[149] Screed City

[149]

06/07/2022 Tuesday. Garbage Room. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Coming to you live, from the Garbage Room. I suppose you know what that means. The bitch is back. Just joking. But Professor Curly made it! I mean, she is leaving again tomorrow. But still, she did make it for an extended weekend. We did some sweet bonin'. Quite zesty. I mean, I kind of want to make a joke, but I don't know if it is in poor taste or really just TMI, so I am on the fence. Let me think about it. But in my mind, it is quite hilarious. And everyone knows that I am an hilarious dude. Just ask Tim Murphy. He will tell you. He will say "Joe is a hilarious dude." And he will be right.

I mean, I am trying to remember what else we did since PC has been back aside from the bonin'. Oh, on Saturday evening, after the Farmers Market we went to Roach Town to get creemees with the Publisher and Grit. That was fun. Grit got the small, which is quite huge actually. I mean, the large is literally a foot tall. The small is like a half foot. Whatever that is in inches. A Halfer, I guess. PC and the Publisher got dog cones. Which is a single swirl. Meant for dogs. It costs $One dollar. Hmmm, I wonder if that is an annoying way to write money numbers? I mean, I already know that some people get annoyed when I use the dollar sign and say the word dollar too, but in my defense I am just writing it how I would like to read it. It has nothing to do with being a dick. I mean, I guess $Twenty-Three dollars doesn't look very good, but would it make more sense than, $23 dollars? I mean, 23% makes sense in the way that you say the percent in your head when you are reading, should I instead write 23$, which some people do, but I think that looks way too stupid. And I mean, like all grammer bullshit it is completely and entirely subjective, so whatever, suck it. I am doing $23 dollars. QED.

Anyhoodles dressed in noodles, we had the creemees. Before that we boned. After that we went to Beaver Haus and did a couple things. Then we went over to the Compound for brats at DogBoy Beach. The Summer is begun! DogBoy Beach! I mean, it needs some work. Some logs chopped and some raking and boulder securing. I mean, we are having a little shin-dig next weekend, not this coming weekend, but the following one. People are coming up from all over the world. The City, Philly, Montpelier. HA! I mean, maybe I can convince Brother Luke to come on over. Bring the brats. I mean, his two kids. They aren't brats, but brats usually means sausages within context of this writing, so I thought I should clarify. But we had brats at the beach. Drank Ticklers and Prosecco. It was nice. Very nice. There was a fire and dogs and smores. I ate two brats. I think PC did too. And the Publisher, and Scott, I think Grit just ate a hot dog. Burned to a golden black crisp. I mean, she will be 10 very soon, like when the shin-dig happens. I mean, that is the point of the shin-dig. Her birthday, Sebastian's b-dog, and PC's b-dog too. I really hope she can make it up. I mean, back to Grit being 10, she is nine now, and she very much insists on cooking her own hot dog, but she is not very good at it. She tries with all here heart, but she is nine. Maybe this is her year though. To get the hot dog touch. The patience of a 10 year old. Really hit her stride. I mean, she is about to go to sleep away camp for seven weeks! I mean, it is just down the road, but still, I never did that shit, I mean, I am sure I would have loved it. Especially if it meant I could get away from my jerk brothers, but if I was going to something like that they would have come too, so it would be SSDD as Jay G'baur would say. Same shit, different day.

After brats we went back to Beaver Haus. Then I went out to write in the Garbage Room, no, that is not true, PC was so very exhausted from 16 days of shooting a movie that she went right upstairs and hit the sack, so I was able to write in the kitchen. In fact I was able to write in the kitchen on Sunday night too, but that created a very unfortunate couples dilemma that I got relegated to the Garbage Room on Monday night. Last night. Either way. I wrote in the kitchen on Saturday night. PC sawing logs like a lumber jack all night long. She barely woke up when I got into bed. We watched the moose documentary for a little while. She was in Snooze City in mere moments. I watched briefly myself, but since I had been up since 5a, I hopped a ride to Snooze City myself shortly after.

In the morning we got up and stuff. I made some bacon and eggs for breakfast. Like the good ol' days. Back when we were together all the time. I mean, I need to be careful about what I eat when she is around. I mean, she is just fine. I make her a breakfast that she usually eats. And her diet doesn't change, but for me, I am more of a bean burrito for breakfast, bean burrito for lunch, and then a sensible bean burrito for dinner. But when she comes around it is something else. Because I my body doesn't know what is going on. Bacon, eggs, toast, sandwiches, creemees. I mean, my poor beach body. I mean, I am not blaming her for my poor decisions, I am just saying that the food I cook for her looks so much better than the bean burritos I eat so I get seduced. I mean, after breakfast we hung around doing stuff. Then I took a shower. Did some more stuff. Then we called the Publisher, Grit answered. She had a joke, but I can't remember what it was. But then there was a moment of confusion when she was done with the phone call but wasn't sure if we had called to talk to her or what so she said "Did you want to talk to my mom?" I mean, that was very funny, because that is why we called, I mean, I called, but I was on speaker phone with Professor Curly. If that wasn't already implied, now it is pro-plied. We had made plans to walk the running race route the night before, we were checking if they still wanted to do it. She said sure. We set a time for them to come get us at 1p. We would caravan to Granville proper and that way me and PC could go to Waitsfield afterwards to get some lobsters. The idea was to do a clam bake/lobster boil that evening at DogBoy Beach.

Around 1p they showed up. We caravanned to the running race route. I mean, we parked and walked it. I learned it was kind of a wild route to have a race on. Half uphill, half ankle breaker downhill, but what do I know? I aint no runner. I don't run for a reason. I like my body. I have no desire to destroy it by twisting my ankles and knocking around my joints and rattling my think muscle around in my skull. I mean, originally I wanted the race to be a bike race too, which, this route would be perfect for that. Very dramatic. I mean, I thought the meeting of the Granville Select Board was tonight, but it's not, it is next Monday, but we did walk the thing. All five miles of it. Grit only kind of complained. I mean, it is a lot, even for adults, and five miles to nine year old is a little much, but she did run a 5k the day before, so. I mean, she runs an 11 minute mile. I think. Which is pretty fast for such a young kid. We talked about the race during the walk. The logistics and whatever. It all seems very complicated, but we can pull it off. And it will be a lot of work, and, I mean, I am suspect that it happens this Fall, but we will see. I am interested to know what the Select Board will say.

After that we had to drive back to Beaver Haus to get our wallets and phones. Which both I and PC had forgotten, so the caravan was pointless. But we went back. Got our stuff. Drove to Waitsfield. PC fell asleep on the way. Still exhausted from her film. We stopped at Mehuran's. They told us to get lost about the lobsters. That we need to give them a few days notice. That we could have lobsters by Tuesday if we wanted. We told them to get bent. I bought some yeast for Cubby Bubbys and some parchment paper and freezer bags. PC got some yogurt and some snap peas she plans to leave to rot in the fridge when she leaves. Much like the last three times she has come up here. I mean, those things rot really gross. How do I know? You ask? Because the last three times she has come up here she buys these gross things that I can't stand. She leaves them in the fridge and I don't notice until they start to make some sort of rotten juice bag hidden behind everything that I actually use. And then I have to deal with taking them out to the compost pit and squeezing the juice out, trying not to puke, then taking the empty bag back inside and washing it out so it doesn't stink up the joint. That is how I know.

I mean, before we went to Mahuron's we stopped at the fancy creemee place that I can never remember the name of. Oh, the Canteen. Where we met Theresa that one time during the Last Good Summer with G and the Publisher and Grit. I mean, it really is a gathering point for tourists from all around. We ended up getting a coconut and chocolate creemee in a waffle cone. It was very hard to eat. And insanely rich. But it was good. Tasty enough. We stood there watching the hijinks. Some woman named Avery had ditched. Her order was up but nobody was coming around for it. I could see her way over sitting at a picnic table. Chomping away at her cone. I don't know how I knew it was her, it just seemed like the most logical candidate. At one point some biker dude said "Avery aint here, man." To which all the other bikers laughed at, but the rest of us found annoying. Eventually Avery came running back. She had stolen someone else's cone. She said she was sorry. And in her defense, there had been a little trouble with the vanilla stuff, so everyone was kind of confused as it was, but it was quite the scene.

After the creemees and the lobster store we drove over to Shaw's. I wanted to look for some 1/2 priced meats and maybe find some corned beef. People keep wanting me to bring he Ruby Roll back, but I can never find the meat, and it is expensive as all hell. And then people will be like "Just raise the price on that, it will be like, a delicacy." And then I say "Nobody is going to buy a $10 dollar Cubby Bubby. I hate to tell you." And then they say "Make it $8 dollars." And I say "If I make it $8 dollars, what is the point? I will break even. And as tasty as the thing is, I am not running a charity." And then the conversation ends. I mean, the last time I was able to do that roll I could only do it because the Shaw's did a half price deal after Easter when they had too much corned beef that they didn't know what to do with. I mean, I think they now realize they can freeze the shit. Much like I realized when I felt like I was striking gold by buying that stuff at $4 dollars a lb. Maybe even less. I bought everything they had. Which, I would have thought, much like when you do that shit at TJ Maxx and they suddenly have the same thing you bought in bulk, again, but now in bulk, which happened with the jugs I bought, I mean, whatever. The Shaw's in Waitsfield is the last stop before the dumpster for the meat from the Shaw's in Bristol, and I think they must have taken a pretty big hit for that not to have happened again. I mean, I have been looking. But, nothing doing.

I left Shaw's empty handed. PC stayed in the car the whole time. We drove back to Lower Granville using the crappy route because I forgot to get ice for the Prosecco so we had to turn around, which meant that we were now running late. I mean, those five minutes between Warren and Waitsfield on VT 100 are brutal. To me. I don't know why, I just can't stand it. And it only takes a few extra minutes to take the scenic route, but it doesn't work when you are in Waitsfield proper and have to double back. It can add at least 10 minutes, because the covered bridge will do you in. One lane only. And in the Summer there is more traffic. If it is called tourist season, how come we can't shoot them? Right?

I mean, we had crab cakes and lobster and bread and butter and Ticklers and Prosecco at DogBoy Beach. I personally can't stand lobster. I mean, I try. Every time, I try, literally every time. And every time, yuck. I mean, I don't really mind breaking into the thing, it is kind of a game, a dangerous, maybe you get an infected cut that nearly kills you, game, but a game nonetheless, but it is the taste. The flavor of the lobster that doesn't do it for me. I don't understand the appeal. I mean, I really prefer a rib eye or whatever, big juicy steak. Something that you have to restrain yourself about. With lobster, it is all this work for very little payoff. And all the butter and the legs and the guts looking gross. I mean, I have grown more and more fond of shrimp, mostly because PC loves it and Scott loves it too, so he makes these great shrimp tacos. But shrimp at least has a bite to it, or whatever, push back. Lobster is just mush. And, mean, here we go again with the Alaska story, but I ate some, what? Halibut that somebody had caught that day. Me and my friend Mike were sleeping in a tent on the beach in Southern Alaska, the guy was like "I can't eat this all, and it will go bad, you want it?" We sure as shit wanted it. We fried it up on the campfire in just butter. I mean, it was amazing. And it did kind of taste like lobster. Or at least it had the consistency of the lobster I have eaten, but it was just not the same. The halibut. It was better. Probably because of a lot of reasons. One being a youngster on some weird beach in Alaska, eating freshly caught fish from the ocean, but there was also that element that we didn't have to work for it. And, I mean, that is the thing with steak, you don't have to work for it. It shows up huge on your plate and you just cut into it, slowly, choosing your bites, adding little pieces to fat to your next slice. I mean, adding extra pepper, or Kosher salt, getting fuller and fuller. By the end of the meal you are full. With lobster, it is like working at a fast food restaurant. You put in your 40 hours and then you get paid for the week, or more likely the two weeks, 80 hours and you are like "What the actual fuck? I just worked my ass off for this bullshit. I need to get a second job if I am going to make rent this month. Bullshit." I mean, lobster is the only meal I have ever eaten that you have to have a second meal just to make up for how lousy the first meal was.

C'mon! I am just joking! Lobster is okay. That is what I decided. I still remember the first time I ever ate a lobster roll. I was dating this girl who was from Boston that went to Yale. Later I would get arrested for bonin' here in the bathroom of the train station after the Yale/Harvard football game, but I am sure you have heard that little nugget before, so I will spare you the details, but one time she took me to Cape Cod with her parents. And boy, over and over, "This is the best lobster roll in the world! You won't believe it! I hope the stand is still open!" Even her parents got involved. I mean, they hated my guts, but this was the hill they would die on, they would let me into their lives just a little bit, to show me how tasty this fucking lobster roll was. I mean, I was not even suspect one bit. I was very open. Even if I was some dink from Wyoming dating a girl who was obviously using me to get back at her parents. I mean, we got to the place. It was very unassuming. Which surprised me. I was expecting some grand thing. Some sort of, show your metal credit card at the door, even though we are just a stand on the side of the road, kind of place. But it was just some stand. We ordered the things. They took forever. Everyone was starving because they were saving up for this. Very cranky. Did I mention that her parents hated me and she hated her parents and I was just some rebellious cock she was sucking to get back at them? Like, have you ever had to hang out with parents that hated you while being super hungry and make small talk while things were taking forever? Did I mention it was Summer? And hotter than shit? I mean, whatever. The things came. It was just mayonnaise and lobster on a hot dog bun. The two parents and the "Girlfriend" acted like they were creaming their jeans. Me, I wished I would have ordered the hot dog instead. I mean, sure they talked it up too much, but that was not the problem, it was just not anything that did it for me. You know? I am not a perceived value kind of dude. Ask Tim Murphy. He knows. It just wasn't that good. It wasn't the halibut on an Alaskan beach, good. Which, I will admit, that was an actual moment of perceived value, but still, that's a funny memory. I forgot about that. I wonder where that girl is now. If she ever managed to really stick it to her parents, or if I was the last one and she settled down with an investment banker somewhere, has a few kids and is making regional dance pieces outside some town in say, Southern California, as far away from her parents as she could get? Just joking. That is exactly what happened to her. And I wish her the best. Even if she is kind of an asshole.

Anyhoodles dressed in noodles. Okay, that is the last time. I hate that saying. I mean, hate is a strong word, but I am sick of writing it. Anyway, we ate the lobster and the crab cakes. Ate the bread. Talked about local politics. Me and Professor Curly came back to Beaver Haus. Like I said before, I wrote in the kitchen. This caused a big wow. Because PC couldn't sleep and she felt like she couldn't come down because I am a tyrant. Which, I mean, in my defense, we did negotiate the terms. But in her defense, I shouldn't have full reign of the downstairs when I am writing, especially when there is a whole Garbage Room that I can use. But still, there was a little friction. It was all worked out by the morning. Then we went about our business. I cooked breakfast. Eggs and bacon and toast and yogurt. I think I did some stuff, I don't remember. Then we drove to New Ham to see Professor Curly's family. To have some lunch. I won't go into details, but Dianne, if you are reading this, I have a juicy little thing I will tell you about. Send me an electronic mail if you want to here it. It involves your brother. After that we went to the Home Depot. I bought some flooring things for the basement. To get organized. Also, it is going to start getting very hot and I want to be able to make the Ticklers without sending them into overdrive and souring them. Plus it will be better to not use PC's office as my brewing place. For everyone, I mean. I mean, I figured out a new system. Because I can only do the brews in four gallon batches, I decided to do five buckets of the good stuff at a time. That way when they are done, I can transfer them into four, five gallon buckets. Clean. To let them settle. Then they won't oxidize. Then, when they are settled, I can transfer them into champagne bottles clean. To let them bubble-up for however long that takes. I mean, my first experiment did not go well. I mean, it bubbled, but it tastes sweet, so two weeks is not enough. I am thinking two months now. I mean, we'll see. The solution may just be to gas them myself with CO2 or to finally get one of those bubblers that can make the things one bottle at a time. Like Scott does. I mean, still, the operation is nascent, but still, I would like to be able to have a finished product just waiting in buckets for however long I need to hang onto the stuff as opposed to making tiny batches three days at a time that taste extra yeasty. I mean, we'll see. A bird in the hand is better than a Kate in the Bush, as the bridesmaids say. Because they have been running up that hill a very long time. And the deal with god did not work out so well with them. They will always be bridesmaids.

[Trigger Warning]

But the bonin' joke. Maybe I can pull it off. You know? From before? I mean, so we were bonin' or whatever. I did my due diligence. PC thanked me for my dedication and commitment. I mean, when it was my turn, I mean, it had been quite a while. Like a long time. There was a lot of build-up for certain. And, whoa boy! I am not saying we were bonin' doggy-style, but I am not saying we weren't, either. And, I mean, good lord, in a flat bed Ford, a redhead stop to take a look at me. Or, however those lyrics go. I mean, it was like shooting a pump action twelve gauge over her back. Bu-bang! Cock! Bu-Bang! Cock! Bu-bang! Cock! Bu-bang! Until I was out of ammo. I mean, I have no idea where it was coming from, but it just kept coming. I mean, it was miles and miles of dead babies. Catholic carnage. I mean, had this happened in Oklahoma they would have slapped handcuffs around my dick and led me directly to the electric chair. I mean, I got all of Lower Granville, Granville proper, and Hancock pregnant with that single load. I mean, my balls were dangling out of the tip of my dick by the time I was done, and then I squeezed those too, and stuff still kept coming out! I mean, I was a shriveled as a raison by the time I was done. Professor Curly had to stick a beer bong full of water and Gatorade into my mouth to revive me. And even after that she had to drag my wrinkled and desiccated body into the bath to let me soak for a couple hours before I got back to normal. I mean, the load was so big the stock market dipped. Because of the labor force was inundated. Or rose, I forget how that works. My point is, it was pretty intense.

[Insert Take It Easy]