[148] Screed City

[148]

06/04/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Farmers Market Week Four:

I mean, it was a good day. My system works quite well by now. I have a check list I use. I get up at 5a. Have an hour to just kind of mess around. Read some news or whatever. Listen to my thing. I mean, because Professor Curly came back today, I forced myself to have a ship-shape house starting last night. After working on the New House until 3p, I came back here, to Beaver Haus and spent three hours doing a deep clean. Which meant that I didn't have a dirty kitchen to wake up to. My shit was organized. A clean work site is very important. I mean, maybe I am an outlier here, but I do believe a clean work site is a safe work site. I mean, I must have shaved at least 20 minutes off of my routine just by making sure the kitchen was clean before I went to bed last night. And it wasn't like I cleaned for 20 minutes last night. That part probably took five minutes, maybe seven. But the difference it made. My lord.

But I got up. Messed around. By about 530a I was ready to take a shower. Which was good. I needed to shave. So my shower would be a few minutes longer. I mean, by the time I got back downstairs it was 6a exactly. Time to get the fires burning. I preheated the oven. Got the Bubbys ready. Boiled some water. I mean, I timed it just right. All in all I was out the door at 7a exactly. The car being loaded. I mean, aside from the sandwich board, which, once again I knew I was setting myself up for failure when the other day I had moved some rolls of insulation into the garbage room. Put then in front of the freezer door. I mean, I thought the failure would come from not having an easy access to the freezer, but it turns out there was another issue. Which was the sandwich board. Which was behind the rolls of insulation. Which, I mean, I drove 100 yards from the house before it occurred to me. I mean, I lost six minutes. But it was six minutes I could lose.

I got to the market. Parked just fine. Unloaded just fine. Lit the fires under the Bubbys just fine. I mean, I was ahead of schedule even. I got to work finishing the unloading. Went and parked the car. Walked back. And, for whatever reason the Fish Monger decided that today was my day to be harassed. I mean, the guy is fine. He is just old. A retired Marine from a begotten era of time. Someone with too much to say, too much to be curious about and nothing but time on his hands. He decided that today would be a good day to mansplain me about what I was doing. And the best part, he did it while standing in my booth space. I mean, he started simple. With a simple question. He asked:

"Where's your tent? You don't use a tent?" I was standing next to my tent. Still in it's bag thing. Standing vertical. I was about to take it out. I said:

"No, I got a tent. This is my tent. I have a different system than everyone else. Because I have food that needs stay hot, I have to deal with that first. I mean, it is a different order of operations." He said:

"Oh, okay. Oh, I see you know what you are doing. Do you have stakes? You need stakes." He was literally standing in my way. I had to bully him out of it. Physically. Did I tell you he was old. Like slow moving, slow thinking, kind of old? I mean, I felt bad making him move, but what the hell? He slowly moved out of the way while I waited. I said:

"Yeah, I got steaks. Big long ones. You learn that lesson, once. You don't have to learn it again." He moved, but not far enough away like I would have liked, like going back to his own booth. I mean, the racket the Fish Monger and his daughter and his wife have going is pretty good. I mean, I am not saying it is bad, I am just saying that they sell fish. Frozen fish. All their work has been done for them. They just need to set up a tent and keep the shit frozen. They are the tip of the spear as the bridesmaids say. The turtle head. There work is done before they even start it. And more power to them. I mean, we kept talking. Even if he was annoying as hell, he did have some good information. I mean, he said:

"Oh, you do have stakes. Oh, and you are putting them at angles. Good job." I said:

"Don't you guys do the Rochester farmers market?" He kind of moved back now. Because he was even more in my way then ever. He said:

"No, we don't. I think maybe we have done that some times, but not this season." I was putting the tables together and putting the table cloths on and such. He continued. He said "We help our daughter out. On odd weeks we are here so she can do the Montpelier market. But this one is the best one. Oh, we also do Stowe, but Stowe isn't as good as this one. This one the locals come. Because they have a place to bring the fish. Because once it thaws, I mean, it is tasty fish, but after that, I mean, the tourists can't do anything with it. You need to have a place to store it." This was interesting information. I started asking him questions:

"And don't you do the Waterbury market too?" He said:

"No, just Montpelier and Stowe and here. I mean, the other day we did $2000 dollars here when our daughter only did $1000 dollars in Stowe. If that tells you something." It did tell me something. It told me a lot. That sometimes they do $3000 dollars a week of sales. Multiply that by 15 weeks of markets. I mean, $45,000 dollars. It's nothing to sneeze at. For a farmers market. I mean, I can expect to make $3,000 dollars for the season. But I have almost no overhead. And no labor costs. And my infrastructure is already paid off. I mean, if I think about it at all, that money they make is probably peanuts, really. Boats, fishing, packaging, flash freezing, shipping, storage, and then getting it to Waitsfield. I can only assume this is just a small percentage, but who knows? The husband doesn't go up to Alaska for months at a time only to bring in $45, 000 dollars, right? Minus the, I don't even know, thousands and thousands of dollars it takes to get the fish to the market in the first place? I mean, they don't seem like poor people. They have a Sprinter van. They seem, um, wealthy. I mean, whatever. I am sure I am missing something. Either that, or this is just a way for them to skim money off the top and launder it somehow. Which would not surprise me. I mean, at one point the Putin of Gluten showed back up. Thankfully, because the Fish Monger loves, just loves to harass him. But the Fish Monger, when the Putin of Gluten came back, said:

"I was surprised to see you driving that truck of yours." The POG said:

"Oh, yeah, why is that?" The Fish Monger said:

"Because it is Japanese." And to his credit, thank the lord, the Putin of Gluten said:

"Oh, racism." To which the Fish Monger said:

"It belongs on the bottom of Pearl Harbor." I mean, things turned pretty toxic, pretty quick. What I heard though was this:

"Because of Pearl Harbor." Meaning, I thought that the Fish Monger was still blaming his racism on Pearl Harbor. Something that happened, what? Over 80 years ago? Which blew my mind, but the sad thing was, what he actually said was ten times worse. Not only did this thing that happened nearly a century ago still have mean we should be racist towards people from Japan, but also, we should still do things to them as a result of this. Like physically. Like we should actively destroy anything Japanese because of the Second World War. I mean, the guy was wearing a Marine cap. He had feelings, for sure. But he was not so old that he was cognizant of things that happened at that point in history. I mean, let me say that better, he was maybe born in the 50's. He would have been a Marine in maybe the late 60's. Nearly 20 years after the events that unfolded that lead to America joining the Second World War. But he was acting like it had just happened. To him. To America. I mean, luckily something happened at his booth and he had to scoot back to it, but for a while there things kind of sucked for Booth 41 and 40.

I mean, history is important. We need to look at it. And that kind of patriotism is toxic at it's core. I mean, we fucking burned Tokyo to the ground. We dropped two atom bombs on their cities. Killing hundreds of thousands of civilians. And this fucker was still pissed about how a few thousand American SERVICE MEN were killed during an invasion? I am not saying that it was cool that Japan decided to kill Americans, I am not saying that at all, but in the grand scheme of things, about how things actually turned out, I mean, yes, we had no choice to joining that war, and yes, Nazis are bad and Imperial Japan was bad and we should fight back against these things, but what the actual fuck? You can't hold a century long grudge against a section of people, a race even, of people because of one moment in history that has been condemned by the Entirety of Humanity for all this time. I mean, it is so far beyond absurd that I mean, I really, at the time when he was saying that he was surprised that the Putin of Gluten's truck was working, I really, I really did, think he was going to say:

"You know what Ford stands for? Found On Road Dead." The racism was so far out of left field that I only learned later the truth of what the guy said because I asked the POG about it. He said:

"Yeah, that guy usually gets me early. He was late today for some reason. I have to push back hot. It doesn't ever change though. He doesn't care." I said:

"Good for you. We all have to do that more." He said:

"Yeah, it really is something else." I said:

"Yeah, I mean, I thought he was saying that Pearl Harbor was the reason he was pissed, but it was even worse. Right?"

"Yeah, what he said was that the truck should be at the bottom of Pearl Harbor."

"Jesus Christ."

I mean, after that we kind of boothed in silence. I saw a naked vagina again. And today was windy, so I also saw a naked butt. Multiple times. Especially whenever a dog would come around. I would get the full-on, bent over, naked vagina. A wind would blow. A Monroe as I started calling it. To which the Putin of Gluten asked:

"A Monroe, what is that?" I said:

"A gust of wind. That is what we call it around here, us Boothers." And he said:

"Oh." And then he started calling it a Monroe as well. But he didn't know that I saw a naked vagina, and then a naked butt whenever the wind would blow. I mean, I still haven't seen a butthole. When that happens, I mean, you will be the first person to hear about it. It will be like the late 90's, when pornography became honest for once. That it wasn't just about notions of sex anymore, times had changed. It wasn't your dad's dirty sex book stories getting people hot. Or suggestive posters of half-nude women. It became way more raunchy and realistic. Or not. I mean, all I am saying is that the butthole started to appear in porn around 1999. In a way that was taboo before then. And then after that, it was no big deal. But still, the second a butthole makes an appearance at the Farmers Market, I mean, you will hear every little detail I have to offer, because, for a kid like me, who was raised with shame, I mean, not at home, but in Society, I mean, the doors will be blown off the barn at the point! Because the future is now! And we can finally, finally free the nipple! I mean, it is right for Society. Shame is not good. It does nobody any service. And I won't lie. Seeing a naked vagina does nothing for me. Not like it would have done, say, 20 years ago. The taboo nature of it is bunk. It is just bodies. Making something that is just a thing something sexual is absurd! I mean, it is still bonkers to see a hairy armpit on a woman! A hairy leg even! To this day! And all I am doing is looking. Imagine the person having the thing. To think that it is odd having it! Like it is a thing? Or even not wearing make-up if you are a woman. I mean, I sometimes watch this thing that has the most processive politics, the most progressive stances on social issues, and it is a man and a woman, and the woman still talks about putting fucking make-up on before the show happens and the man is just doing whatever, having a beard, maybe wearing a soft collar shirt, and commentary isn't about how fucked up this is, it is just how it is. Pretty women wear make-up. Men don't. And if you are a pretty man that wears make-up you are a something else. And if you are a pretty woman that doesn't wear make-up you are something else. And, it is all whatever, because we should all feel good about ourselves, but until we can break that structure, truly break it, we will be living in the past, like forever, man. And I mean that. I mean, in a sense, who was that basketball dude that was friends with Kim Jong Un? Dennis Rodman, I mean, aside from the North Korea nonsense, I mean, that kind of action is important. It may be specious and may be toxic in the short-game, but sometimes, when you shoot an arrow too far, you have to go into the woods to find it. And deep in those woods you may learn something. I mean, I know! I really know, that the things we need to do are simple and are ground floor politics, protecting basic rights, I mean, simple, Human Rights sorts of things, I mean, I say that like, whatever, the easy rights, but I don't mean that, I mean, we need to codify the fucking shit in Federal Law, right now, and forever, but there is a thing about getting weird that breaks down the way that things work. And it begins with the Prom Kings and the Prom Queens getting freaky.

I mean, I don't actually believe that. The Prom King is always a dick. He has date-raped a few sophomores, and the Prom Queen is just as much garbage as the worst asshole that treated all of us like shit, but still, Society is what it is. Nobody likes the weirdo until everyone likes the weirdo. Which is the only way things move forward. Butwhatever. I have lost the thread. The market went okay. I made exactly $198 dollars. I didn't sell out. The Veggie Bubbys sold 4. I made 5. The Breakfast Bubbys sold out. The Cubby Bubbys got close, but they didn't go the distance. Professor Curly ate one when she showed up. Hot off the set. I mean, ate one myself on the drive back. It was good. Even after hanging out and stewing all day. The first bite was "Hmmmm?" The second bite was "This is pretty good." The middle was "I enjoy this." Then by the end it was "Damn, this thing is something else!" I mean, I had a lot of people showing interest, but everyone was full from something else. Saying stuff like "Oooh. Next time!" I mean, it doesn't make things easy for me. I suppose I will just bring the same shit next time, see what happens. But I am pretty close to understanding my audience. I mean, I am like a stand-up comedian at this point. My Cubby Bubby's are the jokes. Their laughter is their buying the shit. I mean, had I been on stage for four hours and 33 of my 40 jokes landed, I mean, that is pretty good, right?

I mean, you have been on a plane, right? It kind of sucks. Butwhatever, we all do it, right? I mean, don't get me wrong, I am not going to give you like a thing about how riding on a plane sucks, but I will say, sometimes when you are on a plane your body doesn't like it. You know what I mean? You find yourself there, maybe in the middle row, middle seat, I mean, mid-flight, needing to use the bathroom, and it sucks. I mean, you kind of wish everyone around you would just use the bathroom because, GOD DAMN, what the fuck? You are nodding off and Blam! Someone blows one on you. Curls your nose hairs. The face you make? I mean, I think sometimes about the faces i make on planes. I mean, hear me out, I am a middle aged White dude. I am sure my face structure is NOT the best. I am one frown removed from the asshole two rows down that can't get a bottle of tequila for himself while his baby is screaming at the top of it's lungs and the mom is, for some reason, screaming at the flight attendant instead of the drunken father, who is trying to get the 23 year-old's Instagram thing a seat in front of them because she has vacation pics that he wants to look at before he passes out. I mean, where was I going with this?

But hey, mid-flight you have some troubles. And you hit the bathroom with you troubles and whatever. Things go okay. Then you go back to your seat. And you notice other people having issues. Troubles. And time goes by. Things happen.. But it doesn't matter. Things go in. Things go out. But you are up in the plane. 30,000 feet. I mean, you know how those toilets work. I mean, you do the toilet flush. It suck it out. Shooomp! I mean, I plug my ears that shit is so loud. That shit is industrial! It would suck a soccer ball through a ding-dong, man! I mean, that shit is fucking intense! You could be pregnant and and sit down on one of those toilets, accidentally hit that button, and suddenly you got yourself a flying baby. I mean, sorry, that is a little dark, but, you mess around with that button and you end up hollow! I mean, that shit will suck your butt hole into the ether! You'll go inside a man, and come back half a man. Be like "Oh! What happened to my liver? Where my kidneys at?" You know what I mean? I mean:

Think about it though. About what that means. Being 30,000 feet up off the ground. In the atmosphere. I mean, is there a whole thing up there? 30,000 feet in the air? Where things just happen? That are just there? Where all the smells and shit, or stuff, just comes out? From the planes? Just floating around. That nobody knows nothing about? Aside from maybe these Sherpas? These guys that take people up to Mount Everest? I mean, Mount Everest is at that altitude. 30,000 feet. They must know what it smells like up there. I mean, imagine that trip. The years of planning. The months of travel. All the shit that goes into getting to the base camp. The money, the time, the focus. And then finally getting there. And then there you are, there at the base camp, terrified, you start going up. You go up, up and up, it is the hardest thing you have ever done. You are ditching things on your way. Oxygen tanks. Whatever. People are dying next to you. You have minutes, if not seconds to get up the mountain while the weather is good. You finally make it. You and your Sherpa. You are standing there, on the top of Mount Everest. You take your oxygen mask off to take a photo, to proof that you are there, and at that moment, the moment of your triumph you get a great big whiff of what it smells lie at 30,000 feet. You make a face and look at the Sherpa. You say:

"What the fuck? It stinks up here!" The Sherpa, knowing about this smell the whole time just shrugs. He says:

"It stinks, yes." And that is that. Your photos are terrible because you are frowning and the Sherpa could give two shits. You make your way back down and nearly die. But you finally get to the bottom of the mountain. At the base camp people ask you how it went. You don't want to talk about it. Not because it went bad, but because you learned that you could have just taken a flight in a regular airplane and gotten the full experience.

I mean, for that reason I don't climb Mount Everest. I have other reasons too. But that is the main reason.

Thank you!

[insert Boother Photo]