[136] Screed City

[136]

05/11/2022 Wednesday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

San Francisco, Part Three:

I mean, I am breaking all my rules with this thing. Screeding is a delicate operation. I am over a barrel though. That's what the bridesmaid said. I mean, first rule broken is inundation. You got to keep the mystery alive. I mean, whatever. It's not my fault. The Publisher and Grit just came over to get this sunflower thing that Siobhan dropped off for Grit and the Publisher asked me what I was writing tonight. I said I was thinking of writing fiction, that screed last night was just too wild. And she said "That was a trick question. You will screed tonight and you will like it. I am the one who controls the novel-strings. I am the decider. You write a single lick of fiction tonight and your ass is grass, mister!" I mean, fuck, right? The second rule I a breaking was to get worked up about minutiae that doesn't add to the screed. Like, maybe going on side rants that don't really apply and can confuse the reader. Plus adding random videos just because you think it is funny, that is a big no-no. The third rule I am breaking is just cramming everything together without rest. I mean, the first rule solves this, but if you don't solve it that way you have to solve it on purpose. Which I very much am not doing. And finally, the fourth and most egregious rule I am breaking is fucking politics, man. Not now, not ever. Don't do it. If you want to screed about politics start a politics screed thing. That way you can find out who your true friends are.

I mean, remember when that guy got mad at me about how much I was writing so I sent him a video of that guy getting his ass waxed and he responded with UNSCRUBSCRIBE? I mean, that wasn't politics that did him in, but it was certainly funny.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, I was busy being a Boomer at the Starbucks. After I got the coffee finally I walked outside feeling like a jerk but glad I had the coffee. I mean, I hate to say it but Starbucks has great coffee. I mean, for years and years and years I never went there. On purpose. Out of protest and then one day, for whatever reason, I ended up having a friend buy me a coffee in Willy B. I mean, he was paying, so, I mean, if you can't let your morals down for free coffee, what can you let your morals down for? I mean, for some dumb reason I had been getting coffee at the Dunkin' down the block. Like that was somehow better. I mean, whatever, you see what I am doing here? Breaking the second rule. Fuck. Anyway. Starbucks coffee is sadly very tasty. And I stood there on the street in the sun with my Brooklyn hipster good looks kind of wondering what to do. I walked over to the Target to have a look-see. Maybe they had a solution to the electricity problem. They did not. I was also looking for little cups for whiskey. I mean, these festivals are easy that way. You offer people a little nip of whiskey and they love you for it. I mean, Whiskey Tit. Even if they don't drink it, they still think it is so very clever to be offered whiskey at a book fair/festival. I mean, they stick around, peruse the books and whatever. Sometimes they leave and come back later after thinking about it. Some people even come back to get more. The other vendors mostly, but sometimes the patrons too. I mean, it is usually the older women that will take the whiskey. That and the kids. I mean, the teenagers who skateboard by. We should probably check ID's now that I think about it.

I walked around the Target and found nothing. I mean, there was a pretty good shirt that had a picture of two female looking heads. One with light skin and one with dark skin. The word QUEER written on top. Lots of rainbow colors. I thought this was very camp and that G would love it. I didn't buy it though. I was regretting this decision the second I left the Target. I promised myself I would go back tomorrow. Always tomorrow. I mean, I walked back to the booth. The Publisher was there now. The books were getting stacked up. Things were looking good. The foot traffic was pretty good too. I mean, we didn't solve the electricity problem, and we didn't have the banner that we usually do. It really doesn't travel well. But the Whiskey Tit logo LED neon without lighting looked good as it was. So too the Live! Nude! Books! I mean, I started chanting "Show us your books! Show us your books!" Everyone ignored me for some reason. We did some talking about this problem. Earlier I had talked to Scott on the phone about possible solutions. He is real good with electric stuff. I am, how do you say, the worst. I really did think we could hot wire a flash light. He told me I was wimpy worm that crawled out of a mudhole. Just joking. He was very helpful and told me to send pictures. That LEDs all have different wattage or something. Ampage. Volts. I asked the Publisher to take some pictures and she told me to do it myself. I said I didn't have enough memory on my phone. She handed me her phone and said take them on this. I did. I sent the pictures to Scott. Then I sent a message from my phone that said "Hey, I sent those photos. If you have time!" He immediately responded with a solution, with links and everything. The idea was to get a 12V battery and another wall wart that we could hot wire to the battery. Which was cool. I mean, whatever a wall wart was. I mean, there was nothing really doing at the moment. Agustin was supposed to show up at some point with a car. When he got there we could go for a drive around. I mean, Abby showed up. Her book had just been born. As everyone kept saying. I mean, I don't know if this is a book thing or just a West coast thing, but I had never heard that debuting a book was called birthing the thing. Whatever, writers are weirdos. Abby's boy toy was there too, Brad. We all had a nice meet and greet and thanks for the last time thing. I mean, things got more codified. The other boothers doing their business. Everyone seemed cool and low stress. I mean, it was nice. I went for a walk because there was not much I could do to help. Or at least that is what I thought. I mean, I can never tell sometimes if I am needed or not. At this moment I assumed my best course of action was to stroll around the festival and look at who else was there. I mean, there was nobody I knew. Book-wise. There was a place for kids. Like a kids section. And a hallway of Authors. Which, come on! How fucking humiliating is that? A long hallway of tents that is just authors sitting at tables with their books on display. Waiting for people to come up and talk to them. Isn't that insane? I mean, my heart was so embarrassed that the entirety of the two days I was there, the total 14 hours, I never once went down that hallway. My heart couldn't take the rejection that was palpable. Isolated. Discernable. I mean, yikes!

I mean, at some point I ended up at the tent in the middle of the thing. The San Francisco Chronicle tent. Which was a large one. With lots of folding chairs and stuff. A stage. Two guys were talking about this guy Dilla. Who, I mean, I don't know who the author of the book that they were celebrating was, but he basically was telling us that John Cage invented hip-hop. Well, it was either Cage or Cale, I don't know the difference. But one of those New York Downtown White Artist guys invented beat loops. And then came Dilla who mixed things up and made them popular and that somehow that music was defined by the nature of how cities get broken up by governments and city planners and racism. I mean, yes, the racism, very much, but I call bullshit on the idea that slowing down a beat and putting it next to a beat that is off time is somehow the "Language of the Streets." I mean, no offense, the guy seemed to really care what he was talking about, and YES we need to celebrate Black artists more, but come on! I mean, his whole point was that Dilla was genius because he was thinking in three dimensional chess or something and everyone else was just doing regular beats like jack-asses. Which, I mean, that both disparages a huge population of Black artists, but at the same time it makes Dilla out to be some insecure pretentious rube. I mean, it is true that you can make art on purpose, we all do that, but you don't have to be Einstein with every thought you have when you are experimenting. Sometimes things just come out good. That doesn't somehow make you stupid. I mean, like any artist, like ALL artists, practice is very important. Which, I mean, I tried to listen to this talk. I really did. I got about 30 minutes in before I couldn't take it anymore though. I mean, maybe it did what it was supposed to do, because it made me interested in Dilla. Even though the guy basically turned me off to him. I mean, whatever. All projects are myopic. I understand that. And nobody would do anything if they didn't think that 100% they would be successful in the endeavor, but still. I mean, I kind of wished that Stefan would have been there because I think he would have been able to explain this guy better than the author and the moderator did.

I mean, I snuck out of the thing when a bunch of new people came in. I didn't want to be rude. But there was still another 30 minutes of this nonsense. I couldn't abide it though. I just couldn't. Art doesn't work the way they were telling me it worked. I mean, this idea of High Art is a farce created by Universities to sell enrollment and because they are in cahoots with donors they then have to sell this shit to rich people so they don't feel bad about giving money to institutions that use that money to make fake careers for privileged White kids. And I mean, sometimes people that aren't supposed to be there fall through the cracks and become lauded and validated, which is great for them. I very much want success to all the talented people in the world. I mean, even the un-talented that are struggling. But still, who the hell wants to be a part of that bullshit club anyway? And to write a whole book about how someone is a genius because they did the bare minimum and just thought about their art for two seconds, I mean, that seems weird to me. But what the hell do I know? I mean, I am not saying that Dilla did the bare minimum, I am just saying that in the world of artists there is about one billion of us and if your only point about what makes someone's art special is that it speciously reflects the "Streets" of St. Luis, I mean, I would rather they were talking about Method Man. But, I mean, you hear what I am saying? I am critiquing the talk based on what I would have rather heard them talking about. So, I mean, my argument is bullshit itself. But guess what? My screed, my rules. I am the decider. Not the Publisher. [Note* The Publisher just called me and asked me to apologize for that last statement. I don't know how she knew I wrote it, but I am wrong, I am foolish, and I am sorry.]

I mean, when I got back to the booth Agustin and Jessica were there. I guess. I mean, I don't know. I do know that some time went by. They showed up sometime around noon. Which is the problem with writing these things days later. What you remember is not true. Not to mention that I had very little sleep and time itself had become something weird. I had no idea what time it was. And when I looked at my phone it always surprised me. I mean, three hour time lag. But I do know that they showed up. Hung out for a bit. Jessica ditched. We talked more about getting electricity to the LED neon signs. I mean, eventually it was decided that me and Agustin would go to Home Depot. Get the battery and the wall wart, whatever that was, and come back. I mean, during this time people were coming to the booth. Talking to us. Buying books. Having a great time. The sun was out. The people were nice. Everything was cool. I mean, after a while me and Augustin hit the skids. I mean, earlier he was bragging about his parking spot. How easy it was to find. How it was a one in a million chance! Just joking. I mean, he was bragging, I don't remember him saying that it was one in a million though. I mean, he was sad to give it up. Butwhatever. We walked out of the festival. I stopped to use the Honey Bucket. The coffee. I mean, it was just a lemonade. None of the fudge as the bridesmaids say. Then we got into Old Blue. As Augustin called his car. I mean, it was what? A 2007, shit, I can't remember. Fuck, why didn't I write that down. I mean, I am bad with cars. I know some of them really good. From experience, but this car, I mean, it was like Junior Mint but slightly younger. We got in. Agustin was very sad to leave the parking spot. I mean, I don't blame him, it was a sweet parking spot. Barely 1/3rd of a block from the festival. Just across the street, basically. I mean, we got in and he told me:

"Alright, keep your eyes out for the pigs. I don't have rear license plate and the car is unregistered. Man, I hate the Berkeley police. They don't have shit to do. They will pull me over in a second."

I mean, I am paraphrasing. I don't think he called the cops "Pigs" but still, they are. Especially cops that don't have shit to do but harass people. On the other hand, unregistered and missing a license plate? You are kind of asking for it. Not to victim-shame Agustin. I mean, I can barely get in my car and drive when I know that I have two weeks before the inspection sticker runs out. But then again I am a sucker for rules. And cars are rules incarnate. I mean, Agustin is a rebel. A wild card. A menace to Society. You don't want to meet that guy late at night in unfamiliar circumstances because he will fuck your shit up! I mean, I am just joking, but still, he is asking for trouble and I don't know how he does it. I mean, he must have a different understanding of driving down the streets than I do. I mean, okay, he told me this story about the car because I asked about where he got it. No, hold on, that is not true. As we were driving to the Home Depot, down roads I had no idea where they were going. We talked about Old Blue. His brakes were loud. Squealing. He needed to change his oil. The thing only has 108 thousand miles on it. I mean, shit! Junior Mint is at 152,208. I mean, I couldn't help but give him the treatment. I mean, if he takes care of this care it would last him another 150,000 miles, man. I mean, in California. Just the bare minimum of care. Change the oil twice a year. Rotate the tires twice a year. Get brake pads that work. I mean, change the tires every two years. It is something very easy. I mean, $100 bucks a year is all it would take to keep the thing purring like a bridesmaid. And then maybe a $400 dollar bill for tires that will keep you living. I mean, whatever. That is my assessment. I mean, he agreed. But still, the license plate and the registration. I mean, the guy is a maverick! I really don't know how he doesn't pull his hair out when he sleeps.

But back to the story of the car that he bought at some point. I mean, I told Agustin about this car I bought like a million years ago. How I paid $200 bucks for it. An Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme from 1980. And the car was fantastic. And the previous owner, who was the daughter of my mom's best friend, had said, after seeing me cruise by one time on Main Street in Worland, Wyoming "That car never worked that well when I owned it." And Christie, who was hilarious had said "Yeah, well, that is because he takes care of it." I mean, this is third-hand commentary, but still, it applies. I mean, Agustin followed my story with his own story about buying a $200 dollar car. About how he bought it from dude that had two broken legs somehow. And that there was no transfer of ownership. That he was going to drive the car to New Orleans. To do what, I don't remember. But then after he drove away from the guy he ran out of gas on the way home because the gas gauge didn't work and he ended up walking back to gas station and buying a gallon of milk, poured it out and took a gallon of gas back to the car in the milk jug. And then at some point the car just broke down on some street when he was driving it, or the tires exploded? I can't remember, so he just left it there to get towed. I mean, what the hell, right? What a fantastic story. I mean, I won't lie, I think it needs to be written. I said as much. I said "You should write that down. It is a great short story. Like some Raymond Chandler shit." I mean, I meant to say Raymond Carver, butwhatever. He got caught my drift. I just like the guy that has two broken legs for some reason and the gallon jug of milk getting filled up with gas. And then the idea of going to New Orleans. But it doesn't happen because the car gets left on the side of the road to get towed. I mean, I guess I just like all of the story. I mean, there was a friend involved too. Which makes for a good short story. The friend. I mean, I think the way he told the story the friend was both very suspect of the idea, and also the same guy that kind of instigated the thing. Or, what is the word, enabled the thing by giving Agustin a ride to meet the guy with two broken legs for some reason in the first place. I mean, why not just drive the friend's car? Shit, I am fucking this story up. However, I do hope he writes it. I should harass him about it. That and getting his oil changed and his brake pads changed out and getting a new license plate, or at least put the one on the front on the back, and getting the car fucking registered. Right? I mean, he may be a maverick but he is asking for trouble.

Anyway. We got to the Home Depot. Much of the conversation after the car stuff was about getting a hot dog. To eat. I thought for sure the Home Depot would have a nice hot dog cart out front. [Shit! I still have half of the hot dog in my jacket pocket! I need to get that out ASAP. AMEC! I wonder if it is still good? Right? That shit doesn't spoil. And it has been about 55F in the house the whole time I have been back. We'll see. We'll see.] I mean, we parked and walked into the place. Stopping for a second to peruse the menu at the hot dog stand. We both decided that getting a hot dog after going inside was better. Getting one now would just delay things. So we went inside. Looking for weird stuff. A 12V battery and a wall wart. Whatever the hell that was. I mean, this Home Depot was a huge one. Bigger than most. A size queen like Professor Curly would have been very satisfied by it. I mean, we wandered around having no idea where to go. I mean, here is where me and Agustin have a different approach to life. He went looking for someone to ask about things. I just wandered mindlessly around thinking that eventually we would find what we needed. Both of us were disappointed. He couldn't find anyone that knew shit and I couldn't randomly find shit on my own. Eventually we did find someone that kind of pointed us in the right direction. I mean, I guess he was right and I was wrong, but still, this didn't solve our problem. I mean, we found the battery. But the wall wart was something different. Nobody knew what the hell a wall wart was. Not me, not Agustin, not the employees of the Home Depot. We had to look it up. Or tried to. I mean, have you ever been in a Home Depot? The reception sucks. Always. At the most critical time, when you need the internet the most, there you are, stranded. Nobody will help you. Nobody knows shit. And you are looking for something you have no idea about? I mean, it is very rude. I mean, eventually we figured it out. A wall wart is basically a computer cord for a PC. Something that steps down 120 A/C power to whatever. In our case it was 120 A/C to 12V DC. I mean, we couldn't find it. Nobody could help us. We ended up buying the battery. A wire stripper. I mean, I paid $50 dollars for the things. I made sure to get a receipt. Because, that was kind of a lot of money for something that would or would not work. We went outside and went directly to the hot dog stand. I ordered a kielbasa for some reason. With everything. A diet Coke. Agustin got a regular hot dog with relish and I think mustard. A bottle of water. He paid. Bless his heart. We stood there eating the things. My kielbasa was too big. I mean, Professor Curly would disagree, but she wasn't there. I mean, I was disappointed, but who knows? Maybe the thing is still good? I have half of it still in my jacket pocket. I can find out here shortly. Agustin seemed okay with his hot dog. He was a little sad that he didn't get a flavored drink. As he called it. I mean, my whole thing with drinks these days is avoiding calories when unneeded. Plus I was tired. The sugar from the diet Coke did me good. I mean, I wrapped the half-hot dog up in the foil it came in and put it in my pocket for later. But later never came. Whatever. I mean, we got back into Old Blue and drove over to Circuit City which was just down the way. I mean, this guy from the Home Depot that worked there said we would find what we were looking for there. I mean, it was true. We parked and went inside. The sales staff immediately pointed to where we needed to go. I mean, we got there just fine, but the cords we were looking at were $60 dollars a piece. $60 dollars! Combined with the $50 dollars I just spent on the battery and the wire strippers? That was too much. Some kid came over and asked us if we needed help. I said:

"Yeah, kind of. I mean, these cords are expensive as shit. We need something like this but cheaper. Is there a Good Will around or something?"

"Well, I don't know. What about this one, though? It has been opened before. Which makes it cheaper." I opened the box. It was wrong. 19V. I said:

"Shit, wrong volts, dog." The kid took his phone out and told us there was Good Will just down the road. He said:

"What do you need it for?"

"Well, that is the thing. We need to be able to destroy it. And $60 bucks is too much."

"Yeah, right on. I mean, I don't know if they will have it there, but it's pretty close, I guess."

"Thanks, man."

I mean, that is kind of how the conversation went. All I know is that the kid was very helpful and we, me and Agustin went back out to Old Blue and got inside. I said:

"Shit, sorry, man. If we can't find this cord at the Good Will we are going to have to come back and return this battery and stuff. Fifty bucks is just too much to eat, you know?"

"Yeah, no worries, let's go check it out."

I mean, we drove out of the parking lot. There was an un-housed guy busking at the stop sign. Agustin took his wallet out and took a dollar from it. He handed it to me. He said:

"Hand this to that guy if you don't mind." I handed the busker that dollar. He held his cardboard sign over his mouth as he said "Thank you, and god bless." Agustin said:

"What did he say? Watch out for the mess?" I said:

"No, he said, Thank you and god bless."

"Oh, that makes more sense. Shit, I think we go this way. Now what were the streets that guy said? MLK or something?"

"I have no idea."

"Yeah, alright, I think I know, hold on."

I mean, we started driving towards somewhere I didn't know where we were going. But what can you do? The sun was out and the traffic was odd. I kept an eye out for the police. Assuming we would be pulled over at any point. I mean, there was no license plate on the back of Old Blue. I mean, we should have bought a screwdriver and taken the license plate from the front and put it on the back. But we didn't. We just winged it. Like the maverick that Agustin was.

End Part Three.