[105] Screed City

[105]

02/27/2022 Sunday. Cushioned Stool. Room 218. Home 2 Suites by the Airport. Albany, New York.

And then I thought to myself "Why don't I just move in if I am going to pack this much shit." I lugged my duffel bag and the three re-usable grocery bags to the front desk. The same person with the nose piercing and the shaved head who checked me in last Sunday looked up from the computer and said "Checking in?" And I said "Moving in for the week." She smiled like she meant it. I mean, what the hell do I know. Some people are legally obligated to smile at jerks like me when I say stupid shit. But she did seem like she meant it. I mean, usually at this point in the check-in it is Scott getting grief about bringing so much shit. And then his joke to the front desk is "Jerk Gillette reporting for duty." And the all have a big yuck-up. But I ride solo now. Joe Solo. Like from the movies. Making my own crack-ups along the way. Answering to nobody but Father Time and Alarm Clock Annie.

I mean, I don't know why this job is such a bum-town picnic. I mean, I make plenty of money. The hours will never ever go overtime. Unless I have to run to the Home Depot or get a tire fixed. I can work as slow or as fast as I want to. I mean, I am out of the house. Doing stuff. Meeting new friends. Learning to laugh and love along the way. I mean, I don't know why it is so very brutal on my soul. What am I missing? The hotel is clean. The people who work here are nice. I mean, the people I work with are half-racist and full-lazy. I mean, one of them is full-racist and half-lazy. I mean, I am just passing the hours. Putting money in my bank account. Proving myself at a job that I don't particularly want, but since the pay is so good, I mean, it might just be worth it after all. I mean, I guess it is because everything is so uncertain? That I can't depend on the work coming around and I have to take it irregardless of what I have going on in my life? Either that or I just get no money? I mean, I am serious. I am slightly baffled by my feelings on the matter. Maybe I just like to complain? I mean, that is a real possibility. I mean, in reality I am doing just fine. I can spend my nights writing. I get plenty of sleep. I can eat tasty tacos for lunch. Or burritos. I have plenty of clean socks and t-shirts. I can see G once a week. If not more. I mean, I need a new lease on life, as the Scientologist bridesmaids say. I mean, I tried to join their cult. It wasn't for me though.

I don't know what this week is going to be like. I talked to the Big Boss about it. He may send Jayboo down later in the week. Which could be good. I could be totally hands off, or maybe more like totally hands-on with an extra set of hands. I mean, otherwise I quite literally will be doing all the work myself. I mean, the iron worker boobs can't do it. They just can't. I mean, they can try but they will do it wrong. And when they do it wrong I will have to go fix it. I mean, there is just no way to explain to them what needs to happen without me physically showing them. And it is such esoteric work that I will have to show them all 22 times we do it. I mean, they are iron workers so there is a chance that they can run a motor hoist. Which could come in useful, kind of. I mean, just running a chain up and down isn't that hard. But what needs to happen when the thing is at high trim or whatever you want to call it. I mean, I really do think there is a way to IKEA furniture this job, but that would take quite a bit of time and focus and assistance on my part. I mean, I would need to do some consulting with Scott and Jayboo maybe even bring the Big Boss in. There would need to be some color coding involved. A very detailed and large picture book of how things should go. I mean, not only that, but every job is different. So the thing would need to be job specific. Which, I mean, if you are creating new diagrams for every new job, I mean, you should just have crews that know how to do the work. I mean, I guess my point is, there is no way to just make this work with a crew of random union iron workers. There just isn't. I mean, the system will fail every single time. Which, whatever. I mean, if Jayboo comes down and acts like the old me and I act like the old Scott we can get some stuff done pretty quick. If that is a good thing. I mean, I want to get done with this job in three weeks from now. No sooner, no later. I mean, if it was me, Jayboo and Scott the thing would be done by Friday.

Butwhatever. I have to put in the horiz-bar first thing tomorrow. Which means opening every single box of hardware to double check we are missing the extension plates. Then when we don't find them we will have to make some. Which, I mean, I brought some metal, as well as the go-ahead to make the things from the Big Boss. I mean, I have the knees and the horiz-bar. The anchors are already set. We did that back in December. I mean, I will have to put the OSHA planks back up. Which will give the boobs something to do while I figure out the shit. I mean, the way I see it, this is just a temporary solution. The actual extensions need to come from I Weiss. That needs to rectified. But for the sake of progress, I mean, I don't know what else to do. I mean, maybe we will find the things tomorrow and I am overthinking it, but maybe we won't. I mean, I don't know what else to say about it.

It snowed like crazy on Friday. I took the day to recover from the week. But because of the snow I wasn't able to go chop wood like I had planned. Which was too bad. And then I was going to go chop wood today and another snow storm hit. I was able to get out of town alright, but it messed up my plans. And I won't be back to Vermont for two weeks, so I guess I will have to chop like the wind when I return. I mean, those poor juices, just sitting there, waiting to yum-yum. I mean, if we are not careful we will end up with 50 gallons of maple syrup wine.

I mean, speaking of homemade boozes, the champagne-style Ticklers are top notch. Much better than the turbo-Ticklers. I mean, like leaps and bounds better. I made three more gallons before I left. They are percolating as we speak. They will be just right by the time I get back. All the sediment settled. I mean, as long as the heat stays on. Which is about a 50/50 thing. I mean, I don't know how to describe the champagne Ticklers. Sharp, bitter. Maybe sour? A good little kick. I have some limes from Augustin's lime tree, or was it his neighbor's? I mean, he warned me they weren't juicy, but they are juicy, you just have to smash/roll them before you cut them open. But that is like all limes. In my experience. I mean, I have never lived in lime country, so maybe I don't know what a good lime is, but these ones are very tasty and juicy. As far as I am concerned.

I bought three tickets to Wyoming in August today. I mean, the tickets are from Albany to Denver. But still. I mean, we can fly in, rent a car and drive to Wyoming. The tickets were $800 dollars. Then I picked the seats, added some carry-on bags and some stow-away bags and the total came to $1,350. Which, fuck you too, Frontier Airlines. But that was still pretty cheap. Round trip. $225 per person each way. Me, G and Professor Curly. I mean, it was a little bit of an impulse buy, but I don't mind. We were going to do it anyway, so why not do it cheaply? And August sucks in Vermont. I mean, in theory I will be doing the Farmers Markets at that time, I guess, I mean, I don't know. My excitement with regard to that has faded quite a bit. I mean, maybe because this Winter is never going to end, but who knows, maybe it is just a whole shitload of work for very little pay-off. I mean, also, who knows. This BMI stuff might keep coming down the pike and I don't know if I have it in me to do both things again. I mean, if I wanted to make money I would sell tacos. But the original idea was the Cubby Bubbys, and that is where the idea will stay. At least until I write that fucking cookbook.

The Publisher is on a Hot Moms Gone Wild Weekend Retreat right now. With G's mom and some other hot moms. Getting crunk on watered down rum in Puerto Rico, I think. Crazy-drunk is what crunk means. Sunburns and banana hammock gazing. Samantha's wet dream. You know? From SITC. Sex in the City. Or is it Sex and the City. I can't remember what the simulation decided on. The Miranda Effect. I mean, I voted for Nixon. I wonder what New York would look like if she had won? Status Cuomo wouldn't be where he is now. I wonder if he thinks about that sometimes. I hope he does. I really do. If I think about that it makes me laugh. I mean, "Hubris is terminal." Client Nine said that. And see how he ended his career. You would think these assholes would learn from each other's mistakes. I mean, I am glad they don't because I really don't want the sociopaths to inherit the earth, but still, you would think at least a few of them would actually learn. I mean, that doesn't count as politics. I swear. It just happens to involve politicians.

The plants are watered. The goats got fed before I left. Beaver Haus is locked up. I left the Grit some peanut butter cups on the kitchen table. Dining room table? I can't remember where we settled on this. It is not really a dining room and it is not really the kitchen either. But it is closer to a kitchen table than it is a dining room table. Either way, there are a couple peanut butter cups there for her. For after school. The big ones. The kind that are too big and gross for adults but are perfect for nine year olds who have a hollow leg for candies. I took everything out of the fridge that would rot and put it on the front porch to freeze. I mean, the weather says freezing until I get back. I mean, I still have yet to lure a racoon over to Beaver Haus, but there is still time. I know there is a cat living under the haunted part, but it only raids the compost pit. And all the bears got shot in 2020. I know this because I heard the gun shots. I mean, maybe the goats will get loose and go over and eat the rotting food? I mean, they seem content as long as they have piles and piles of hay to maunch on. Which, I think Seamus is going to bring some over tomorrow. If he doesn't, I mean, a few of those goats have a date with destiny pretty soon. If they aren't careful they might end up pure hamburger. If you know what I mean. I mean, if they run out into traffic.

I finally met Jovin down at the post office. He is very cute. In like a Ferris Bueller sort of way. Speaking of SITC. Carries hubby. I mean, I went there to mail some stuff to some new Donkey subscribers and a special thing for Margo. He didn't ask me about Donkey though. I mean, I just dropped them in the mail hole. But he must have seen the return address on the package for Margo. He didn't say anything though. The dance continues.

Rochester was cute for the first time ever. Just a small Vermont town with cute locals going about their business. Snow-covered, sleepy, Vermont town. I mean, it was endearing in a way. It made me understand Stephen King a little more. I mean, his books all take place in Maine small towns, in a way that I have always felt kind of distracted from his writing. I mean, there is nothing really interesting about cute people going about doing cute White people stuff in New England small towns. But when you see the cliché version of it, or really, the actuality of it, I mean, I could see there being some sort of seedy underbelly. Even a spooky one. For like a book or two. Not hundreds of them at 1,000 pages per book, but still, I kind of get it now. It is the difference between noir and horror, I suppose. People are people no matter where they live in horror novels. Noir novels you kind of have to have reason why shit sucks the way it does. I mean, having a generic back drop to your horror novel is probably more ideal than having the town be filled with scum. I mean, horror is about the human emotional response to the unknown, whereas, noir is about the emotional response to known conditions. I mean, I guess in that sense, noir is actually quite limited as a genre of writing, whereas horror has no boundaries. Good point, Joe, I never really saw it that way. I wonder if you should write a horror novel and see what comes out. Oh, now that you mention it I am. And it takes place in a small town in Vermont. Hmmm, interesting.

Brother Jade's birthday tomorrow. I talked to PegLeg today. She was saying that he gets all his information about me from Shane because Shane runs the lumberyard in Worland and me and Shane are in contact. Which I thought was kind of funny. PegLeg is getting on a plane on Wednesday to come out here. With Niece A and Phyliss. Me and G are going to go meet them in Portland on Friday. Which is why I won't be back to Beaver Haus for two weeks. I mean, it is going to be a wild ride. Work all week, then go down the New Lebanon and pick G up from school and drive three and a half hours to Portland, spend Friday night and Saturday night there, with Brother Luke and family and then drive back to Chatham and then back to Albany on Sunday and then work all week. I mean, I am exhausted already just thinking about it. But how often does PegLeg get out East? Never, that is how often. I mean, the last time was 14 years ago when G was born. I mean, America is just too fucking big. I mean also, why does Wyoming have to be filled with assholes? I mean, I know three people in Colorado that are from Worlando Beach and none of them can stomach going back home. And that is like a seven hour drive. I mean, I have at minimum an entire day of travel to get there, but I force myself to go there. I mean, for G's sake. I want them to know their family, but still, I mean, I don't know who abused those fuckers in the past but it is presenting in some very odd ways. I mean, I still tell people that I am from Wyoming because it is an odd place to be from, but then I have to explain to whoever it is that asks how shitty it is out there. And then always "Oh, but it is very pretty." And then they just shake their head and say that they drove through Cheyenne once. On the interstate. It didn't seem so bad, they say. You don't know the half of it, I say. And that is when the conversation ends. Every time.

Anyway, I should probably hit the skids. Long week ahead of me. I should probably eat something and hop in the sack. Maybe think some more about tomorrow. I mean, I won't. There is no reason to. It will be what it is. All the planning in the world won't change it. I just hope that someone hasn't taken over the stage again. I mean, we weren't there on Friday. Anything could have happened. I mean, on Thursday when I got to the shop and told the Big Boss about how clean and tidy the stage was he told me to take pictures when I do that sort of thing. For what, I don't know. Proof, I guess? So I can submit a formal complaint to somebody about it? I mean, no matter what it is I will have to deal with it, even if it has nothing to do with me. I mean, maybe he would like to put it in his records? I mean, sure, if we are going to learn from stuff. But we never learn from stuff. The dis-function is what keeps all of us employed. If things could run smoothly we would be replaced with robots. Which would mean that people would have to be paid not to work. I mean, then we wouldn't have bosses anymore. I mean, Society would collapse if there wasn't people going around telling people what to do. Those are just facts.