recently, I suffered from indigestion and anxiety. So much pressure put upon a ten year old who desperately wanted to see the face of God, and please his parents, naturally led to indigestion and panic attacks later on in life. Now I learned to self-medicate with things such as alcohol (see my previous post for an example) when things get too real for me and I started to feel anxious. If someone looked at my face too long as I handed them their change at the gas station job, I would drink at home that night and wonder what this stranger who had made eye contact with me knew—what deep and dark secrets he could tell just by looking through my eyes, into my window into the skeletons in the closet of my soul. I was an anxious, nervous mess. Each accidental brush of contact with a customer flushed my face, and reminded me of being possessed by the Holy Spirit when I was a sick ten-year old.

My sister, Holly, suffers from panic attacks and is on, or used to be on Alprazolam, I can't remember. She keeps telling me that the Community Mental Health Center here in Iowa City doesn’t charge for service--they go on a donation basis where you give them as much or as little as you think you can afford. I tell her a case of beer is what I can afford this week. It’s my Alprazolam, but you don’t need a prescription from a therapist. Holly’s husband’s brother, Harry, used to be addicted to Alprazolam, but now he quit cold turkey and goes to Old Chicago every night after a hard day of working construction to drink. “After all, I’ve earned it,” Harry, my Dad, and I say. "And it’s better than therapy. Cheaper, too," we tell ourselves. “Therapist—more like ‘the-rapist,’” Chet, Holly's husband, says when he drives Holly to the Mental Health Center once a month. I just walk to the gas station once a week to get my beer and try not to make eye contact with the cashier.

I can remember the last time I’ve had a near-panic attack. About a month ago, I was in the sold-out Paramount theatre in Cedar Rapids watching Jim Gaffigan perform. I looked around me, and while trying to take in how many people were in this theatre and how much air was left, I felt the cool touch of the woman’s shoe next to me on my calf. I felt like I felt when I was a kid: the whole flushing of the skin, heart palpitations, everything. But when I looked upon the bright, pale forehead of Jim Gaffigan, and he told his Jesus, Mary, and Joseph joke I knew I was going to be okay. I had a few beers in me. It was okay to stare at the sun, to look in the face of God, to laugh in the pale face of Jim Gaffigan while drunk. It didn’t always lead to a panic attack that I misconstrued as a child into thinking I was possessed by the Holy Spirit. It's ok to laugh and have fun in public. I learned, ultimately laughter really is the best medicine for panic. And the best part is, God has a sense of humor too.

I need to be like Jim Gaffigan and get up on stage and bare the secret skeletons in my closet. I need to get out of my shell. I need to get drunk and be funny for all to see. It’s my time. My time to share my unique vision with future generations--time to give back to the world I have so selfishly stolen from up until now, at the ripe mature age of twenty-seven. I need to get up on stage and tell my story. I just have to remember when all those eyes are upon me and I feel the cool sweat start to form on my forehead, it’s just the Holy Spirit reminding me that everything is going to be ok, stupid. There's always a beer on the stool next to me.


--John Nauman was raised Methodist by his parents: Bob a construction worker and former Catholic, and Carol a bank worker and former home-maker to six children, both former Christian hippies. He became best friends with Moe, a Muslim classmate from Lebanon, and almost converted to Islam in high school. Now, at age twenty-seven, he believes no one answer is ever the answer for anyone, and that all religions are essentially equal. He is a skeptic who believes in God. A walking contradiction. Kick him in the nuts if you ever see him. God, he pisses me off. I really hate that arrogant fatass, I do.


Peace.

[edit--Happy 53rd B-Day Mom! I can never remember if your birthday is today or tomorrow, but I'll say it now anyway. This blog is for you. May we follow our dreams, maybe not in our lifetimes, but in our successors'.]

Happy World Beer Tour Day at Old Chicago / I shamrock Guiness

There was this leprechaun...

Then some guy bummed some cigarettes off my sister in exchange for a few tickets for some drawing.

Then this leprechaun gave me a beer coozie. Then he read off some numbers and some people won t-shirts.

Then I said to Holly I need her permission to write about her as an "Army wife." Then I took a picture for my blog.

Then when Chet, Holly's husband called, I pretended to have a winning ticket and ran up to the leprechaun to get my t-shirt. I wanted one so bad.

This was a lesson to Holly and me. A time to grow. A time to be "hard." Earn our dues. There were only 15-20 people in the bar that night and the leprechaun's box said "qty 200." I did the math. The only way I was going to get a t-shirt was by faking it. By pretending to have the winning ticket.


And so it happened. The great t-shirt caper of 2007.

aye, this be all for now...I will update later with more once the mighty guiness wears offfff.............

Tid bit too much a the wee beer....but it's all good. I'm only 27. Keepin' it real.

I will get to the story of tonight at old chicago: "It ain't easy being an army wife"...about Holly being married to Chet who served in Iraq...but not right now.

Peace.

(y'all know what satire is doncha? it ain't an isle in Ireland, letmetellya laddy)
oh, and hey, i really totally stole that t-shirt!! (i'm so hard right now)


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Welcome to my mind

bear-bear

Dream #347 (detail)

My sister Holly as a cartoon character

self-portrait of me resisting to be painted

Children shouldn't smoke...dummy

Welcome to myspace.com

Rebel Rebel

I like to draw. These are samples from my notebooks, both virtual and real. I hope it gives you a better understanding of where I come from and where I want to go with my ideas. It's a long journey, but I think I can make it in one piece.

Peace.