February 3rd, 2005.

Last night, the evening was capped off with “skitter skitter skitter… thwump” – and it was almost the worst sound imaginable to our tired ears.

Yesterday, we wandered the streets of Wilmington. We were planning to visit Jack the Antique Store Cat – we’d only seen him sleeping through panes of glass on previous visits, and we’d planned to finally go there during business hours and maybe… poke him or something. Much to our dismay, there was nothing there but scraps of paper and a poorly swept, emptied storefront, and a series of 1863 encyclopedias fading on the bare concrete floor.

Later, we pulled double duty, hitting up Laura McLean’s open mic at the Water Street Cafe, and then running over to the Rusty Nail to advertise for our Friday night show.

Despite Jack’s absence, the night started out promising enough. Water Street had great food and a semi-packed room. It was cool to see Laura play her own set, rather than hidden behind Someone’s Sister. You don’t see a lot of strong female blues players – blues vocalists yes – but Laura’s pretty unique.

Unfortuantely, wandering over to the Rusty Nail was a bit discouraging. I hate playing smokey bars. I hate smelling the heat and the smell of alcohol pouring off of people.

Heather and I on stage at the Rusty Nail. Giving our all to the 6-8 people scattered around the room... maybe another 5 huddled at the bar. — Heather and I on stage at the Rusty Nail. Giving our all to the 6-8 people scattered around the room… maybe another 5 huddled at the bar.

Someone at the Rusty Nail had seen fit to put a cigarette burn through Heather's eye. I wonder if there was any sentiment that went along with the action or if it was random maliciousness. — Someone at the Rusty Nail had seen fit to put a cigarette burn through Heather’s eye. I wonder if there was any sentiment that went along with the action or if it was random maliciousness.

There’s a hopelessness to people that spend all of their time in these places, and it’s strange the way they can latch on to us sometimes. You don’t know what to make of people in these dens, and you never seem to see them at their best. We came away depressed and tired. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I was ready to just collapse.

In our explorations of Wilmington we encountered ladybug concrete.

At the Waterstreet Restaurant this frightening visage meets you at the door. Willing to try anything twice, and slightly superstitious, Heather and I warily approached with hands outstretched... by the end of the night it was evident that it hadn't done us any good. — At the Waterstreet Restaurant this frightening visage meets you at the door. Willing to try anything twice, and slightly superstitious, Heather and I warily approached with hands outstretched… by the end of the night it was evident that it hadn’t done us any good.

And so Heather stepped in dog shit.

And then there was the sound… “skitter skitter skitter… thwump”. Heather and I had been talking over the night in the kitchen, comiserating. There was a pause in

the conversation during which we heard the unique sound of dog toenails on hardwood floors. Heather and I, our eyes locked – and then came the thump.

“You know what that was, don’t you? That was Jessie jumping on our bed!”

Heather and I disentangled and chased that smelly beagle off our pillow. I mean, you could HEAR Jessie sighting her opportunity and running for all she was worth for our helpless, dogless bed.

Heather spritzed the bed with a bit of perfume, yet we knew in our hearts that the bed had been beagled.