[145] Screed City

[145]

05/28/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Banner day! Literally, I hung up the new banner. And it looks fantastic.

[insert Booth photo]

[See left, the Putin of Gluten, see right the Naked Vagina]

The day did not start well. I spent last night finishing Sugar Beets [italics.] I mean, I finished it. Which, there is always a thing about finishing a book you have been working on. Trying not to rush the last few pages, but then feeling like it has to get done or you will lose the thread. It is nonsense, but, I mean, that sense of controlled urgency kind of puts you off sorts. And then of course you kind of celebrate. My point is, I went to bed late and in a kind of mercurial state of mind that, I won't lie, I kind of left a huge mess for myself to clean up at 5a the next morning. I knew I was doing it. I even said out loud "You know you are setting yourself up for failure, right?" I mean, I didn't care at the moment, I had just finished this great thing that I had been very excited about doing. Anyway, I woke up in a little bit of an annoyed and foul mood because I had left myself a mess to clean up on Boother Day. At least it wasn't raining though.

I did my normal stuff getting ready. Trying to time everything just right. Turning the oven on at exactly 6a. Getting into the shower. Getting dressed. Coming back down to the kitchen with about 10 minutes to spare. Getting the Breakfast Bubbys ready to reheat. Then the Cubby Bubbys. Then boiling water and getting the Booth Box ready to go. I mean, that I kind of did a clean-up thing. Getting rid of things like gloves and other things I didn't use, but brought for Grit when she sold cookies and eggs. Now I just use baker's tissue. I have a cleaver and a cutting board, but that is it. There is no other thing I need when selling the things. Some people ask me to cut the Bubbys in half. Then don't ask me to do anything else to them, I mean, what that would be, I don't know. It hasn't come up yet.

When I put the second chafing dish into the oven I went out to Junior Mint. Opened the door and tried the trunk latch under the inside door handle. It didn't work. I couldn't find the keys. For a second there I thought I was loosing my mind. I went inside to find them. Nothing doing. Then I went back out to the car. They were in the ignition. At that moment, I mean, oh boy. I never leave the keys in the ignition. I mean, I didn't even have to do it, but I did it anyway. I tried to turn the car on. In response I heard "Click, click, click." I had one thought. I should send Abbie an electronic mail. I guess I won't be boothing today. But then I calmed down for a quick second. I went inside. Called the Publisher. She answered. She said:

"Hey Joe, what's up?"

"Um, do you want to help me out with an emergency?" I said it kind of flat and unemotional, I think. She said:

"Depends what it is. Just joking. What's up?"

"I need to head to Waitsfield in twenty minutes and my battery is dead."

"Let me..." I could hear Scott in the background "Heading over!" The Publisher said "Scott's coming."

"Oh, thank god! Okay, thanks!"

I went outside and opened the trunk with the key. Started packing stuff inside. Went back inside. Took the Cubby Bubbys out of the oven. Put the chafing dish in the chafing dish. Lit some Liquid Heat. Kept packing. Popped the hood open. A few minutes later Scott arrived. I went out to meet him. He pulled the Mini next to Junior Mint and popped the hood. Went to the back and got the jumper cables. I thought to myself "Get jumper cables." This is twice in two days a dead battery had come into my life. Scott came around the front and said:

"Hey Joe. Dead battery, eh?"

"Yeah, it was John Foggerty that did it." He laughed and said:

"Born on the bayou got you again?" I said:

"Ha, no it was Suzie Q. I went to Waitsfield yesterday and when I got back the radio guy was doing this two covers of the same song thing. And Suzie Q came on. And, I mean, I think CCR is actually a pretty good band, I mean, their music pairs well with Vietnam movies really well. But as I was sitting there listening to the song I thought, this is crazy, I can listen to this song at any time. I don't need to sit in my driveway listening to it." And he said:

"Yeah, did you put the movie on a projector in your back seat and mute the sound and listen to the radio?" I said:

"Haha! No, but I must have not turned the car off. I mean, for a second there I though Vinney Junior had come over and taken my car for a joy ride and left the thing on. I must be losing my fucking mind."

I ran inside to get some more stuff ready. I heard the car start. I ran back outside. I said:

"Thank you so much! Fucking life saver. I don't know what I would have done. I guess no Farmers Market for me today."

"We got you." Scott coiled the jumper cables. Shut his hood. Said:

"Leave it running until you park in Waitsfield." I said:

"Yeah, I know, when Professor Curly had this happen she immediately had to call Triple A again." Scott nodded. He knew the story. I had told it a few times already. Scott got in the Mini. Rolled down the window. I said:

"Okay, thanks! I'll see you over in Waitsfield later! Just joking." He said some things that I can't repeat here and drove away.

I was doing just fine on time. The goats were fed. I had everything packed. I had this feeling I forgot something, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I stood in front of the house. Visualizing the booth. "Okay, the two chafing dishes on the right. The single table. The table cloths. The two tables in front. The table cloths. The penguin paper towel dispenser. The FOOD sign. The tent." I had everything. It just felt empty for some reason. Something was missing. I would find out soon enough. I turned off the lights. Made sure I had my coffee mug and my water bottle. My wallet and my phone. And then I left. Driving like the wind.

The drive was nice. Like always. That drive, early morning through the canyon and then the hills above Waitsfield. It really is something. Peaceful. Pretty. I kept looking at the clock. At first this stunned me. Because the power was off the clock reset. And my mind couldn't just ignore it. Because by my own logic I was already 20 minutes late. But my logic was faulty because it was based on incorrect information. But still, I kept looking at that damn clock. Giving me jolts of panic, followed by "Stop looking at the clock! It is wrong!"

I got to the Farmers Market. Parked in the yoga studio parking lot. Started unpacking. I was a little flustered and was trying to stay positive, but whenever anyone asked how I was doing, instead of saying, Just fine, yourself? I would tell them that my battery died and luckily I was able to get a jump. I mean, this is America, when someone asks you how you are doing, they don't mean, How are you? Are you okay? they mean, 'Sup? I mean, I felt like I was bumming the whole joint out with my tales of woe. Butwhatever. I got over it. Got straight to work setting up my booth.

First I had to light a fire under the chafing dishes. Which meant putting a table together. Which meant getting the soft goods. Which meant getting the Boother Box and soft goods bag. Which meant finding the Liquid Heat. Which meant making sure the things were working before I could do anything else. The first rule in food service is to take care of the food first and foremost. Everything else is secondary. I mean, cleanliness is also part of the first rule, but that is a control issue, not a logistics issue. Well, it is partly logistics, but only in the sense of infrastructure and supply. I mean, if your food is spoilt there is no point proceeding. I mean, when the food was taking care of I could focus on other things. Like unloading everything else. Moving the car. Et cetera, et al.

After I parked the car I walked back to the booth. I opened the tent. Started making it right. Something was wrong though. The thing was saggy. I had found a weird piece of metal in the trunk. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was not good. After I figured out that the tent was saggy, I looked up and knew what was not working. What the chunk of metal was for. There was nothing I could do about it now. I would just have to have a saggy tent. Maybe if I had a second I could go to the hardware store. For now though, I just had to keep setting up. Otherwise Abbie would come over and box my ears. She runs a tight ship, as the bridesmaids say.

I got everything arranged. And then the banner. I had to take the string off the old banner and transfer it to the new banner. Which was whatever. I mean, I hung the new banner. I won't lie, it looks really very good. I mean, it kind of un-confuses my booth a little. The last one said:

Dosa's Get Out Service. Baked Goods And Sweet Treats By Joey And Grit. Sweet And Savory.

With a picture of some bread and some cookies. I mean, nobody comes over looking for baked goods because of that sign. Or sweet treats. However, though, people constantly were coming over looking for Dosas. Which are some Indian thing that I don't know what it is. And then I have to tell them that Dosa is the Moses of goats, the Einstein of goats who the Get Out Service was named after. I mean, they never listen, they always tell me a story about how tasty the Dosas they have eaten in their lives are. And we both suffer because I don't want to hear their stories and they don't want to hear mine and we are both disappointed. You know? Like marriage:

In the end you are both disappointed. They want you to change and you want them to stay the same.

Wise words. But the sign now says:

Cubby Bubbys "A One-Piece Sandwich"

Which doesn't clarify things. However, combine that with the display case and me saying "Basically it is a roll filled with stuff." I mean, people understand eventually. And once you get the hooks in them. Blamo! Ca-ching! I mean, the sign looked great. I did the rest of the stuff. Had some time to kill. Walked back to Junior Mint to look for the missing bolt and nut. I found the nut. It was a nylock. Which made me sigh. The whole point of those nuts is to not come off the bolt. It doesn't use tension, so there is no reason for it to fail unless it is crap to begin with. And since my tent was crap to begin with, I should have expected the hardware to be crap too. I went back to the booth. Did some more things. Wrote on the sandwich board and the dry erase board. Saw a naked vagina. The CBD gal was back. I mean, short skirt and no panties. Naked vagina every time. I mean, it is funny with her. I don't even know what I am seeing, like I will look over and my brain will be like "That's odd." And then I will blink and my brain will go "That is a naked vagina. You should probably look away." And then I will look away. Then it will happen again. I mean, it feels like that scene in Basketball Diaries [italics] when Jim Carrol is riding the train up to the Upper West Side and some lady is trying to get his attention and he is worn out from drugs and just wants to get home so he gets up and tells her to please close her knees because it is incredibly distracting. I mean, in his story the point he is making is that he is a hot young dude that all the ladies want to fuck, but because he gets so much tail he can't be bothered, a mysogynistic humble-brag as it were, but for me, I mean, it wasn't that at all, it was a different distraction. Like somebody put a secret peephole in my booth and then had a whole bunch of uncouth things to look at on the other side, and I just wanted to get some work done, but on the other hand, naked vagina.

At some point I gave up on the idea that I was going to just have a saggy tent and told the Putin Of Gluten to watch the booth, I was going to the hardware store. I took the nut that I had. With it's crappy nylon. I walked around the back of the market. Down the gravel path. Went inside. I mean, it was now 830a. I mean, for some reason the hardware store was hopping. Middle aged grumpy Vermonters just floating around. Looking for stuff for their Saturday projects. The bolt aisle was three deep. I was in a hurry. Didn't they know this? Get out of the way! I had to be patient. I didn't want to be, but I had to. Eventually I had my turn at the bolts. I found what I wanted. An inch and a half 10-24 bolt. The crappy nylock fit perfect. I took it to the check-out. Tried to pay. The guy said:

"How much?" I said:

"Just one." He said:

"No, how much does it cost?" I said:

"Oh."

I went back and found out. I came back. There was now a line. I cut back in line. Probably making the grouchy guy who was supposed to be next more grouchy. Butwhatever. I was there first. I said:

"$.28 cents."

"Okay, with tax that will be $.29 cents, oh, no, $.30 cents, they round up."

I paid and went back to the booth. Tried to fix the thing. Only could do half a job. Enough to get rid of the sag. I would need to work on it later. My tables were in the way. There was no point to break everything down to do this now. I mean, it was good enough. I would at least get through the day. I mean, after that it was just waiting. This weekend is Memorial Day. The Un-Official start of Summer. Or so they say. And this time it is not the bridesmaids who say it. This one goes deeper than that. It's a real Corporate America Valentines Day kind of nonsense. Remember the Vets but also here are some bargains and spend all of your money travelling. I mean, yes, remember the fucking Vets. They are truly victims and pawns. But don't forget the wars corporate America loves to get involved in for money. Okay, pull it back, Joe, pull it back.

After this I was doing nothing aside from just waiting. People were already showing up. The weather was fantastic. A hint of doom hovering on the edges, but for now, the sun was shining, the air was cool. Spirits were high. I mean, it was the first official Farmers Market. The one that everyone comes to. The one that leads into the Summer. The one that means from now until about the first week of August, people are excited to do this shit. Then August ruins everyone. Nobody gives a shit. And then when September comes around people come back. Because pressed apples and pumpkin spice and leaves changing.

The Putin Of Gluten had some bad things to say about the Ticklers. He was not a fan at all. And not only that, but he thought that my making Champagne Ticklers was the worst idea I could have. Because the bubbles would just make the flavor worse. I mean, I politely disagree with that gasbag, but still, he does have a point. I know they aren't for everyone. And the truth is, this is just the beginning, so he can shove his mansplaining criticism right back down his gullet. I mean, if he had it his way, I would make a truly horrible beer that tasted like the bottom of a large man's butt cheek after standing in line for the roller coaster for an hour on a hot Summer's day. Plus hops. And he would just sip from it while his asparagus wrapped in bacon slowly cooks on his hardwood smoker while he explains why we should use made up pronouns for everyone because then nobody would identify as male or female anymore, we would just be Blobs and Blebs or something, and there you go! Transmorphia is solved!

Butwhatever. Let's get back to the laughs. I mean, the first Cubby Bubbys I sold was a banger. This couple that loves the things showed up. Ordered five. Two Cubby Bubbys, three Breakfast Bubbys. I said:

"Throwing a party?" And they didn't even laugh. I mean, they were amused, but they were serious. I mean, they actually really love the things. The gal in the couple said:

"Oh, no, we have guests over for breakfast, and these things are just so god damn good."

It was a great compliment. And things just got better after that. I was slinging the shit left and right. Left and right. People coming. People going. Some people coming that said that they heard this shit was great. Some people coming out of curiosity, but then sending other people over. I mean, I sold out by noon. I had to send quite a few people away. Also, a few people wanted a vegetarian one. Which, I mean, I do have a mushroom one that I have yet to make this season. I will do it for the next one. I mean, those ones are tricky. And my philosophy is to not make anything that I won't eat myself, but at this point there have been at least 10 people asking. So, I mean, I am bringing the Publisher back. But this time without cabbage. Just mushrooms, onions and Swiss cheese. Which! I just learned that Swiss cheese is not lactose cheese. Something about the length of curing. I mean, I need to do more research, but still, that is some pretty good information. I mean, somebody tried to get a Breakfast Bubby without sausage. And, I mean, as much as I feel for them, I am not going to do it. I did it before and it did not sell. It just didn't. Anyone that is ordering a breakfast sandwich wants bacon or sausage. It is a personality thing. And I am not going to do a watered-down version just to assuage a one-in-100 buyer. I mean, I won't eat the spoilage. I refuse. The veggie things, I can get behind because they do sell, I mean, not as much, but it is good to have options. I am thinking I will do five Publishers, which I think I have to rename, Veggie Bubbys. The Publisher, as much as I love the name, it is just too confusing. I mean, I have to think long-term here. Simplify. The Cubby Bubby itself is evolving. I can't fragment now. KISS. Keep It Simple Stupid. As the bridesmaids say.

I mean, once I sold out it started raining cats and doggers. The place cleared out like fart-drenched elevator. Oh! To go back to Albany a few days ago. I had mentioned getting pulled up by the op-line when it was overloaded and I had called it a Rope Elevator, and I had equated it to whaling. Calling it a Modern Day Pirate's version of a New England Sleigh Ride. I meant, a Modern Day Pirate's version of a Nantucket Sleigh Ride. I very much apologize for the confusion. I just get so wound up sometimes. I speak when I should listen. And that is what I am doing now, just listening.

Haha! Remember those apologizes. From the #metoo times? How every fucking creepy fucking abuser was saying "I know I have said things, tried to make things right, but now I must listen and learn." And now they are so pissed for get their feelings hurt that they say "Fuck bitches, Trans people are an athema, take all their rights away because my stand-up routine is speaking truth to power! Frie Sprechen! America Awake!"

I mean, Grit told me the other day that:

"You know what you call a boomerang that doesn't come back?"

"I don't."

"A stick."

I mean, not that I should be talking about this, but I will because fuck this idea that we should just ostrich ourselves and everything will go away and you shouldn't get involved because shit is unpleasant, but do you want to know what the slogan was for the National Socialist Party in 1933 was? It was this:

"Germany, Awake!"

How much proof do you need before we take this movement seriously? 33%. That is all it needs to destroy a country as democratic as ours. Just sayin'. Just fucking vote, man. That is all I am asking. We have big elections this fall. Just do the bare minimum. You don't even need to know who the fucker is. If they have a "D" next to their name, check yes. It is the difference between a future of fascism and a future of "Well, those idiots fucked it up again, I guess we will try better next time." I mean, the Dems made me feel bad so I guess I will vote away women's rights and make sure that my kid goes to jail for school because everyone will die if we don't. I mean, nobody. Not a single person in the history of America is going to take your guns away. No one! Not one! This is not about the Second Amendment. This is about not having anyone armed with military grade weapons of mass casualty running around schools and grocery stores and churches and concerts killing everyone in their line of site. You will still be able to shoot your deer. You will still be able to die in a hail of gunfire when the Government comes to get you. You just won't be able to kill our children at school, learning about Newton's first laws of physics or figuring out the difference between blue and yellow. And by the way, any of you assholes that still think that the "Jews" could have beaten the Nazis during the Holocaust if only they had guns. Jewish people made up .05% of the population in Germany at that time. Out of 80 million people. And most of them lived in cities. Where, I mean, who owns a gun in the city? Racists do. People that do crime do. I am not saying that there are no guns in the city, but if the point is that we need more guns in the city, fuck you. Nobody needs to be having guns in cities to prevent more guns in the cities. The idea of somehow the Wild West was the best, most safest time in American history is such complete bullshit that I don't even know what to say about it. Watch "High Noon."! The whole premise is that everyone is a coward and only one man can save you. But it is absolute bullshit. There was no need for the Sherriff to get into that gunfight. We do not need a savior. Jesus Christ already saved all of us. We just need to keep it low-key for a thousand years and things will work themselves out, man.

I mean, watch this show on Netflix called "Einsatzgruppen." It is you. And me. That make these things possible. I mean, the immigrant is the new Jew, the Libs are the new Bolshevik. They have already said it. They will go into the woods and collect the bad ones. It starts with rounding them up. It leads to other things. Things that the locals help with. That you and I help with. That, it is one thing to be Jewish in the cities when these people rise to power, it is another thing when they invade with entire armies and you have to choose between your family and the "Others."

The difference between human rights and merely politics is pretty simple:

Are they taking your rights? Or are they giving you more rights?

Anyway. That was dark, but this week sucked. Columbine still hurts my soul. I was just barely out of high school when that happened. I couldn't even read a single thing about Sandy Hook. I didn't. It broke me. I have a 14 year old kid. Who is now going to go to an all girls school. Which makes me feel kind of a lot better, but there is no guarantee that someone won't just come in there and start shooting the place up. And it is terrifying. I am from Wyoming. Guns are not that big of a deal. I mean, shit, I nearly died when my brother came home from a bird hunt and told me about it and pulled the trigger, I was sitting on a table, the gun went off, had he been pointing that barrel at my head, I would be dead now. Or since then. But I am not anti-gun. Guns are what they are. A tool. But shit, it's not like he came back with an AR-15 and was like:

"So I was standing there, waiting for the bird to come up, I drew my gun and was like..." Machine gun fire. Blowing me to smithereens. And he was like "Whoops, we killed, Joe. My bad." And then my dad says:

"And then you must have thrown the grenade, right? That is so cool! Hey, Peg, call the coroner, we got another dead one. Tell him to make the box miniature, Joe was kind of short. Hand me the measuring tape. Ugh, you really did a number, Chuck. Hey, Jade, clear a plate from the dinner table, it is just six dining tonight. Haha."

Nobody is coming for your guns. Relax. Imagine this. Imagine this reality. Because it is real. Gun stocks went up after the Texas school shooting. The gun manufacturers made money because 19 kids got shot to death. 10 year olds. 9 year olds. 8 year olds. Babies. Their deaths made stocks go up. When I tell you that trading stocks are immoral, this is what I mean. And you can pretend that your retirement is at stake, that what can you do? Money is money, This is what money is money means. That when you think Bernie Madoff is somehow a pariah, or a succubus on Society, no, that is not true, that fucker is a hero. He is the best thing that can happen to this decaying, antiquated, destructible, gross way of thinking about money that we live with, that we spend our every waking hour trying to appease. This idea that profit over reality is better than having a normal structured life. I mean, the whole idea is that guns never did this 50 years ago, why are they doing it now? It's not guns, it must be something else!

The something else IS the guns! You don't go down into the basement to blow your brains out unless you have a gun to go down into the basement to blow your brains out with. I don't eat too many slices of cake unless I have a cake to eat. It is pretty fucking simple. Human nature is not confusing unless you confuse it. It is the same with birth control and climate change. I am laughing at the moment about gas prices. I mean, they suck, but so what? They are actually reflecting the actual cost of gas! Gas sucks! We need to get off it. And this idea that it is making MAGA douches mad because they can't drive around flying their stupid flags because it costs too much, I mean, okay, whoops, but fuck you too! This is a problem that WE ALL need to solve. And your favorite loser waxing poetic about how windmills hurts his ability to flush toilets doesn't matter so much when gas is too expensive and there is nothing anyone can do about it. You can be pissed all you want, but it won't matter. Because the way this shit works has nothing to do with the Government. It is the nature of Capitalism.

Whatever. I stand by what I am saying. Politics be damned. Agustin sent me this short story today that was great. That was about trying to get to a wedding in Louisiana. About a weird dude with two broken legs and a dead owl and a gallon of milk. I mean, if I am going to take anything away from anything, I think we should all just write short stories all the time. They are cathartic and are funny to read. I mean, if we could just shut up and also just write it all down, maybe we would be able to see how insane things are in a way that makes us take a step back and maybe not do the thing that says we should check out, but more like, maybe check in, and vote. Even if it is annoying. I mean, we have the numbers, we just don't have the voice. And the voice on the other side is very, very loud. I mean, I would rather read about about a dead bird on the highway tomorrow than the Government making females illegal. Chicks, illegal. Babes. Hooter Hoaders. Va-voom-arooms. Bonker-donkers. Dame-sies. Flapper-Tonks. Clappers. Awooga-Hounds. Choo-choo-boo-da-boos. You know what I mean? Cock-A-Doodle-Doo's! Humina-humina. That is what I mean.

My point is simple: The Right has lost their mind. If you vote for them you are voting for the end of Democracy.