[131] Screed City

[131]

04/29/2022 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

PegLeg's birthday! Happy Birthday Momsy! Brats for dinner. First brats of the season! Tasty galore! I won't lie, if I was smart I would sell brats at the Farmers Market. It would be easy enough. Just drag a barbeque over. Have a hot plate that ran on gas. I mean, easy as 3.14159. I mean, my soul says get a hot dog cart. But for now, just bean burritos and Breakfast Bubbys.

The New Landlord came over today. Talked my ear off for about an hour. I mean, I did the same. He is an affable guy. He brought over the bills for the last four months though. Not good. Avec du mal. Non bueno. Pas bien. I mean, I can't even tell you the amount. It is too annoying, but I think I will be able to work it off by doing house stuff. I mean, there is a plan to put fiber fill in the attic. Deal with the Eastern wall insulation. I mean, next Winter this can't happen again. I refuse. It is too much. Had we known this was part of the cost we would have never agreed to it. It is just untenable. I mean, we shouldn't pay it. If someone else lived here they wouldn't pay it. Shit, if the landlords lived here they wouldn't pay it. Or they would, but some very drastic measures would happen. I mean, I hate spending money, but this is the worst way of spending money. For nothing. I mean, buying drugs is a better investment than overpriced boiler usage. At least with drugs you have a little fun. I mean, I have been living in Cold Town, USA all Winter and still the gas was super high. I mean, buying a wood stove and a chord or two of wood would have been cheaper. I mean, whatever. I don't want to talk about it anymore.

I mean, the New Landlord did buy a few books. He loves KinderRinder for some reason. I mean, the book is great, everyone should read it, but still, it is as dark as you can get. Maybe even darker. Although there is a few fun times that happen. Like when Gustav shit himself in the bathtub. That was quite the lark. I mean, I finished the final installment of Donkey last night. Just under the wire. The Publisher stood outside Beaver Haus with a whip. "Write like the wind!" She would yell. Then snap the whip. I mean, I locked the door so she couldn't come inside so eventually she left, but still. That was kind of rude. I mean, this is good. FINALLY! Here we are, what? I wrote the thing back in 2020? December? And then it has been going out every month for 13 months. I mean, I am very glad I didn't decide to just send out the short story for the last two parts. I mean, I think having alternate endings kind of makes a point. I mean, if the idea is that the thing is allegory. I mean, to kind of prove that no matter how you end the thing it is always going to be the same. I mean, Jayboo saying that the goods should be a time machine, that is the only ending that wouldn't work. Or maybe not? Maybe Donkey wins the lottery or something? Goes on to become president? I mean, whatever. Not that most of you even know what I am talking about. I mean, shame. Here I am, writing like the wind and does anyone sign up for the serial? I mean, a few of you, but if you can get the milk for free, am I right? Like that old bridesmaids chestnut about marriage.

Talked to PegLeg for a while today on the phone. Bad times in Wyoming at the moment. Those fuckers have really lost their fucking minds. It really sucks. They already sucked, but now they suck so bad that there should be a travel warning to that fucking state. I mean, I seriously worry about G using they/them pronouns. I mean, not in general, but in August when we go out there. I mean, it was scary for me growing up and I have just a sliver of queerness. And they still chased me down in their trucks and beat me up. Well, they would have beaten me up, but I outran the idiots. But still. I mean, I am going to need to be on high alert. Like maybe no cruising Main in Worland. I mean, I don't even know. I mean, part of me is joking, but when I actually think about it I am very nervous. I grew up around that shit. G did not. And things are getting so out of control in these places that I wouldn't put it past a group of Wyoming asshole teenagers to hunt queer kids down just to beat them up. I wouldn't. I mean, Worland is something out of Nazi Germany circa 1930's at this point. American flags up and down the Main street. Not that that is special in America, but it is unnerving. And they all really do believe all the lies. All the propaganda. And since they are so insulated from the outside world they will very much see G as a threat. I mean, I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Ugh, what the fuck? Isn't there some good news? Me and Scott worked on the New House for most of the afternoon. Putting up building blocks. Cutting rebarb. Shooting foam into crevices. Skweekill came around. That was nice. Hung out on the forklift blades of the tractor 12 feet off the ground. I mean, at one point the wind came blowing up and started blowing Styrofoam blocks everywhere. Off the top of the building. I almost got knocked off the side. Which, I mean, not really, but had that happened, right before the wind gust came I up I said "Oh, this one is a doubler." And them blam! The stuff knocks me over the edge. I fall to my death. And those are my last words "Oh, this one is a doubler." I mean, it was kind of funny. The thought. But I was not really in any danger. But the thought. My funeral. "It came out of nowhere." Scott giving a very emotional speech. I mean his last words were "Oh, this one is a doubler." He didn't even see it coming. And then the tombstone: Son, Father, Fiancé', Done In By A Doubler In The Year Of Our Lord 2022.

Heading to New York tomorrow. G has another frisbee game. I am very excited. Such a weird thing. And it is so nice to see them do this sort of thing. I mean, growing up right before my eyes. Turns out they lost the last one pretty good. It wasn't 11 to 11 as I thought it was when I left. It was more like 13 to 8. And they didn't score anymore points after I left. I mean, it was the second game of the season. Maybe they did some practice or something? Frisbee workouts. Sprints or whatever. I mean, it really is a game that if they all just worked together they would be unstoppable. Not because they would be better than the other team at frisbee things, it is just that there is no actual defense. And doing things like keeping the frisbee moving forward is not that hard. It is just that there are too many showboat boys that keep doing the very dramatic long shot throw that the other dramatic showboat boys never catch because, frankly, they aren't any good. But what do I know? I only saw what I saw. And, I mean, whatever. You can't change that sort of thinking without actual discipline. Which, I mean, it is frisbee, so.

Grit had two corndogs for dinner. We talked about book stuff and other things. Lovey Dog and Putney were very chill. This Summer is going to be very busy. I guess I am leaning into it. Work all the way until August. Starting right now. I still don't know if I am going to Portland on Sunday. Brother Luke is not answering my calls. I mean, he has good reason. He is a little busy at the moment. But I think I need to start planning pretty good. I am still waiting for a check from the last time I was there. Which, I mean, I don't even know if it was sent, but the mail hasn't come once this week. For some reason. I mean, I asked the New Landlord if he got any mail. He said yes, but if I know him and his mailbox, which I strangely do, I mean, I have dropped things off in it quite a few times. I mean, those guys don't check their mail very often. I mean, why should they? I guess. I mean, if the mailman is going to deliver the mail every day, I kind of feel like you should check your mail every day. But that is just me. I mean, sorry for having compassion for the working man. But I digress. I mean, I asked Scott and the Publisher if they got any mail also. I mean, I think we have the same mailman. They said yes. I mean, maybe there is just no mail for us over here on Buffalo Farm Road? I mean, that seems a little weird. And I know I haven't seen the mailman. And also, the New Landlord was out of town on vacation until like two days ago. I mean, maybe the mailman is on vacation? I know they are short delivery people. I mean, I really considered getting a job doing that. But the pay is kind of crap and they make you use your own car, so that seems a little bunk. But the benefits would be good. I suppose.

I mean, my hip is better if anyone cares. I did some stretches that PegLeg sent me. And that was that. All my worry for nothing. But still, it was pretty bad for a few days. And was kind of a wake-up call. I need to take better care of myself. The glory days are ending. I mean, it is time to start getting really paranoid about growing old. To start getting ripped. Prove that I still got the goods. Professor Curly told me that I should start jogging. I mean, no offense to her, because I don't think she was saying anything sinister, but I don't think the problem to me having a bad hip is to suddenly start doing high impact workouts. I mean, maybe if I did lose that 15 lbs and was riding a bike for a few hours a week. I mean, at that point I think I could start jogging. But right now? I mean, I don't think hitting my body with a baseball bat is going to get me back into shape. I mean, I know Professor Curly loves a good jog. And the Publisher runs marathons. But my body doesn't work that way. I think my brains would leak out of my ears. I would probably shit myself. My hips would buckle. And my balls would drop about a foot in length. Which, I mean, PC is a size queen and that would mean my balls dropping would suck my dick back into my body in equal proportions. Which I don't think she would like so much. A little mushroom sticking out on top of a foot of scrotum? Just dangling in the breeze? Knocking my knees. I mean, doggy-style would just be getting bumped from behind while my balls whacked her in the chin. I mean, that is how it works, right?

I mean, I need to keep fit. I have a book career to worry about. I need to be able to read at a drop of a hat. Which, I mean, I am starting to dig reading out now. I don't know if I have gotten better at it, I mean, I may have gotten worse, but I am slowing down. I don't feel like I need to perform as much as I used to. Which is good. I mean, that means I probably ham it up more than I used to, but so what? I mean, that is all the good reading is. Slow, but engaging. And it helps to read fresh things as opposed to the older stuff. Although I did read from Sequestered at PS/NY. Speaking of which, I think they were supposed to pay me for that. I wonder if I need to worry about getting that money? I mean, whatever. I don't give two shits about that. It was an hour of "Working." And I think that the fee was greatly exaggerated. But it would cover the costs of going down to the City. I mean, you know how I feel about spending money. It stinks. Any money you spend is money you have to replace. Which means working. And working is fine and all. But what is the point sometimes? Am I right? I mean, give me Basic Income any day. That is my philosophy. If the idea is that those billionaire assholes don't pay taxes because they "Create" jobs, I mean, everything I buy, everything I spend money on, I mean, not me, you too, it is all a tax. Gas, food, subway, bills, paper. I mean, it is all in the name of keeping the economy going. And if that is the case, we should all just either not pay taxes, by that I mean anyone that makes less than say $200,000 dollars a year, or the rich motherfuckers pay out the gills. I mean, it is either or. Because them not paying taxes just means we pay more taxes and we are already paying crazy taxes just by living every day. I mean, do you think millionaires or billionaires give two shits that gas is $4 dollars a gallon? Or that ground beef is $8 dollars a lb? I mean, that "Living Budget" for them is peanuts. PEANUTS! They don't care the subway costs $2.75. They don't take it. They never did. They never will. But yet that is where billions of dollars come into the City coffers every fucking year. I mean, doesn't that just steam you veggies?

Whatever. How the hell did we get here? I don't know. Here is a song that will change everything:

[insert Sleepy Joe by SMOG]