[146] Screed City

[146]

05/30/2022 Monday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Whoa boy, a doozy of a day! Hot hot hot. And not only hot, but working in a Styrofoam room three stories up with no ceiling. It would have been only slightly more reflective of the sun had the walls been made of mirrors. I mean, it was nice when we started. Cool even. I drove to the Compound with my windows down and got slightly cold. There was even a deer eating grass on the way. Between Hancock and Fassett Hill. Which I have never seen. I mean, that means it was quite cool. Butwhatever. It did not stay that way.

A mighty wind blew a couple weeks ago that knocked down half of the work that me and Scott had already done. The first order of business was to get those walls back up. From the ground. Which was looking dismal. However, there was something even more pressing than the firsts order of business. The weather around these parts has been very dry. The pigs were getting thirsty, soon the goats will get thirsty. When I got to the Compound Scott was yanking his hose. Having a big ol' fondle fest with it. Mostly playing with the tip, but he was also pulling the shaft through the weeds, if you know what I mean. He needed to run a hank of it up to the garage and around the sugaring station and far enough to reach the pig enclosure. I helped with this part. Then there was some other hose play. Then he told me to turn the water on. Then he had me adjust the valve for the second and third stints of hose. Water came rushing out. I guess. I mean, I was at the valve and when I turned the thing it seemed like stuff got flowing. When I walked over to the pigs and Scott he was hosing them down. He said:

"We emptied the well, the water isn't really coming out." [Those were not his words, but there is no reason to tell you his exact words.]

"Yeah, I thought something was weird when I turned the valve. It seemed like something happened, but it wasn't water." He said:

"Yeah, a huge burst of air shot out."

He hosed the pigs for a while. Then he threw their watering bowls in. The immediately knocked them over. Scott found a pitchfork and righted them. I mean, those pigs were thirsty! They were also idiots. Much like the goats. Constantly working against their best interests. Impatient as hell. Being mean to each other. Sucking at the water like hairy hippos. I felt bad for them about being that thirsty. I mean, they were SO thirsty! But then they were big jerks, so. I mean, my guess is that it kind of sucks being stuck inside a pen all day. No way to get your own food or water. I mean, for the most part they seem happy enough, but seeing them this thirsty. It made me thirsty. I asked Scott:

"What would happen if you didn't have the electric fence? Would they just run around and whatever? Or would they..."

"They would destroy everything. There would be no gardens for miles. And they would reproduce." I kind of liked the idea of a wild gang of pigs running around terrorizing the neighborhood. Bonin' like the wind. Getting bigger and bigger. The gang I mean. I mean, it would be quite the menace, but it would be entertaining to see.

While we were doing this the Publisher and Grit came around a few times. Grit on her bike. I said:

"That bike is looking small on you." She said:

"Yeah, I know! I am getting a new one for my birthday!" Her birthday is in a few weeks. School is out in two weeks. Then she is going to Summer camp. Grit is going to be 10. Fucking wild. Kids, man. They grow up so fucking fast. And then the rest of us, getting older. Crankier. Life, man. You're livin' it.

After we ejaculated the water from Scott's many hoses we were ready to get to the first order of business. Getting the wind soaked fallen walls back up to the third story of the house. I mean, there was some idea of doing a super rig involving an extension ladder and a block and fall. But much like the ancient Egyptians, the simpler solution was the better one. We would just pick them up and carry them around back and to the side. That way we could hand them up the walls. Instead of taking them from the ground floor we would take them from the second floor if that makes sense. I mean, it was funny. While we were doing this the Publisher suggested we build a ramp out of dirt to get them up there. I mean, it is funny because there is this great documentary about how the Egyptians erected their obelisks. The Nova people. That PBS thing that is mostly science stuff. Maybe you know it? But they pitted these two different ideas against each other. One team was going to use levers and pulleys to get the thing up. The other team was to use just people. And in the end, they were both wrong. Some guy that was working for the ropes and pulleys team went back to America and used his access to some sand lot to build a caisson, I mean, I don't know if that is the name for it when it isn't submerged in water, but basically a concrete box. Dug a little pivot ditch on the bottom. Filled it with sand. Had a little hatch on the bottom to remove the sand. Put the bottom of the obelisk on top of the sand. After building a sand ramp to get it there. And slowly took the sand out of the caisson. And guess what? It worked. Then they just removed the caisson. Cleaned out the rest of the sand and you had yourself a nice big erection. KISS. Keep It Simple, Stupid.

I mean, that is how we got the walls up. We carried them around the back. Me and Scott and the Publisher. One guy went up top. The two guys on the bottom got the thing up into the air. Then I ran up and helped the guy up top. I mean, I don't know why I am saying it this way. Scott was up top, me and the Publisher were on the bottom. I mean, the real big one, the one that had a corner on it, we all three had to be on top to get it up. But the other ones, it was a one up, two down, two up, kind of thing.

I mean, after that the work was just kind of damage control. Digging out the glue on the broken forms. Making sure the broken stuff got ditched. I mean, there were some things that needed attention. And we spent the morning making corrections. Putting back together what we could put back together. Around 1130a Scott got hungry and went inside to eat a Cubby Bubby. I spent a while digging the glue out of the nooks until I was hungry myself. I went down to the second floor, where it was cooler and shady. Where I had wrapped my burrito I brought for lunch in my button-up. Set on the window sill to get a nice heat-job. I mean, I put some rebarb on top of it so Putney wouldn't eat it. I mean, he could still eat it, but he would have to work for it. I mean, I ate my burrito in the shade. It was tasty, but soggy. I was afraid it would be ruined because it was a burrito I brought to Albany with me last week, but it aged like a fine soggy burrito that had been cooled down and heated up about five times in a week. I mean, it was tasty. After that I kind of just sat there looking off into space. Not really wanting to get back into the sun. So instead I drank some water. Went down to the tractor and called Professor Curly.

We talked for a while. Then Scott came back. The phone conversation ended. We went back to the palace of white mirrors. I mean, by now it was 85F outside. Probably 95F on top. Maybe more. There was no shade up there. None. High noon. I mean, we got back to work. At this point we figured out that we had very different styles of dealing with the little nubs on the forms. Scott was a clear-cutter for the most part. He liked to take swaths of the nubs off where he could. I was more of a, dig out the crannies kind of guy. I mean, I looked at what he was doing and what I was doing and said:

"Oh, you have a different technique than I do. I like to maintain thee, uh, in-tegri-ty. You know what I mean?" Scott didn't say anything for a while. Then he said:

"Yes, Joe, I think I know what you mean." I mean, he knew I was gold-bricking. Butwhatever. A good boss doesn't dissuade his workers from working, he/she/they encourage their workers with compliments. He said "You are doing a great job." I smiled and worked harder. But after that whenever there was an issue about the little nubs, it was an issue of "Integrity" as apposed to saying "These nubs need to be trimmed." He would say "These nubs lack integrity." I mean, it did actually make me work better. As stupid as it was. I mean, that fucking roof top was HOT! I needed all the tantric whipping I could get. I mean, after that happened we started putting the walls back up. And in order to do this you have to make sure they fit first. Normally you just put a thing on the other thing and build it piece by piece, but with the walls already built we needed to dry-fit them first. And, I mean, I don't know how this happened, but it was funny as shit, but the next thing I knew we were not dry-fitting the walls, we were dry-humping the walls. Which is one of those "Have to be there" kind of bridesmaids things, but then after you dry-hump the connections you have to put the glue down. The spray foam. And Scott referred to this as "Wet-humping" the walls. Which! Is not a "Have to be there" kind of thing. It is a, what the fucking hell? All these years. My entire life, since I was a teenager, there was never an opposite to dry-humping. There is only dry-humping and humping. I mean, wet-humping? Do you wet-hump? Of course you wet-hump. All humping is wet, unless it is dry-humping. And, I mean, even dry-humping does not actually describe humping at all. It is just not-humping. I mean, it is a boner in denim jeans having it's day in the sun under fabric. I mean, it is humping only in the sense that action happens. And it really is a question of what your definition of is, is. I smoked weed, but I did not inhale. Oh, the 90's.

Anyway. We dry-humped and wet-humped the afternoon away. When that got to a point where the walls were back up and me and Scott were being fried like grumpy New England lobsters he decided we should put the bracing up so that the walls wouldn't fall down again. I mean, I said:

"That is exactly what I was thinking!" Then he said:

"Well, good, we are agreed then." And we were agreed. He drove the tractor down to the things. I followed behind him. Then I came back. There was no reason for me to go with him, but it was nice to not be getting burned. I mean, I put sun block on twice. At one point the Publisher went to town and came back with push-pops and Coca-Cola. I mean, I ate a push-pop. It was insanely gross. I thought it would be nice. Cool me down. But the thing was just pure sugar and made me fatter with every lick. It was dairy-based. I mean, I don't mean to be a dick about it. It was a fantastic gesture. But even the Publisher admitted it was a little much. She said:

"Yeah, I don't eat those things, but I thought it might be nice, get your sugars up. It is pretty hot out." I mean, Grit ate two of the things. But that kid is a bee. I mean, speaking of which, at one point she came running up from the beehives carrying two things of comb. She was yelling "Papa! I have a treat for you guys!" Then she climed up the stairs, up the latter, we were standing next to the wall we had just erected. Grit was standing there, very excited. She said:

"Look! I brought you some treats! You can just suck the honey out!" Scott looked down. His hands were dark and rusty. He said:

"Ah, that is, I can't take that now, Grit. My hands are too dirty."

"Aw, man." Grit has been saying "Aw, man." A lot lately. But she is nine, going on 10, so she recovers pretty quick. She went back to the hives. Probably putting the things in her mouth the second she got down the ladder.

Scott came back to the house with the bracing on the forks of the tractor. I was there waiting. He positioned the thing in a way that we could just pull the bracing off. Without having to get down from the house. From the second door. I mean, we unloaded the bracing. Stacked in in the ladder hole. The place that will become the next stairs. Where we would be able to pull the things up when it was time. From above. Scott went down and found two impact drivers. I don't remember what I did. I guess just waited. Then we went back to the hall of light to keep working. I mean, it was brutal at this point. Fucking hell. The sun was going down, kind of, I mean, it wasn't going down, down, but there were now shadows. I mean, on one half of the place it was hotter than Professor Curly's panties while watching a Harry Styles' video, and in the shade it was about as cool as her panties when I tell her my new joke about Everest. I mean, night and day, basically. But whatever. Harry Styles is not only over-rated as an actor, but he is kind of problematic as a person. His version of queerness is not going to age well. He is just a straight white dude, English dude, right? Who gets off pretending to be queer. I mean, whatever, the 90's called, they want their phony toxic feminism back. I mean, my guess is that Harry Styles and Miley Cyrus get together and have meetings. I mean, they share that phony "Y" in their names. Like:

"Hey, Miley, you want to be really straight but also pretend to sometimes be queer because that makes the youths like us? Maybe if we put a "Y" in our name nobody will notice?"

"Genius, bro! Maybe you can wear a dress on the cover of Vogue and nobody will notice that you are horrible actor?"

I mean, whatever. My feelings about both of those jerks are complicated, but it did really bug me to find out that he was a very terrible actor. The bar is just so fucking low. Fuck politics. But shitty acting, I mean, film acting, and to get such rave reviews? And all it takes is to not be as shitty as the boy band that you are in? The art world is rigged, motherfucker.

Anyway. Scott told me to be careful with the bracing. That there was two ways to do it. You could either do slot up, or slot down, it didn't matter, you just needed to keep it consistent. And as such I created a method. I even told him about it. I said:

"See, Scott, I have a system, a way to remember how to do this. I even have a phrase that I use. It goes like this: Slots go down. Because, if you lift a slot up, you have to put it DOWN."

"Whatever works for you, Joe." And it DID work for me. I remembered every one of them. Slot down. I mean, the work sucked when it was in the sun, but when it was in the shade it was alright. I mean, at this point it must have been over 100F up there. It was brutal. Like walking into the sunny part for a moment to do a two minute task, then going back into the shade. Or going down the ladder and drinking some water. My shirt drenched in sweat. I mean, at some point Scott went to get some more chunks of Styrofoam with the tractor. Then he came back. We unloaded the things. Brought them into the second floor. I mean, I did end up finishing the bracings. But it was like running into a burning house. Getting the work done real quick, running back. Getting some shade. Panting like a dog. My back soaked in sweat. I mean, when he went to get the new forms I tried to put some rebarb in, but it was literally too hot to handle. I couldn't touch it. I had to kick it into the shade. I mean, after we unloaded the new forms I looked at Scott, he was lobster red. I mean, I must have looked the same. I said:

"Dude, we have to call it. It is too hot. You look like a beet." I mean, I think I really said "Dude, you are so red. It is just too hot. We need to stop." He very much agreed with me. I got my stuff and we decided to get back together on Wednesday. There was some lumber we needed. And it wouldn't be around by tomorrow. Because today was a holiday. Because of American wars. I mean, the way we treat our poor.

[Insert Fortunate Son]

The last just war was what? When we dragged our asses into the Second World War to defeat the fucking Nazis! The Nazis! I mean, Memorial Day should very much be observed, but we are doing it WAY wrong. This is not a moment of celebration, it is a moment of tragedy. I mean, whatever. I drove over to Middlebury to get some cheese and milk. For Cubby Bubby stuff. And for coffee. The milk that is. I shopped until I dropped. Buying two large things of American cheese. Three bags of racist onions. A nice looking steak. Some milk for my coffees. A bag of coffee. I mean, I paid cash. From my Farmers Market winnings. I also got some gas. I mean, after that I went to TJ Maxx to look at jugs. And to get some mesh strainers and decent oven mitts. When I was walking to the store, some dude, who looked like he and I would probably disagree on some very important things. I mean, the parking lot smelled like manure. From the fields. He was loading his groceries into the back of his truck. At first, under his breath, and then out loud he said:

"Man, this town SMELLS LIKE SHIT!" I mean, I laughed and laughed. He was making a joke, but it was a great joke. See! We can all just get along, we just need actual funny shit to happen. And then, after that, we can get into a wrestling match in the parking lot of the Hannaford. Which, someone will record on their phone and the corporate media will say:

"We are divided more than ever!" But they won't cover the joke about the turd smell. I mean, get off of Twitter! For the love of Christ! Just get off of it! It does way more harm than anything you think is happening! Facebook too! Specious! It is all specious! Do it now! Don't go back! No good will come from this. You are changing nobodies mind! Jill Stein!

Garbage in. Garbage out.