[119] Screed City

[119]

03/27/2022 Sunday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

I mean, where were we? My system is out of whack. I mean, I remember leaving Queens. I went out and bought the t-shirts before I left. Traffic sucked on the way out. The phone re-routed me to Manhattan again. This time I listened to it. But, I mean, it made sense this time. The Holland tunnel. I needed to get to New Jersey. Not lower Brooklyn. Butwhatever. I was alone so it didn't really matter. I mean, I wasn't going to blame myself for traffic on the BQE, if you catch my drift. I mean, my drift being, I am not the kind of person to blame someone else for traffic on the BQE is what I mean. Unlike certain Professor's with curly red wires.

I got to Philly. Picked up some books from Dan and Steph's place. Drove over to the Artist Housing in FishTown. Parked. Easily, I might add. Went inside. Did some stuff I don't remember. I think mostly I just looked up directions to the Cidery where the reading was going to be. This was very confusing. I thought I was looking up trains when really I was looking up buses. Which kind of sent me down a wild trail of figuring out how to take a bus in Philly. Which, it turns out was very easy, it was just hard to find the right information. I mean, why is mass transit so fucking complicated? I think it is just an American thing. All the private interests and whatever. Capitalism. I mean, something so straight forward and really very simple gets complicated when you have a million different companies trying to steal your hard earned money just to get around fucking town. I mean, even if the thing has become a tool of the State, it wasn't always that way, so what was once just kind of fucked up gets more fucked up with time because nobody is trying to fix anything, they are just trying to piece everything together for the maximum amount of capital with the minimum amount of work put into. I mean, don't get me started. I will just say one thing though:

ABOLISH TURNSTILES

I mean, I ended up walking for about 30 minutes and then getting on a bus for another 30 minutes. The buses in Philly cost $2.50. There is a transfer fee of $1 dollar. Whatever that means. The buses take coins and dollar bills. Some information if anyone wants it. I mean, I had no idea where exactly I was going so I had to keep looking at my phone to figure out where I was. Which, for once, the thing came in handy. I got to the Cidery. Went inside. Had some yucks with some writers and the Publisher. Drank some ciders. I mean, it was too many ciders, but I thought we were heading back to the Artist Housing after the reading, so, I mean, if that is what would have happened it would have been the exact right amount of ciders. But it turns out we were going dancing afterward. Or at least to a place that had dancing if you were so inclined. I wasn't, but then again my days of fun dancing times have come to an end. At least for now. I mean, I don't mean I will never dance again like I stepped on a rusty nail or something so now I have a game foot, but my desire to bop around like a boob has kind of waned in the last, I don't know, decade. I mean, I am a killjoy, a wet rag, a stick in the mud. The bridesmaids say this and I believe them.

But the dance hall had beer. I drank some beer. Had some more yucks. Talked and talked and talked. And then, at like four a.m. me and the Publisher went outside and got in a car and went to the Artist Housing. I mean, I don't know what happened but it was barely midnight when we got there. I mean, they must have set the clocks ahead or something. Because it really was still very early. I mean, maybe my inability to find joy in dancing is also related to me thinking that midnight feels like four in the morning these days? I suppose. But part of it too is this fucking work I do where I have to be up at five in the morning. It just fucks my system up is all. You know? No matter how late you go to bed you always wake up at 7a? That kind of bullshit. The kind of, life sucks when you are an adult, bullshit. Whatever. Complaining about the lack of sleep and not being able to sleep and how midnight feels late and all those kids with their complicated dance moves, I mean, that just makes me look like the lame uncool dude I have become. I mean, I guess I need to get cool again somehow. I am thinking about growing out my sideburns. Maybe that will do the trick? Cool sideburns equals cool dude:

CSB=CD

Sorry to bring math into the mix, but I don't know how else to describe it. I mean, the next day I got up around 730a. The Publisher was gone already. I assumed she was heading to the book fair or the book conference or writers consortium or whatever the hell they call it. The "Give us money so you can make some friends to complain about how the book fair is a rip-off Conference." I mean, I don't know how they pull it off. Because there were about 50 empty booths. And I could think of about 50 small presses that would have loved to be there but probably couldn't afford it, or didn't think it was worth their time to go. I mean, the thing wasn't even open to the public. Which meant it was basically just small presses paying money to Big Book so they could buy books from other small presses. I mean, that one guy from Ugly Duckling had a panel and even he didn't have his press in a booth. What does that say about it? I don't know. I mean, those places and things are a great way to meet new people and spread the word about your stuff, but the fact that you have to pay a cover charge just to get in? Even after your publishing house pays for a booth? Fucking scam artists. Not only that, but I got a hot dog from the refreshment stand and it cost me $6 fucking dollars. And all they had was mustard, mayo, ketchup and relish. No onions. No sauerkraut. I mean, the hot dog was good, but still, it wasn't $6 dollars good.

I stayed inside most of the day. Trying to catch up on some rest. I mean, Albany really did a number on me. I don't know why. I think it just stressed me out or something. Too many boobs for too many days in a row. And the train ride and the IKEA and the too many ciders, I mean, I don't think I was hungover, but I really did not want to do anything. So that was nice. To do nothing. I mean, I guess I could have gone to the book fair and scared some people off as a show of solidarity, but I didn't. I kind of just hung around eating eggs on flour tortillas and drinking coffee. At some point I left the Artist Housing to go meet the Publisher and Stefan and Hank at this noodle place that me and Professor Curly go to whenever we are together in Philly. Damn good noodles. I got the brisket noodles. It comes with a matzo ball in it. After that we went to a record shop down the way. Looked around. I wanted to buy some CD's for Junior Mint, but all the CD's were not to my taste. I mean, I admit that the Rolling Stones are a good band. They just are. Paint It Black is a fantastic album. I listened to that record for an entire Summer when I was 18, but still, I am an adult now and I don't have to listen to them anymore if I don't want to. I mean, I really had some very low expectations for the CD's I would have bought, but for some reason the collection was well below those expectations. And if I am being honest, which I think I am, I would rather just see what is playing on the radio. It is usually the Stones anyway.

Me and the Publisher went back to the Artist Housing. Stefan and Hank ditched to another part of town. To do fun hanging out things I suppose. We had a couple Ticklers and then hit the sack. The Publisher sleeping on the couch in the living room. I took the bed. I mean, that may seem rude, but she was getting up at the butt-crack of dawn to head to the book fair, so, I mean, at least she could get up and go about her business without worrying about me and my needs. I mean, to me that seems like a good compromise. Right? Plus also, the bed is the place where me and Professor Curly make the magic happen. Nobody wants to sleep in someone else's magic room, right? I mean, perverts might want that, but not the other people in the world. I mean, I am not saying that perverts don't have rights, I am just saying that the Publisher isn't a pervert. Or, I mean, she might be, but that night her perverted-ness was relegated to the couch.

I mean, when I woke up in the morning she was already gone. I drank some coffee. Ate some eggs and flour tortillas. Listened to some computer things. Mapped out my route to the Convention Center where the book fair was. Called Professor Curly. Had some talks. Took a shower and hit the skids. I mean, it was a nice walk. Took an hour. I got to the place. Got lost quite a few times. Finally had to ask directions. From a security guard. She told me to go up some escalator. Told me I needed a badge to get in. I said that the Publisher had one for me at the booth. Which was a lie. I was told to say this. To trick them. It worked. Otherwise I would have had to pay $50 dollars to get into a fucking book fair. For what? To buy books? I mean, sure, the panels. Whatever. There is nothing more boring and more useless than a panel at these things. Dry, self-important nonsense. I mean, the best one I have ever been to was in Missoula, Montana. This woman, Danika Winters was running a pyramid scheme that was about as literary as Weight Watchers. I mean, it was the best because it was so obviously a scam. And the festival really promoted the hell out of her stuff. I mean, the keynote speaker at that one was fucking Eileen Myles. And her, this horrible, horrible "Western" house-wife erotica author was running this huge scam and the festival just took her at face value and let her have the run of the place. I mean, it was kind of impressive. I mean, Missoula is a college town, so maybe they thought Eileen Myles would draw a very big crowd, and they did, but still, from the outside you would think that nobody had any clue about what was happening. Or not. I mean, maybe it was genius and I am just too cynical to understand that, but it really did seem like they were getting played.

I walked around the fair for a while. Eventually came to the Whiskey Tips, as PegLeg calls it, booth. It was in the heart of the thing. Like on the main corridor. Which, it turns out, the Publisher had just taken the empty spot without asking. Which, the presenters tried to charge her an extra $300 dollars for the sweet location, but she had managed to talk them out of it. Which was actually genius. I mean, the place we were at before was in some desert island over by the Honey Buckets. I mean, there were actual bathrooms, so that is just hyperbole, but still, the place we were before was garbage. Somehow disconnected from the actual thing. Like people had to make a specific and direct choice to go over there. And there was only two other booths there. So it was not inviting at all. I mean, whatever. It worked out in the end. I mean, corner booth on the main drag. There was quite a bit of traffic. Plus also, there were a bunch of WT authors milling around so the booth seemed busy at all times. Which is a good thing. When your booth is empty and everyone seems too willing sitting behind it, you give off the impression of desperation. Which is not very inviting. If you know what I mean. I mean, crowd psychology is what I mean. Everyone wants what everyone else is having.

I mean, I stood around trying to be cool. Trying to help. I don't think I helped. I don't know if I hurt the proceedings or not, but I was not really in a great big, let's sell some books! mood. I mean, it was hard. Just standing there. And then some people came over and bought some of my books and wanted me to sign them. Then it got awkward and I got really mumbly and sweaty. And then I went and bought a $6 dollar hot dog. And then I got the keys to Junior Mint from the Publisher and walked back to the Artist Housing. I mean, I stopped to buy a cheese steak on the way back. As well as a quart of milk. I ate the sandwich when I got back. With a glass of chocolate milk. Kind of hung around doing nothing. Then around 5p I drove the car back to the Convention Center. This was easy, but the loading dock was confusing. I had to circle back around to make sure I was in the right place. Which, I mean, it was downtown Philly so it took me a while. But I got there eventually. We loaded the car up with books. I drove back to the Artist Housing. Parked in the same spot. Luckily. Went inside. Grabbed my writing I had printed out. Walked to the dive bar called Vipers, no, Raven, or The Raven, I don't know which. It took me an hour and 15 minutes to walk there. But the walk was nice. I got to see some sights. There were two long lines of people waiting for some sort of shows. One was mostly teenage girls with their middle-aged dads. I thought of G. The other was some punk show, I guess. I mean, everyone in line seemed like a rocker of sorts. I mean, if I don't like dancing right now, I can't imagine standing in line for some dumb music show. I mean, I way more identified with the middle-aged dads taking their daughters to go see Bo Burnham or whatever the hell it was. I mean, that would have been fun.

Butwhatever, when I got to Ravens the place was mostly empty. Like really empty. There was some very old and gruff man putzing around. I walked up the stairs. The Publisher and Stefan were doing some talking with some guy that I thought was the sound guy but was actually this guy Andrew who is a great musician who was there to do music for the thing. I mean, I had to piss so I went into the bathroom. There was a turd in the toilet. On top of about a mile of wet toilet paper. I didn't even sigh. I just frowned. I mean, this place was a pure and total dive bar. Like from the 90's dive bar. I mean, I am sure dive bars go way back before the 90's but in my short life, all the dive bars I knew in the 90's lived on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and this was one of them. Like Mars Bar or Pyscho Mongos or what was that one on 5th street? Or that other one on Avenue A? I mean, just seeing a turd like that floating on top of a million miles of toilet paper? It was a blast of nostalgia.

But then again, I did smile after I frowned. I mean, what the fuck? Butwhatever. I went back downstairs and stood around for a while. I think it was Hank or David that past me on the stairs going up. He said "There aint no booze up there." Which, whatever. I didn't expect for there to be booze up there, but after seeing the turd I kind of understood the sentiment. I mean, we were supposed to be doing a reading in half an hour and nobody was around. The sound guy was missing. The toilet was clogged with a shit from who knows how many days ago. The bartender downstairs was ignoring the growing crowd and everyone had been cloistered at the Convention Center all day getting abused by Big Book. I mean, the last thing we needed was an un-working bar. I mean, eventually the crusty old dude that was supposed to be the bartender showed up with a great big jug of ice and dumped it into the ice hole. He looked around and noticed there was at least 15 of us wanting something to drink. Some poet dude was declaring he was going to get drunk all weekend because he had nothing to do until Monday. Then he kept showing off his shirt. I think is said:

Poets suck, right?

Or something like that. I mean, it was a weird scene. My worst nightmare. Talking to strangers stuck in some dive bar with no booze and a pretentious poet declaring himself to be the anti-thesis of poets. I mean, I really mean this, I was very close to just walking out the door and not coming back. Or at least going down the street and drinking Long Island Iced Teas until I puked in the gutter. I mean, the problem was that we were in a very lousy part of town. And by lousy I mean, it was the place to be. Saturday night Douche-Town Picnic. People out to get laid and dance and be stupid. I mean, I don't really hold that against anyone, but man, in a town like Philly, where most of the population is Black, I mean, to see all the rich douche White assholes coming downtown for their "Weekend Warrior" bullshit. I mean, the turd in the toilet was better looking than this other shit. I mean, I could have left, but I would have had to really leave. Like go back home, leave. I mean, the Artist Housing. And that wasn't going to happen. So I sucked it up and just stood there waiting. Stood there waiting. Stood there waiting.

I mean, finally the grizzled old dude started slinging drinks, but my god! All the beer coming out of the taps was nothing but foam. Not only that, but the dude decided to have a conversation with every single person the ordered a drink. And I don't mean like "You enjoying the weather?" Type of shit. Like let me say word while I pour your drink. But like "Well that is interesting, let me tell you an anecdote about what it is like working here and what it feels like to be alive at the this moment because you are the most important person in the world right now." I mean, I was pulling my hair out. It was torture. The horror. The horror. I mean, not only that, but I was next in line after six versions of this and then suddenly this other guy comes out of nowhere and orders a shot and a beer. Which, whatever, but two drinks means two conversations and then Hank shows up and does the same. I mean, these jerks are cutting the line and to top it off the grizzled old man has to do his whole thing. I mean, TORTURE! Finally, after all of it he gets to me. I order a Corona in a can. The beer from the tap seemed like instant diahhrea, I mean, don't order tapped beer from a dive bar FYI. I mean, and to top all of this shit off the fucking poet dude with his pretentious bullshit stands up and says:

"To all of us standing around getting paid to think!"

I mean, I almost jumped over and strangled the motherfucker. First of all, nobody is getting paid to think. If what you mean is that you are going to college for poetry, I mean, good luck paying off that loan. You aren't getting paid to think, you are paying corrupt bullshit to get into dept. For what? To write poems? I wrote the last poem. The last poem that ever needs to be written. It goes like this:

Poem. Po-em. PO-EM. POME. POME. POME!!!!!!!

I mean, whatever. I liked that thing the Ukrainian woman did about how the Russian soldiers should put sunflower seeds in their pockets so when they die in battle a plant will grow. I mean, I like that kind of poetry. But this guy? Writing about his "Lost Weekends?" I mean:

The empty circles surround me/

I drip down into the ashes of thought/

My body shakes like memory/

What have I done this time?

Bullshit! I mean, sure, this place was cool. Vipers or whatever. Ravens. The Raven. But it is dying this place. Places like this. They will not last. Tomorrow it will be a 7-11 and then what? Remember when the 7-11 was called the Raven? I wrote a pome about it. Want to here it? Here it goes:

The Ravens circles surround me/

I drip down into the ashes of thought/

I tried to tell them/

They wouldn't listen/

Fuck poets, am I right?

Alright, this is getting a little bit long so I will put an end to it. I mean, as much as I would love to talk shit about pretentious poets all night. I mean, don't get me wrong! I love poetry. Poetry is fantastic. I really didn't write the last poem. That is just a performance art thing that I do sometimes to make fun of the fact that nobody actually reads poetry. They pretend to, but unless you are a poet, you don't, you really don't. And that is okay, I mean, poetry is impossible if you ask me. I tried for a while, but I suck at it. I mean, for me, being a gas-bag kind of gets it out better. I mean, words only have meaning if you decide they have meaning and then, when you really focus on their meaning they start to have real meaning. I mean, I am more of a "Vibes" kind of guy. If I started writing poetry I would call them "Vibes" like how Spike Lee calls his movies "Joints." I mean, language is fluid that way.

I mean, shit started to get going. The reading went very well. It was standing room only. The Covid-Express. I mean, the Pandemic is over. I mean, good or bad, it is over. I mean, we are all Vaxxed and boosted. There is nothing else to do. I mean, even if logic proves otherwise, it is over. The new boosters are for only people with health insurance and everyone poor can suck it, and not only that, but the Racist Right decided it was over when Sleepy Joe took office all those years ago. I mean, who knows? Maybe the science will tell us it is a cold now and nobody should worry about it anymore? I am okay with that. Whether or not that is true is not up to me. I mean, I took a six hour train ride the other day and had to wear a mask the entire time and it sucked. Which is whatever. I mean, it really is just theater at this point. I mean, I don't know what to say about it. I am not trying to get into anything political here. You know me. I hate the politics. Just joking. I love them. I will just keep my mouth shut. But still. Standing room only.

I killed it. One laugh per second. I read the IKEA thing I wrote last time. I was even wearing the "No Need To Repeat Yourself, I Ignored You Just Fine The First Time." I mean, it went so good that when I was done I said "And thank you!" And bowed. I mean, it was a full-on "Aint I A Stinker?" I started slow and then built it up. Stuttering with emotion at some points. I mean, I think I got something going here. The fresh writing before the reading. I mean, it works wonders. So very topical. I mean, I feel like I can turn it into something more, um, how do you say, moneyed? I mean, it is a stand-up routine without all the "Tight Six" or whatever the hell the bridesmaids say. I mean, I could just Screed all day long, throwing sheets of paper on the stage like a maniac. Railing against the system, man. I mean, I could go on tour. Yucking it up all day long, from Tallahassee to Tacoma. I mean, even now you are laughing your guts off because this is so funny! I mean, am I right? I mean, it’s not like you left a shit on top of a million miles of toilet paper in the second floor bathroom of the Raven. Right? That’s not why you are laughing. Right? I mean, come on, I know it was you, we all do. Just come clean. Nobody is going to judge you. This stuff happens. I mean, honesty is the best policy, right? I mean, just sayin’.