[126] Screed City

[126]

04/15/2022 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Where to start? I mean, top of my mind? Just drove back from Portland, Maine. Three and a half boring ass interstate miles. Worked all day at the Brewery. Spraying down concrete under giant metal tanks of grain. Dropped Brother Luke off at the school so he could pick up his kids. Then I hit the road. The skids. For some reason my phone decided to die just after I dropped him off. Which was funny because he had spent the last four minutes of the drive giving me directions to the interstate. And instead of listening I kind of spaced off. I mean, I had to pull over and wait for my phone to charge enough to get directions from the map thing. Which is very ironic considering how much shit I always give Professor Curly about depending on the phone when driving. I mean, I had exactly zero idea where I was. Or where I needed to go. Butwhatever. It worked itself out in the end and I made it home to Beaver Haus.

When I got home I went out immediately to feed the goats. I was surprised they didn't greet me with their whines. Then I got nervous when they didn't come over from somewhere in the enclosure. Then I yelled for them. They didn't come. Then I went inside to get a flashlight. Thinking I would find some dead goats lying around. Half-eaten or whatever. Maybe a bear would attack and I would have to fight it off with my bare hands. Then I noticed the door to the creepy part of the house was open. Which gave me the willies. I didn't want to go in there and confront the ghost of the girl-child that lives there. Even if it meant saving the goats. I walked around the edge of the enclosure. Finding nothing. Then way off in the distance I saw their beady little eyes reflecting the flashlight. I walked over to them. They were very suspect of me. But they figured it out and I led them to their delicious dinner that I had prepared for them. As I walked by the entrance to their hutch I noticed that the floor was about a foot and half above the the rest of the ground. I mean, my god. A foot and a half of goat turds piled up in there! Eventually they will be bonking their heads on the ceiling if I don't do something about it.

it's been a wild week at the Brewery. A lot of ins and outs. Picnic tables. Lunches. Coffee. I mean, I don't even know what I have been up to. Morning meetings daily. It is nice being the bosses' brother. Nepotism at it's finest. I get the benefit of all of Luke's hard work without having to do shit. I mean, I worked all week. I did, I swear. I dug a trench. Painted some picnic table-tops with polyurethane. I build a bench thing that was actually a table. I sprayed some concrete down with high-pressure water. I raked some leaves. I drilled some holes. I grinded some metal. I did a lot of walking. Lifting. Made few jokes. Learned some lessons. Made a few new friends. I mean, it couldn't have gone better. The work was clean. The people were nice. The food was tasty. I slept well. Got to bed early every night. I mean, I don't know what else to say about it. Nobody complimented me on my sideburns though. I found this rude. On Thursday at the morning meeting I brought it up. For some reason me and Luke were late to the meeting. Everyone was just standing around, waiting. We walked in. Somebody thought it was a great big laugh-up to pretend that I was the one in charge. They said:

"Oh look, it is Uncle Joey Fun Bunz right here! We can start the meeting." And I took my opportunity. I said:

"Look! I have been here for four days now, and not a single one of you sons of bee-stings has complimented me on my sideburns!" The jerks just laughed. Not a single one told me I had nice sideburns. Even then! I mean, not even Brother Luke, who was supposed to be in charge. I mean, he had kind of complimented my sideburns earlier in the week, but it was a side-style compliment. Like a backwards-type of thing. Like, I do find them interesting, or something like that. I mean, after the morning meeting he did take me aside and said:

"I do like your sideburns." Which, I mean, hollow words from a too little too late suppose'd boss. I guess he didn't want everyone else to know how he felt. Otherwise he would have said it opening and loudly for everyone to hear. Instead he did it privately and on the side like a fucking coward. I mean, like always, I can't catch a break.

I learned a few things about stuff from H. Brother Lukes son. The one that just had a birthday. I mean, he seemed to like the hover soccer ball I gave him. I mean, it is actually kind of cool. The hover soccer ball. I mean, one of the batteries exploded when he was using it the first time, so that is not good, but as a thing, it is kind of cool. Like a frisbee with a fan or something. That cruises along the ground and makes a weird light show. I mean, he has this book about strange things in the world. Little tidbits of suppose'd facts. Like, your brain uses 30% of it's energy just seeing things. And that females can taste more than males. Which, I mean, he told me that that was okay because:

"Girls might be able to taste good things more, but that means they taste bad things more too. So something gross to me is much more gross to them." I mean, I don't know if that is positive thinking or the mind of a sociopath. That he would take pleasure in the suffering of others as long as it meant that his pleasure was being offset because of the same thing. Either way. I also learned that it would take a sloth a month to walk a mile. When I learned this at breakfast one day I told H and E that I learned that a sloth spends half of a week climbing down from a tree to take a poop and then a day pooping and then another half of week to climb back up the tree. They loved that fact. I mean, I don't know if it is true or not, I feel like I read it somewhere once. But that "Fact" was as much as a fact as all the other facts in that book of his.

I mean, we had tacos on Tuesday night. That was good. Last night we had fried eggs and bacon and toast for dinner. E has two teeth that have been falling out for a month now. They won't come out though. She has to eat with the side of her mouth. Which is comic. Very complicated. I mean, I don't know. It was all very domestic and made me miss G. I remember those years. Like the time they were convinced that the steamy beans had given them little pimple things on their chin. How everything was just one thing to the next. Pick them up from school. Then a little play time. Then dinner. Then dessert. Then bath. Then bed time. Then morning. Then breakfast. Then school. Then picking them up from school. Then a little play time. Then dinner. Then dessert. Then bath. Then bedtime. I mean, kids are a pain in the ass, but their lives are pretty simple. And if you just give into it it is very enjoyable. I mean, they suck all of the time away, but the pay-off is huge. You give them every single hour of your life, and then they become teenagers and won't return your fucking phone calls. The ungrateful bastards!

I mean, we didn't really do anything aside from working and domestic stuff. Which was fine by me. It was a nice reset. I think I had been spending too much time wallowing in Vermont. I mean, to come back home, to see all of these jugs sitting around. A reminder of where I was before I left just a week ago. Not even a week. Six days. The Tickler enterprise. I mean, I did expect Brother Luke's boss to come and ask me what my secret was to my world famous Ticklers. The secret ingredient. I mean, I am like the Good Will Hunting of brewing around those parts. They don't know it was me that solved the beer equation on the chalkboard in the engineering room. And they never will. I mean, when I get Fun Bunz Ticklers & Juice Corp. up and running my slogan will be:

"It all started with just a lb. of sugar, a gallon of water, and a dream."

I mean, I won't lie, I have been drinking a couple of glasses of the good stuff. The "Cold Crash" I did when I left. Chef's kiss. I mean, the key is the quick ferment. The "Hyper-Yeast" I call it. Don't tell the Brewery. It is my secret, my secret alone. But the trick is to blast the sugar with an aggressive yet mild yeast that just gets in and gets out. And then you cull the heat before the yeast know what's coming. They kind of look around like African dogs who accidentally ate everything at some rotten corpse. Not sure if they are still hungry or not. And then a snow storm comes barreling in and they run away. But they have no place to go so they just hibernate. I mean, it is metaphysical. When I really get my operation going I think I can have a three day turn-around on this shit. I will have the freshest Ticklers in town. And you won't know what hit you. You'll ask:

"Whoa! How long did it take to get such a fresh flavor, Joe?" And I will say:

"This shit got done just yesterday. I hope you don't mind taking your taste buds on a wet and wild blast from the past!"

Yeah, okay, I am still working on the marketing. But you can catch my drift as the bridesmaids say.

I have to put together Donkey serial Thirteen tomorrow. I mean, today is the 15th. Which, sorry, I don't mean to mention it, but it coincides with other things. But also, I am late on this too. I mean, I won't mention the other thing. But it is implied. I mean, I heard this Circle Jerks song today that sums it up:

[Insert Circle Jerks Broken Glass]

I mean, I can't express enough how fantastic punk rock is. I don't care. You can think it is just bro-dudes getting their wiggles out, but my fucking god, it speaks to me. Even all these years later when I have no desire to get into the mosh pit and rub my hard-ass dick against other pissed off kids with hard-ass dicks. I mean, my only regret about the punk movement is that it didn't, or doesn't appeal to more "Female" points of emotion. I mean, it can't be just angry young men feeling this way. I mean, of course, I have tried to explain this before in a way that excuses how men and boys are not the assholes they seem to be. But, they are. They always will be. And I am not confused that people other than straight men and boys gravitate to this, but there is something there that is ineffable that I will not apologize for. I mean, maybe that is all it is. That simple. That it speaks to a very limited and angry chunk of the population. And maybe it is just a messaging error. I mean, who wants to get knocked around by a bunch of sexually frustrated dicks on legs? I mean, I don't. Not now at least. At one point I really very much did. And it felt great. I am just saying that being a punk in my younger years has led me to being the conscientious person I am now. And part of that was learning that it wasn't so cool being an asshole. Which! I hate so say it, but, I mean, Jack said it best:

"It is a lack of good training." Men, boys more like, need training. It is that simple. And when they don't get it they just punch at everything that comes their way without thinking. And sometimes it is best to just let them whack each other off in the mosh pit until they are exhausted. And then when that is done you can ask:

"Okay, so how does that make you feel? How does that relate to other feelings you have toward Society? Do you like being pushed around like that? Do you think other people would like to be pushed around like that as well? By you?"

"Um, nuh. I don't like getting hit in the nuts, if that is what you mean."

"Yes, Joey, that is exactly what I mean. Do you think other people don't like getting hit in the nuts as well?"

"Well, no. Probably not."

"Does that maybe make you think you shouldn't hit other people in the nuts?"

"I guess so, probably."

"Because nobody deserves to get hit in the nuts?"

"I don't know, that guy Dan is a dick. I think he might deserve it."

"Okay, but Dan aside, do people in general deserve to get hit in the nuts?"

"Not really, I guess."

"Alright. We are making progress here."

"But Dan is a fucking dick."

"Yeah, okay..."

"That fucker told Tony I took his last Pop Tart, I didn't fucking take his last Pop Tart, that kid Skids did, and I was already planning on buying more anyway if it wasn't for that dumb-ass idiot with the rat, what? Tark, who doesn't even live here he just comes down on the weekends anyway."

"Yeah, but, my point is..."

"I don't even know how he gets down here. Hair-Ball said he catches a bus out by the Nine, but that is bullshit. I know his mom drops him off downtown. Everyone knows it. Somebody said she hands him a twenty at least every time and he can't fucking buy his own Pop Tarts? What the fuck is that? If I had that kind of stash I would buy the whole lot a case of Pop Tarts, even that other kid, the one from the Valley that punched that cop that one time. That kid is a dick too. I like his boots though. Somebody told me his grandad stole them off a dead Nazi. I mean, I am sure it is bullshit, but still."

I mean, I don't know why I thought I should start writing a cool indie flick about idiot punks, but you never know where this shit will take you. I am just as surprised.

After the Donkey thing gets done tomorrow I think I will go over to the Compound for some fish tacos. Talk about plane tickets to Southern California. I mean, planes. Fucking hell. I haven't been on a plane in years. Two years plus. I do not look forward to it. But such is life. A weekend in California. The last time I was in California was way back in the 90's. I wrote a whole book about it. I mean, that kind of excites me. To go back for once. Not sure of the logistics. Which me and the Publisher will talk about. I mean, fly around for a while. Get a car or something. Drive around. They have good camps out there. A place to put a tent. I mean, half the people are un-housed because the other half are getting people to pay their their taxes in the form of rent. I heard you can Air B&B a surfboard out there. They give you a tarp to put down on the surfboard. A pillow. A water-proof blanket. You lay down on top of the surfboard. Put the blanket over yourself. The pillow under your head. Then the landlord pushes you out into the ocean for the night. When the tide comes back in they greet you with a cup of cold-brewed organic free trade coffee and bowl of quin-wah. Natural flavored. Raw. And after breakfast they give you a tantric hug and send you on your way. The $20 dollar tip is included on your bill. Courtesy of PayPal. Which sends you a dick-pic courtesy of Elon Musk's archives. With the tagline:

Doesn't it feel good to get fucked? #ponzi4eva.