[152] Screed City

[152]

06/13/2022 Monday. Garbage Room. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

The race is on, Bitches! Do you capitalize bitches in this instance? I can never tell. I mean, you are all bitches, but are you Bitches? Like, proper bitches? Anyway, the running race is on. I have absolute autonomy, city sanctioned even. I mean, I don't know if that is true, but Bruce said in no uncertain terms that if I kept the race on public roads there wasn't shit that anything I could do about it. I mean, there is a lot of work to do now, but we got permission from the Select Board to do it.

I mean, it was a little hard won. I mean, me and the Publisher had to sit through about 45 minutes of mind-numbing town business before we could make our proposal. I mean, the town business was basically just naming people for positions on the town council or whatever. Like a fence looker and a flood plain consultant. What the duties of the constable were. Stuff like that. I mean, it was that and talking shit about Nancy, the town finance lady, who made quite a few mistakes in the town's accounting. I mean, she wasn't even there. The most used word to describe her was "Confused." I mean, I felt bad for poor Nancy, I wonder if she would have taken offense to what people were saying, or if she indeed was "Confused" about her job.

After a while the business of the Planning Committee came up. The Busy Body Society as I call it. About who was on the committee and if it was planning on meeting anytime soon. I chimed in. I said:

"Well, I am on that committee. Me and Dianne." Bruce asked:

"Do you plan on meeting?" I said:

"Well, with respect to this running race proposal..." Bruce interrupted me. He said:

"This is not the running race time." I said, because I am a cis White man who has no problem pushing back on things that I know nothing about, and in a kind of dickish way, I said:

"Yes, Bruce, I understand that, but the actions of that committee do, in fact, have something to do with this." And he said again:

"Do you plan on meeting, then?" And I said:

"Yeah, sure." Then there was a discussion about getting a third member to create a quorum. Which side-tracked the meeting until someone said:

"We can't just be handing out assignments to people who are not here." So the discussion came to an end.

Then for what felt like an entire school day in high school, I mean, the Western sun beating through the windows, making the room hot and sleepy, the Select Board continued their business. I mean, I found it interesting. Yet boring. The Publisher, who has been to a million of these things scrolled her phone. I mean, she lives in Hancock, so what she thought about the Granville business was irrelevant anyway. I mean, she did show me a thing about how James Patterson was complaining about how straight, White, men had the worst and hardest lives in American history right now. And wasn't that incredibly sad? And tragic. I mean, my god! Read the fucking room Boomer Esiason!

Eventually the new business portion came along. There was something about the 100 on 100 race that comes through town every year. Which is a cool running race that takes place in the state every year. They got permission. Then there was talk about a duck crossing sign that wanted to be put up in the gulf, or the canyon, as I call it. Because there is a goose there that makes babies every year and raises them next to the highway. Bruce pointed out that it was illegal to put up signs. So the gooses were cooked. As it were. And then the main business of the running race had it's time to shine. I mean, it was all quite exciting. Lively even. I handed out some papers. The t-shirt design. The proposed route. With maps even. The the Publisher had printed out, because my printer is just a black and white one that makes horrible prints of everything except black and white things. Like text. I mean, I stood up. Handed the papers out. I cleared my throat. And in a giant, booming, big beastly bulging voice, I said:

"Yeah, I would like to do a running race here. You know? Give attention to that bench thing we got down the road." Bruce chimed in:

"The commons."

"Sure, the commons. I was thinking we could have a race that starts there and goes up the West Hill road, turns right at Patterson road, then turns right at the West Hill Extension and then comes back to the bench. I mean, this is where the Planning Committee comes in. Back when we were meeting there was an idea of making a trail between there and there." I mean, I was not eloquent, in fact, I was muddled and whatever. The Publisher took her mask off and proceeded to make my point exactly as I had not. She explained the idea, where we would do it, how we would do it, what it would mean for the community. I mean, at this point I was sitting on the edge of the table. Crossing and uncrossing my arms. Interjecting some things. I said:

"I mean, I have been looking around for routes for some time now. Originally I wanted the route to go up Kennedy road here." To which Bruce took umbrage:

"Are you trying to kill people, man?" Laughter. I laughed myself. Then I said:

"Yeah, I don't know if you have noticed, but there are like, um, a lot of hills around here. I tried, don't get me wrong, to find a nicer route, but I got nothing." This gal, Cheryl suggested the trail between the West Hill Road and Texas Falls, which I considered. Bruce took umbrage to this too. He said:

"That is like a fifteen mile trail!" I said:

"I know! I considered it." And then there was talk about Kennedy road and what that meant. If the road was still open or not. Which, WHICH, I knew there is a gate up there. But nobody believed me. But it didn't matter. I mean, this guy Ken, who I think is a generational local, who reminds me of my friend Luke H from Wyoming, who, Ken, not Luke, is a farmer, obviously, I say that because he was just covered in dirt and mud, like top to bottom, who was wearing a baseball cap, giving the googly eyes to R, the New Landlord's wife, who is on the Select Board, who is basically too pretty for this town, but somehow manages to be really involved. I mean, my guess is that she will start running for things in the future that are not piddily local things, I guess, she has charisma, and she does seem to care a lot. I mean, she may have to ditch that lazy, no good husband of hers before she runs for anything, but still. I mean, but Ken was interesting, because his feelings about things locally seemed very sincere, and engaged, but I think also, he knows where the money comes from, so if he spends a couple hours a month being on this board he can redirect those funds into his own pocket. If not his friend's pockets. I mean, no bid construction stuff, or doing gravel runs at prevailing wage. I mean, it is smart and who the hell else is going to do it? Keep It Local, Stupid. KILS. I mean, the rest of us were Flatlanders as they call it. Which is funny. Because you would think it would be the opposite, but when you can't be bothered, you can't be bothered. Why work for it when you can just complain about it? I mean, any entrepreneur with a lick of sense could clean up around here. They just need to get past the inertia. I mean, somebody the other day on Front Porch Forum asked the community if they wanted a self-serve dog washing bathtub. Which! I mean, that is my idea about the car wash, I mean, but for dogs. But that is crazy that they would ask first before even starting. Because the answer will always be no. Commerce doesn't work that way. You have to give the people the thing that they didn't even know what they wanted in the first place. Do you think McDonald's went around asking if anyone wanted cheap hamburgers? No, they did not. They started selling cheap hamburgers. I mean, what a fucked up way of looking at things. But still, I can understand wanting encouragement. If I hadn't ever met Jack Warren I wouldn't be writing this drivel. Keep that in mind. Jack Warren is exactly the person to blame for this.

Anyway. We debated and debated. I found out that there is already a trail between the Loneliest Bench and West Hill Road. Which I will go and walk with G tomorrow. See if it is feasible. And, I mean, that is it. The local guy, Ken said that I could ask the guy next to the glass blower dude if we could use his land as a place to stage things. Which was helpful. I mean, I would prefer not to do that, but if that is what needs to happen, so be it. I mean, fuck, I had some local color to add to this, when the local guy, Ken said something like:

"I don't know about them, but this thing might do." I mean, it was the "might do" that really drove it home, but my notes only say this:

Cheryl

Marianne

Might Do

Ken

Bruce

John

Mark

Rachel

-----------

Nancy--

I mean, the "might do" was a kind of "ya think?" or a "don't cha know?" but because I lost the wording I will have to keep my ears peeled as the bridesmaids say. I mean, by the end of the debate we were given full authority to do the race! I mean, I said:

"That's it? We have permission? I don't need to get a petition going or something? And this is when Bruce really laid it bare. He said:

"As long as it is on public roads, there is nothing we can say about it." I mean, that was that. The race is on! And here comes pride in the back stretch. Carnations coming to the inside, trying not to fall. And the winner loses all. Or however it goes:

[Insert The Race Is On]

I mean, it was a very satisfying victory. Me and the Publisher gathered our papers and started to get out of there. Bruce said:

"What? You're not going to stay for the rest?" The Publisher jokingly said:

"I mean, what's left on the agenda?" Bruce took a look at his papers. He said:

"Gas prices." Then everyone laughed. The Publisher said:

"Maybe next time." Then everyone laughed again. We walked outside. G and Grit and N and V were sitting at a picnic table behind the Town Hall. Eating pizza and running around. I mean, the little kids were running around. G was not running around. They are 14, but the other ones seemed kind of insane about things. V was naked under her oversized t-shirt. Thinking it was funny that her naked vagina was flapping in the wind. It made me think of the Upskirter. From the Farmers Market. Sure it is funny now, kid, but one day you will be selling CBD oil in Waitsfield, and it will just be weird. Aggressive and weird. Enjoy your youth while you can! I mean, V is like four. Her face was covered in filth. N was being a no-nonsense brat for fun and Grit was getting aggressive with sandals. I mean, I think that the kids had spent too much time without adult supervision that they had gone feral, so it was hard to rein in. Butwhatever. We stood there getting eaten alive by no-see-ems. I mean, I wanted to stick around until R came out, but I found myself annoyed. Which is a funny thing about being a parent. I mean, I remember the vaccine/anti-vaccine debate when G was very young, starting school. I mean, I had some pretty large feelings about that until G aged out of it. After that, I kind of lost interest. And, as much as I love kids and enjoy their company, there are moments when you get hit on the back by some sandals and then a water bottle gets broken that you kind of want to just not be around the little assholes. I mean, G had a great time. They were rather taken with N's personality. How much of a purposeful dry brat she was. I mean, I am too. I have been since two years ago when I asked her if she had ever seen cool moves like this, I mean, I did some funny dance or something and she said:

"No, I don't believe I have." I mean, her brother is dry like that too. And her little sister is getting that way as well. I mean, they are charming kids. And Grit is charming too, but she gets really offended sometimes. I mean, we had that whole Summer when she was the Dennis the Menace to my Mr Wilson, and I do think she likes me, but she gets really annoyed with me, and I am a jerk and I should probably stop being a jerk, but, I mean, today, I mean, so she is turning 10 in a couple days. And I keep asking her:

"Are you ten yet?" And she says:

"No! In a few days!" And I will say:

"But you already got a new bike!" And she will say:

"It was a pre-birthday present!" And then ride off on her bike. And then today, when me and Scott were working on the New House she came out and grabbed her bike from the first floor and yelled up:

"Why did you put sawdust on my new bike?" Scott was nice and said:

"It was an accident, sweetie. Sorry." And instead of keeping silent I yelled out the window:

"Grit! I did it! I did it on purpose! And I loved it! And I am going to do it again!" Then she literally stuck her thumb to her nose and wriggled her fingers at me while sticking her tongue out. I mean, I don't mean to be a jerk, but she doesn't have any siblings. Somebody has to give her shit. I mean, this is what I mean, I was talking with G about Grit and how Grit got jealous that N and V were interested in G and I said, without thinking:

"Well, Grit is an only child, I think it is hard for her to navigate situations sometimes when dealing with friends. She doesn't know that she can just embrace the chaos and it is nothing personal." I mean, G thought about this. They are an only child as well. They asked:

"Was I like that too?" I mean, it was kind of a mind-fuck. Not because Grit has trouble with social chaos, the opposite. She is great at them. I am just a jerk that purposefully harasses her because I grew up with four jerk brothers and I think it is funny to give her the grief. I mean, but I don't know about G. They have always had a loneliness about them that maybe they weren't jealous, but they have probably felt left out quite a few times in their life. I mean, I didn't know what to say. I said:

"I don't remember you being jealous, but you have a different personality than Grit." Fucking life, man. But then again, we went inside. G kind of looked around for a second. Said:

"Why does it smell like, I don't know, pancakes in here?" This made me say:

"Oh! I should..." I remembered the pancake batter in the freezer. G said:

"Um, I am going to." I opened the freezer and said:

"There are these ices in here still. Are you hungry?" G said:

"Nah, I ate two slices of pizza." I said:

"Well, alright. I am going to go write. You sure you're okay?" G said:

"I'm fine."

I mean, since I have been our here I heard them go down the stairs and get an ice. So, I suppose they are doing alright. But I do wonder about their loneliness. No asshole siblings. Giving them grief. I mean, the last time I was with G we were driving down this road outside of Chatham, New York and we hit a spot of stink. Manure-style. And for years the joke I made was directed at Professor Curly. Whenever a big stink would hit. It went like this:

"Man! I don't know about that new perfume you are wearing." And then everyone would laugh nervously. Because it was such a bad dad joke. But then, when it was just me and G and I said it:

"Whoa. Did you get a new perfume? It's little strong." G said:

"Oh, now I am the victim of that joke?" I mean, I laughed pretty hard. Their use of the word "Victim." I mean, even if I was the annoying older brother or whatever, like I feel like Grit sees me as, I can't be that to G because I am their dad, and that combined with Professor Curly also getting the butt of my stupid jokes, I mean, I don't even know what to say. You can only be so funny sometimes. Sometimes your jokes don't land. One day you are writing novels that are so stupid America just eats them up as pure entertainment, and the next day you are complaining on Social Media that it really sucks to be a Straight, White, Male because you are being cancelled for your misogyny and racism and isn't this the hardest time in the world to be a Straight, White, Man? Boo-hoo-hoo! Fucking hell. I mean, a guy can't even make millions of dollars anymore writing drivel without the woke mind virus coming for his paycheck. Poor James Patterson. He really can't catch a break.

I mean, the funniest thing about that. Which, I mean, how things work. About how we all don't know how manipulated we are in the grand scheme of things, because it doesn't really matter. That in the end, we all just want to be entertained and really, there is a huge dividing line between art and entertainment, but there used to be this guy on this list. This exact thing that you are reading. He would "Write" books with the whiny asshole, meaning, he would take his thing, the James Patterson brand, and write books in his "Voice" the same way that Eric Van Lustbader would write Bourne books after what's-his-name died, shit, I got no computer, so I can't look it up, but he was very good in the beginning. Maybe I will remember. But he asked me to take him off the list, this Patterson guy, because it was giving him agita. Because he was being triggered. And as much as I understand about not wanting to get your face shoved in the shit of the world, as Jim Morrison would say, I mean, I don't think it was that that caused him to get off the list. I mean, I know, for a fact, that what was "Triggering" the dude was that I was writing everyday, and he wasn't. He would just sit around, in front of the typewriter, smoking weed, and not doing nothing. And, I mean, that is some fucked up shit. To get triggered by someone because it reminded you that you couldn't produce. I mean, to go back to James Patterson himself, his feelings are hurt because he actually has to think about his writing for once in his fucking life? Isn't that insane? That he, and anyone that just floats through the world without a seconds thought about what the world is, is being canceled because they have to do one moment of personal observation? Personal reflection? It blows my mind. And this guy, the guy that used to be on this list, it's not like he was living in a basement on 5th street in Manhattan, he is living on the Upper West Side. In an expensive apartment. That he must own. I mean, I know that I throw all of my shit on the wall and I kind of just forget about it. I don't care if it sticks or not. But, how sensitive do you need to be to be triggered by a guy that makes fart jokes at an alarming pace. I mean, if it was me, I would just take it as a gauntlet being thrown down. I mean, it is all just nonsense. You get, what? Maybe 100,000 words in your writing career that are worth half the paper that they are written on, and to have someone else's diahhrea really fuck you up? So much so, that you can't even look at it? I mean, I don't mean to call the guy out. I am not. I am just seeing a connection to the world we live in versus the world that some people, meaning a dying breed of people, desperately grasping onto the small influence they have left. And it makes me sad. I mean, it is the Great "Age Gracefully" debate. Yeah, shit changes, so what? Advance, or get out of the way. Nobody is interested in the Lone White Genius sitting on his typewriter writing the Great American Novel anymore. Frankly, nobody actually cared about that in the first place. People like him and me have been dying since the 60's. I just do it now because it has become a "New Uncouth." But I have the good sense to at least meditate on how you can change and still be relevant. The idea that you have to stop time to make yourself matter again is such bullshit that I would rather die a flaccid and wet-fart death, than fight to the death to make things work in my favor again. Because I know I will not win. And, frankly, I hate the past in a way that I was never part of it to begin with. I mean, I may not be queer, but I am not the other thing. And that other thing sucks. I do not long for what it was. There is no nostalgia lost on me.

Shit. How did I go down this hole? I had all these plans to tell you about the rest of my day, or the beginning of it. But now it is too late, and I need to get up in the morning. I will see if I can find this thing. This thing that will make it all make sense.

[Insert I took the liberty of ironing your homework. Teen Witch.]

Robert Ludlum!