Bitcoin Billionaire

     I sat on the roof of the Maitland with my legs hanging off the side, dangling my shoes over the few cars making their way early on this Saturday morning. It was 6:50AM, I asked Siri when sunrise was, after a few mutations of its "thinking" animation it replied in an emotionless voice "Sunrise this is at 7:05 AM" So we sat. I swung my legs, bouncing the heel of his foot against the crown of the roof. As the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, I felt more and more agitated. With each moment of the sun becoming brighter I looked more and more frantically at the keepings of the others. Herman had a thick wallet-phone-case combo that was nearly bursting at the seams with bills. Fredrick Hanky had a new jacket from Urban Outfitters that I had never seen before. ClaraJean had the Gucci slippers she had slipped on after she was roused to come see the sunrise. I suddenly wanted it all. I hatched a plan.

     I had recently bought some Maitcoin, a digital blockchain currency that was currently trading at around $.30 a coin. I had recently bought several coins for around $5 just for the novelty of having coins that coincidentally shared the same prefix as The Maitland. I pulled ClaraJean aside, I explained to her what Maitcoin was, explaining the nature of the digital currency. I then pulled out the price chart for Bitcoin, showing her that if she had bought one bitcoin in 2012 for $.45 she would have close to $15,000 today. I neglected to mention that the vast majority of blockchain currencies had imploded and become virtually worthless. Then I made the offer, I offered to trade her Gucci slides for one Maitcoin. She eagerly accepted, excited at the prospect of making $15k off of some Gucci slides that costed her not more than the slim price of $500. So away she went with her Maitcoin. 

    I made the same offer to many of the others. I got some airpods, a new phone, a Supreme crowbar only for a few dollars of digital currency likely to fizzle out in a few weeks. A few weeks passed and I began getting emails from people thanking me for the generous offer of the Maitcoins. I pulled up my online Maitcoin price tracker and noticed the price had increased 15,000 fold since I made the trades and my original $5 that I had given them for all of the stuff was now worth a whopping $75,000. I was fuming if I had held onto my coins I could buy a whole new truck. I decided I would have to steal it back. I decided I would break into their apartments and steal my money back. I broke into the apartment of one of my victims and grabbed their external crypto drive. I got back to my truck, plugged the cryptodrive into my computer. Suddenly there was a loud static explosion and everything in my truck went dark. The Cryptodrive had a failsafe EMP that would deploy when it was plugged into an unrecognized computer. That sucks. Due to my greed I was out $75,000, a laptop and my trucks entire electrical system.

Life within a cloud

I awoke in my sleeper, unaware of the chaos unfolding within The Maitland. I had been sleeping in my sleeper for the last week after that shooting star business. My internet in my sleeper is terrible, so I was unable to post, but rest assured I am back and more ready to blog than ever. I walked to my apartment where the the last week or so of newspapers had been piling up on my welcome mat. I pick the top paper, and notice it lists the date as 2013, I muse to myself imagining it is just a printing error. I turn on the TV and "How I Met Your Mother" is playing.  How I met your mother was canceled in 2014... I look at the newspaper and notice the report on Ether Maitland's murder. My knees felt weak under the crushing memory of her. I wondered why the newspaper had such a glaring misprint, they had somehow managed to print an archived version of the story. I pulled out my iPhone only to realize that in my pocket was an iPhone 3G, the phone I had six years ago and the date said 2013.
      I looked at the newspaper again and noticed at the bottom of the article it said "Memorial services will be held today in the graveyard." When Ether died the intense heartbreak I felt was so intense I couldn't bring my self to go to her funeral.  This was my chance to redeem myself. I put on my scarcely worn suit and bought flowers before heading to the graveyard. As I approached the plot I noticed a similar bunch of people equally confused by the sudden shift in chronology, but we said nothing as the service began. For the past half decade I had regretted not attending the funeral, it was petty, it was my way of getting back at a dead person. The funny thing is you don't need to work to rise above a dead person, but I had. The service was beautiful, it spoke of Ethers continuing commitment to the fostering of the community the Maitland has created, and the love she had for people, oh yes the love she had. I went to sleep that night knowing I had done the right thing and had redeemed myself for my misgivings six years ago.

Painting for Commission

        Art is something that should transcend any economic motivations. It should be placed on an island far away from the greed and hate spawned from little pieces of paper. Art exists in ream of value that lies beyond and beneath mere economic considerations. The starving artist is someone too pure to simply "make it" in this world. When I make my art, I do not strive for fame or for money. I get sick of the rappers "flexing" on how much people have paid for their recordings. If your "art" appeals to the masses enough to get paid for it than it isn't art. Period.

       That being said, I have to eat. So, I took a commission assignment. Amanda in my building wanted me to paint a portrait of her family. She sent me a photo and asked me to reproduce. The photo had Amanda and her two kids, posing under a pier on a beach. The kids wore matching outfits with wide smiles across wide smiles across their faces. Getting paid for art is a different experience from doing art for the sake of art. There is the pressure of your audience paying for the art. I specialize in F-you art. Art that the audience sees and hates. They hate it for what is says about them. This photo, with a pelican sitting above the pier was the complete opposite. Amanda made it clear she wanted me to put my creative flair on it. So, I blew the pelican up 300 times and made it look like it was part of the family, posing next to Amanda and Jake as a somehow not awkward third wheel to the family. I don't know what statement I was trying to make, but Amanda's face when she saw the painting was perfect.

      After I giving it to her, I went to Mr. Evan's funeral. I was scared of the energy that I had felt coming from the event, but recognized the importance of respecting the dead. I went home to paint. Saw a bright blue haze and went to sleep.

An Ally in Ester

     To most, Ester is the neighborhood crazy cat lady. To me, she's an ally. When she isn't going off on her pizzagate rants or explaining how Donald Trump is going to make her rich off of Iranian currency, she is watching. Watching how the town moves, and how the town breathes. She sees the trends, the patterns, the abnormalities. She screams to distract, when people react to strangers yelling, for their split second of surprise she can read a person and everything they are feeling and thinking. So, when she yelled at me, hiding behind her doorway, "Jamie, you no good hipster trash" my alert, poised reaction cued her to add "Come here a second" I stare at her, pushing my thick glasses up my nose, before walking up the driveway. When I reach her house her pale face looks a deeper shade of white than I had ever seen before. Her lips an acute shade of purple, scabs encrust her eyes. She pulls me inside.

      I say, "What's going on?"

      She pulls me close "I just saw Herman, Clara Jean, Daniel, Bess, Star, Halle, Annabeth and Lamar go into Alice's." She thinks for a second, canvassing her CCTV footage like mind and adds "Daniel hasn't been in there for years. Something is up, you can smell it in the air"

     She was right. Suddenly the air felt sticky like syrup, oozing, coating my body with a thick film of sweat. A warm breeze caught the sticky air coating my body and nearly pushed me off my feet. "Hear that?" she said.  I heard nothing, all sounds of the busy street were suffocated by the dense air. But then, piercing the syrup air I heard a sound I had heard many months ago, the sound of Mr. Evan's cane smacking the cold tile floor of the Maitland. That's all I remember.

     I woke up at 2:30am that night on the floor of my studio, staring at the biggest canvas I had ever dreamed of creating. On the canvas was a painting of Mr. Evans, with such vivid reality, staring at me, his slight smile seeming to follow me as I came-to. I close my eyes thinking it is some sort of dream. I open them again, Mr. Evans smile has suddenly shifted to a demonic grin, his teeth sharpened to points, his lips a deep shade of purple.

      

Conrad Shmonrad

     I can not believe this. The disrespect. The pure apathy. A man died, and Mr. Maitland wants to sweep it under the sheet and then build on top of it a carnival to distract the masses. That carnival is Conrad, days after Mr. Evans died.   I used to care about ghosts and spirits but times have changed. Everyone used to care about spirits, but now Mr. Maitland is worried about the residents of the Maitland, not because it was a traumatic experience, but because he's worried about his bottom line. Depressed people might move to be less sad and moving people means less $$$ for Mr. "Moneybags" Maitland. So, what does Maitland do? Does he honor the death with a memorial? No. He hires another pandering-country-artist to come in and distract the residents. AND THE WORST PART IS: IT'S WORKING. People are excited to distract their goldfish-like attention spans. There is a real murmur of excitement in the Maitland for the concert.  Mr. Maitland has turned a conversation that should be about how a man died in HIS parking garage, where he could culpable for negligence, and turned it into a celebration.
      The worst part is, when I scheduled a haul to the Maitland on my way back from Vegas, I unknowingly picked up the trailer carrying the stage and set for the concert. I am an accessory to to this serial distraction of the masses happening here in the Maitland. In my trailer is Conrad's guitar, I am to give the guitar to Friedrich. It would be a shame if something happened to it.... But no. That is not my job. That guitar alone is worth more than my rent for years. They would know that I was the last person responsible and the guitar would ultimately be my liability. But, I'll keep them waiting.
 I might stop off at the rest stop and suddenly feel inspired to paint, I'll paint a chalky portrait of Conrad, with the word SOMA* stamped across his face. Then he'll finally look like the pill he is.


*This might be worth a Google, you sheep.

Blog #1 - Art

      The day started with a phone call,  Maitland management called to tell my rig was blocking the Maitland's dumpster and I needed to move it now.  It isn't easy driving an 18 wheeler and living in an apartment complex. The tight switchbacks in the parking garage make it impossible to park so in the garage so I am left to park in the loading dock. So, every Tuesday morning is trash day, I am abruptly awoken to move my truck, I use this inconvenience as an excuse visit to the Corner Tavern while the garbage men empty the dumpsters.

As I walk through the parking lot, I see the spot where Mr. Evans was found, old police tape rolls across the concrete as a tumbleweed in the cold breeze. I shudder and keep walking. I see the garbageman, after months of this routine, waiting for my truck to move. As I climb into my truck, I nod.  The Corner Tavern is an upscale eatery by night and a coffee shop reeking of gentrification by day. Luckily, early Tuesday mornings aren't a very busy time for the restaurant so I pull my truck into a row of spaces. I usually use this time as time to work on my screenplay, but today I was feeling visual arts so I brought my pastel set to the tavern. I sat inside the tavern, looking at my truck reminding myself of the Walmart haul I had scheduled for later this week. I was counting the days until my audition with a production company in the city, then, I could sell my truck and focus on my art. But, at the same time, I wouldn't be surprised if the fragile egos and gross ignorance of the populous would be to understand the message of my art. At my last audition, the producers said my acting was "forced" and "made everyone feel very uncomfortable." Shows what they know. The managers of the local Walmarts have also asked me to stop stocking my "disturbing" art onto the shelves. I sneak the art into the load, hoping that I can bring enlightenment to one of the sheep shopping at Walmart.

When Mr. Evans died, it was never really picked up by anyone, the news ran a 50 word news report, and Mr. Evan's family ran a cheap obituary. I decided to make art to celebrate and make light of his death and life. Some could argue my art went a little too far, depicting the man as a small rodent being crushed under a wheel, conveniently labeled as "Life," is bound to turn heads, especially when there is a a sister piece of art showing in detail, the left over roadkill, I spent 2 hours working on the shape of the splatter. When that art showed up on the shelves of Walmart, I got a few phone calls.