[153] Screed City

[153]

06/15/2022 Wednesday. Garbage Room. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

I mean, there is just too much to do. All things pulling in all directions. Once again I need to pull my shit together. Will I, you wonder? I doubt it. I mean, at least it doesn't feel like a slog. That is nice. There is no racist BMI work to do anytime soon. It is all Farmers Markets and parties and Brewery work and getting down to the City for theater shows and book stuff, so I should feel good about things. I mean, busy, busy, busy. But today in a very Vermont-style way, me and G had some fun. We drove to Burlington to join the Costco. But we did not, in fact, join the Costco. We stood there, overwhelmed. A cart full of racist onions and mushrooms. The mushrooms were not racist. Just the onions. I mean, the idea was to get tubes and tubes of ground beef. But they did not have tubes of ground beef. They had dozens of stacked and frozen hamburgers, but I have learned the hard way that pre-made hamburgers make horrible ground beef. They are just not worth it. So we ate a slice of pizza and hauled ass to the Walmart. Where, nothing doing. We should have just gone to Montpelier. But we didn't. Next time.

Although, we did drive over the Lincoln Gap. Which is always a wild ride. I had Donkeys [Italics] to drop off at the post office. I could have gone to East Middlebury on the way to Burlington, but that post office was open. And, from experience, those dicks suck. They give you nonsense grief about bullshit that they know nothing about. It is not worth it. So we went to the Granville post office. Which doesn't open until noon. It was 11:30a. Then we drove over the Lincoln Gap, which is a wild ride. I mean, straight uphill for a mile or so. Curvy as hell, no shoulder. Then the Gap itself. With the sweet ass Sunset Trail. A vista paradise. Then another mile of straight downhill curvy as hell road. No shoulders. Then more downhill, dirt roads. Then Lincoln proper. Which, I mean, I found 34 feet of two foot wide Oriental rug in a free pile. Perfect for the basement. I cut it into two 10 foot strips and two seven foot strips. I mean, the basement is really coming along. I mean, I made a grave error. I waited too long to start a new batch of Ticklers. They will not be ready for this weekend. I may have to break into the Champagne Ticklers early. Has it been two weeks? I hope I marked it on the calendar, because I really don't know.

I mean, what I mean about it being a Vermont-style good time, is that it was just a bunch of driving and waisted time just to be disappointed in the outcome. I mean, we got back to Beaver Haus at 4p. Then we kind of lazed around. G went to their room to play Minecraft or whatever. I washed dishes and listened to things on the computer. Then we went to the Compound for brats on DogBoy Beach. Which was nice. Six days and counting until Grit turns 10! People are supposed to start showing up on Friday. I need to bake all day tomorrow to get ready for the Farmers Market. Plus I need to make some bagels. Which, I think I will make the dough at the end of the bake tomorrow and leave the dough in the fridge overnight and then bake the bagels first thing on Friday morning. Take them over to the Compound and put them in the freezer there. So on Saturday revelers can eat them. With gravlax that Scott is making. I mean, I can't be there because of the Market, and then after that I have to take G back to the their mom, so I don't think I will even be around until like 6p or so on Saturday night, just in time for dinner, I guess. I mean, Professor Curly is supposedly coming up to New Ham on Friday. To the Farmers Market with her dad and stepmom on Saturday. Then they will go to the Compound. And then we have Sunday to do whatever, and then, Monday morning I need to haul ass to Portland. And, I think, PC will haul ass to the City. Then next weekend I will come back. Do the market. And after the Market on Saturday I will head down to the City to see Jess's show on Sunday and then I guess haul ass to Portland on Monday and work the week at the Brewery and then come back on Thursday night. Get up on Friday, bake like the wind and do the Farmers Market on Saturday. Ad nausea. I mean, it is going to be like this until the work is done at the Brewery. But the lord knows I need cashola. I mean, I had a dream last night where someone was asking me what I was doing and I was working and I said "What do you mean? I am working to make money, what else am I supposed to be doing?" I mean, it was a funny dream because here in a America, where we decided long ago that the working class should bow down and suck everyone’s dick that has offered jobs at an unbelievably low rate, with an unbelievable time constraint, that we should just suck it up and be thankful for the scraps we get thrown, but then, at the exact same time, our culture is that work is not only work, but our social environment as well. So, not only do we have to have these jobs, we have to give them our free time too, because this is how Society is held together, and if you can't give the Company your free time as well, you are lazy and not a team player. I mean, mandatory unpaid social time. I mean, it is garbage, and that is why I dreamed about it, but still, at the same time, I look forward to spending time with my Brother and his family, so I don't think the dream was entirely about that. But it was mostly about that. I mean, the pay is fantastic, so I am not complaining. I just need to do the work to get the monies, if you know what I mean.

I mean, the race is still on. I went into the Forest Service offices in Rochester yesterday. To ask if I needed a permit to do a running race on Forest Service roads. The very old man with some sort of Northern European accent didn't know. There was some redheaded youngster in the back, working at standing desk, she yelled "You do!" Then she sneezed. I yelled "Gesundheit!" Or whatever. She didn't respond. Rude. I talked to the old man from Upper Europe for a while. He was full of non-information. But he did take my phone number and electronic mail. The details of the race. What roads and such. He said Cheryl would get in touch with me. Whatever that means. I asked him if there were jobs available at the Forest Service. He directed me to visit a website. G was there and remembered the website. I didn't. Job.us.gov or something. I mean, the idea of being a naturalist for the Forest Service sound wonderful. But then the Publisher pointed out that I probably need a degree in forestry or something. And then I thought that maybe they need leathernecks or whatever, hands, beefmen, or whatever, grunts to do some work, right? I mean, I don't have very high hopes. But for a second there, I was feeling pretty good. I mean, I really need to do something around here if I am going to continue living in this part of the world. I am aging at an alarming rate. I mean, I picked Scott up from JD's the other day, after he dropped of his car to get the oil changed and every single person I saw was in their 70's. Which is fine, I love the idea of growing old, scooting around everywhere, talking about your ailments and the weather, but I am not there yet, and if everyone you see is 30 years older than you, you kind of reflect that upon yourself. I mean, it was crazy to go to Burlington and see young people. And by young, I mean, younger than 40. I mean, I think that the reason that people in New York City age well is because they are reminded about what it was like to be young all the time. And instead of it making them feel old, it reminds them that it wasn't that long ago, and being older than 40 does not mean you are a corpse on two wimpy legs. You are just not 30 anymore. And instead of being reminded of what growing older looks like, you are reminded of what being young looks like. So you can feel better about the decisions about your life instead of being in a constant panic mode about if you don't change your life right now you too will be very old, very soon. Which, I mean, time comes for us all, but feeling like you are 80 years old when, in fact, you are half that age, I mean, it is not good. My point is, Vermont needs more young people!

Speaking of old weirdos. Yesterday me and G went looking for Bruce's secret trail between Lower Granville and Granville proper. I mean, it is the basement of the fucking Alamo here. The trail is a lie. It doesn't exist. We bushwhacked for quite some time. Then we found some mowed grass. Then we walked along the rivers edge for a while. Then there was some postings for Two Hens or something, Two Loons maybe, farm. That said no hunting and by permission only. We ignored the signs and kept walking. Until we scared some poor deer that really looked like it might fight us it was so freaked out. I mean, the thing nearly broke it's neck trying to get away from us. Stumbling over rocks. Falling over in the river. Then it bolted into the yonder. I mean, after that we could go no further. We turned back. Walked for a while. Came upon another couple. Wearing very odd hats. They were on the other side of the river. I yelled:

"Halloo! Hey, I have a question. Do you guys know of a trail around here?" Instead of doing the normal thing, like saying "Oh, hey, we saw you at the Select Board meeting last night. We know what you are looking for." They went into some diatribe about the history of the area. Which, I mean, I was glad about. But then I said:

"I am hoping to do this race in town and I am looking for this supposed trail." The man took his hat off. It was the same guy from the Select Board meeting. John, I think his name was. He said:

"Yeah, we were there last night." Then his wife took off her hat. I suddenly recognized them. I mean, it was funny. Not that it was them, but that I got confused about who they were because of their very odd hats. It changed their appearances drastically. I mean, once the hats were removed I felt like a baffoon for not recognizing them. But what can you do? I mean, we talked for a while. About Bruce and his mis-understanding about this land. About how it is basically someone's back yard. That there was no way in hell they would give anyone permission to build a trail there. And not only that, but the trail would end up on VT 100 anyway because there is no route that would bypass the houses in town. Which, I mean, that is fine by me. If it can't be done, it can't be done. The sooner I realize that, the better. I mean, then they started talking about the weather and their ailments. I mean, it was great. Because lately I have been quite interested in the people that live around here, and what the hell they do. And these two had some pretty wild ideas about space and time. We talked about heating in the Winter. Winter sports. What old people do in the Winter months. Who owns what land. Who thinks what. Changing tires. Tourists. Weed. I mean, we must have spent 20 minutes just talking on opposite sides of the river. The wife seemed very "Spiritual" the husband was more "No-Nonsense" but he was kind of out of it too. They claimed to have a house on Maston Hill and a garage off of VT 100. I mean, they suggested the running race should take place from East Granville to Lower Granville. I mean, no offense, but that is like a 20 mile race. And the wife, once again, I mean, she was the one that suggested the snowmobile trail between West Hill and Texas Falls. Which is, itself, a 15 mile route. I mean, as helpful as they were, they really had no grasp on what it was that I am trying to accomplish here. And I told them in no uncertain terms exactly what I was looking to achieve. They didn't care. They saw it different. Which is just fine by me, I mean, any new ideas are good ideas. One thing they said was to rent out the, um, what the hell did they call it? There is this place next to the post office that has a kitchen and a bathroom. And a big room for things. I think they said they used to do a pancake breakfast that sucked because they ran out of everything before everyone could eat. Which I thought was kind of telling. I mean, there is a desire for these things around here, but nobody is up for the task. And really, what they did, was to give me new hope for the project. I mean, we do a barbeque and a running race and it is during harvest season. I mean, it will become an event. We get some local bands to play, We get running clubs involved. Sweet t-shirts. Metals. I mean, the community is aching for this kind of thing. I mean, the problem is that we will need to do it next year. And there are a lot of harrowing months between the end of Summer and end of Winter. It will be a little tough to stay focused in the harder months. But for now, while the spirits are high, hopefully we can make some headway.

Plus also, the radio station got back to me. Screed City Radio is back on! I mean, the Summer is already looking intense, but I will do it. I will pull it off. As much as things feel fractured at the moment, they will start to come back together around September. The Farmers Market will wind down. The unadulterated success of Cubby Bubbys will give me a new lease on life. As Professor Curly would say. I will move down to the City for a few months. Having the distance and gusto to keep pushing the running race forward. I will travel up to Vermont on the weekends to do the radio show. Maybe even engage local businesses to sponsor the race. PC will have won the MacArthur by that time, so I can finally retire. I mean, fuck! I still need to cut that hole in the wall on the haunted tertiary part of Beaver Haus to get the cubic feet measurements. I want to say I can do it tomorrow, but I can't. Maybe Sunday. If I don't do it Sunday, I will be fucked. Fuck! I really need to pull my shit together.

Anyway. I should hit the sack. Big day tomorrow. G said they have no problem not doing anything. I mean, they are 14. Sleeping in is important. I will hang the hammock up. In case they need some air. They did mention they could go for a walk or something. Which was very cute. I hope they do. I mean, I don't really expect to see their teenage vibes tomorrow. Just the usual "Dad! I'm hungry!" I mean, kids these days, with their devices and pronouns. When I was their age I walked uphill 20 miles to be called a faggot because I didn't play football and then when I got home I had to make my own sandwich. I mean, my parents would be in jail in this day and age. In jail! And they would have deserved it! Just joking. My parents were fine. My dad, god rest his asshole soul, should never have forced me to play football in eighth grade, but he did, and maybe one day I will forgive him for it, but it wasn't my parent's fault about Society. I mean, Society can suck one. If you ask me. ABOLISH TURNSTILES!

[Insert There is no basement at the Alamo]