[155] Screed City
[155]
06/23/2022 Thursday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.
Too much! I have chosen the path of chaos! Yet there is no turning back now. I mean, what the hell? But I will say, I have a date set for radio learning. July 8th. A Friday. I mean, what the hell to that too. I tried to get a weekend slot, but the guy said he only does radio stuff on the weekend for emergencies. I mean, I was like, But this is [italics] an emergency, bro! Alas, nothing doing. I will have to suffer MORE for my art. If that is even possible. Me and Jesus, we can't catch a fucking break. Against all odds!
I mean, whatever. I have been in Portland all week. Working my fingers to the bone. Making the beer happen. While my poor Ticklers languish in the basement. Lonely and cold. If a brew bubbles in a basement and nobody is there to hear it, does it still make tasty Ticklers? A question for the ages. I mean, I am exhausted and sun burnt. Stronger and thinner. I mean, it was fun. I did some layout for this drinking area that is being built. I designed some lighting poles. I put a roof over a bike rack. I ate some tacos, some pizza, barbequed chicken and squash. Some rice. A couple strawberries. Chips and sandwiches. I drank a million cups of coffee. A few fresh beers from the brewery. Hung out with Brother Luke and his family. I mean, it was all mostly business. But we did play a few games. Had a few laughs. I slept well. And today I worked all day and then hauled ass back to Vermont. Tomorrow I will bake like the wind. Shit! I need to set an alarm to get the fillings out. Not the feelings, that is what I am doing here, but the guts for the Bubbys. They need to thaw. One sec.
Okay. That will be annoying thing to do in an hour. But it has to be done. I need to bake the things tomorrow. ASAP. Not AYEC, that won't work here. Get them in the freezer for at least six hours. Then thaw them again. I mean, this is where my plan fails I realize. I need to have an alternate slate of Bubbys like the Republicans like so I don't have to worry about this step, but like I always do, I kind of fucked myself by goldbricking too much the last couple weeks. Why can't I do the right thing sometimes? I mean, I tell G this all the time. Just do the shit you need to do and get it done. Then you don't have to worry about anymore. Alas, I do not take my own advice. And as such, here I sit, broken hearted. The bridesmaids know the rest.
I mean, after I bake and freeze and unthaw, probably having to set an alarm for midnight or something to get them out of the freezer, I will have to Farmers Market on Saturday. Then after that. Haul ass back to Beaver Haus. Drop the shit off. Get back in Junior Mint. Haul ass to the City. Hang out for exactly a day and a half. Get on the road to Portland by 5a on Monday and work all week and do this shit all over again. I mean, it will be worth it. Somehow. At least that is what I tell myself. The money? No. The experience? Not really. The long term? I doubt it. I mean, my scheme is basically a social experiment gone wild. Except instead of getting coeds to flash their tits at me, I have middle-aged Upskirter edging closer and closer to showing me her butthole in the middle of a daylight gala. Shit, what word am I looking for? Bizarre! In the middle of a daylight bizarre. What weird days, man. Weird fucking days.
That drive back from Portland is a misery. Three hours on the interstate. I mean, today the 1/6 hearings were on the radio, so that was fantastic. But what the actual fuck, man? I'll leave it at that, but my god. The interstate though. I don't know how anyone does it. And there are thousands and thousands, if not millions of us doing this shit every day. I am still perplexed that it is a thing we do. I am still not convinced it is necessary. Speaking of a social experiment gone wild. I mean, it's like some jerk had a pretty good idea at one point, but it just totally backfired, but because we have invested so much into it, there is just no turning back now. I mean, it really is a metaphor for the Farmers Market for me. To what end? I could just stay home and accomplish way more. Spend less money. Have more peace of mind. Yet there I am, dealing with maniacs at every turn. Forced to stay vigilant and focused. Keeping my eyes out for the next sign of trouble and trying to anticipate it. I mean, maybe that is a bad analogy and very dramatic, but still, standing behind your tables at your booth with two hours to kill because you don't have any more product to offer anyone, I mean, it is exactly like driving down the interstate. You can't get off until your exit. I mean, you can try, but you will just get into trouble.
I mean, in another turn of events, there is this guy Will trying to get me to start up the Busy Body Society again. I mean, I don't know what he is up to, but I don't like it. I mean, I am going to slow roll the motherfucker, because that thing, the BBS, does not need to be meddling in the affairs of the town at this moment. And since I am the only remaining member, I mean, he told me Dianne had quit, but she has not formally resigned, I mean, I just don't see a reason to get together any time soon. And the funny thing is, there is nothing he can do about it. I mean, at least he isn't a Sergeant. But still, what the hell is he up to? He said he wants to get together and have a glass of wine or a beer or something. What the hell does that mean? And then when I told him I was out of commission until September, so back the fuck off, he said we don't need to have a drink, that the sooner the better is best, and we don't need to meet, a phone call would suffice. Suffice what?! What the hell is there to discuss? There is no pressing matters right now. If he wants to start a community garden, it is already going. Everyone knows that trail between Granville and Lower Granville is a bust. I mean, what else is there? A possible Fall parade? A dog show? Neighbor of the year award? A pancake breakfast for, I don't know, a 2 for 1 pizza sale at JD's wife’s place? I mean, the committee itself is a public nuisance. If anything I should bring charges of public invasiveness at the next Select Board meeting. Maybe try and make it illegal for us to meet. Force that lazy bones Constable Mark to do his job for once. I mean, if we try to meet, he could show up, that half-balloon filled mustached mouth of his and his town provided taser and zap us the fuck out of Town Hall. Screaming:
"I invoke town menace laws, you meddling maniacs! Now git! Git! We don't have time for this nonsense!"
I mean, whatever. I am just joking. But I don't know what Will is up to. And, I mean, in the short time I have been here, my instincts tells me that it is not good. Even if it is something as innocuous as planting roses at the Loneliest Bench.
I mean, I don't know what other gossip is floating around here since I have been gone. I know they poured concrete yesterday. At the Compound! Carlisle and the Queens guy that decided it was okay to eat watermelon very loudly in my ear while high on mushrooms on Sunday stuck around to help. I mean, one of the pictures I saw was pretty good. It is raining. Carlisle is wearing shorts and a t-shirt. The Watermelon Smacker is wearing Winter clothes, or at least it seems. I mean, here it is:
[Insert New House Photo]
I mean, it's great they stuck around to help! I was sad to miss it. And progress! I don't know why I think that photo is so funny though. It kind of sums up what it is like to pour concrete though. All the different elements. The work, the weather, the novices and the expert. The one guy that knew what to expect, with his mustaches and hard hat and rain jacket. Carlisle holding a coffee mug and a porta band. In shorts. I mean, every time, it is something special. Un-predictable. But as far as I know, it went great. I mean, hold on. My alarm is going off. Fucking hell. One sec.
I mean, at least I have an extra 10 Breakfast Bubbys in the freezer. Well, nine. Professor Curly gave one to her mom in law, on accident. It had the letter "B" written on it. And, the way she decided it was a Cubby Bubby was that she thought that "B" stood for "Beef." I mean, it doesn't. It stands for "Breakfast." I mean, how the hell would she know that? The regular ones, the Cubby Bubbys, I use "Cu," to delineate. And the Veggie Bubbys I use "Vv," to delineate. I mean, I guess I could be more clear, but, I mean, normally I don't have people poking around the freezer looking to give their mothers in law a thing for the road. However, I do have a lousy way of marking these things. I mean, my system. It stinks. But, then again, I know it, which, I suppose, is the only thing that counts, unless someone is poking around in the freezer without me. And the only reason I care is because now my numbers will be off, so I either have to make an extra Breakfast Bubby, which I will do, but it will be very hard to track, or I just bring 19 to the Market on Saturday, which, I mean, ugh! I am trying to do a control group here! And without any actual control, I am pissing into the wind as the bridesmaids say. Lord, give me the strength to control my Cubby Bubby grouping, the courage to insist on doing 20 BBs, 13 CBs and 7 VGs. And the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.
Shit, I forgot where we were before. Right, Vermont. I mean, this is fantastic, this new concrete pour. We wait 28 days to let the cement set and then we can pour the next floor/ceiling. This is monumental. I mean, Scott and the Publisher are thisclose to having a New England brownstone. Turret-housing. I think the last story will have cut-outs for crossbows. Or maybe there will be a fifth, shorter wall, just for that. Maybe one of those Archimedes mirror weapons. Burn the insurgents like ants. Melt the highway-type of thing. If you catch my drift, as the bridesmaids say.
I mean, I don't know. I think things are going pretty good. This work in Portland is going to good things for my bank account. It is nice to spend time with my brother. His kids are hilarious. I just hope that Junior Mint holds out. I get more and more nervous every day. The brakes are acting weird again. But I don't know if that is because the hubs are rusty or if I need to replace them, yet again. The suspension is not good. I mean, the thing is still a couch on wheels, but now it is one of those couches that you sit in that you have to rock yourself out of to get out, if you know what I mean? It kind of sucks you in. That is what I mean. I mean, I was about to give you a good ol' Peter Murphy tune that I always seem to put in these things, but I won't because, I don't know, don't horse a dead mouth or whatever the saying is. Don't look a dead horse in the eye? Don't take a horse's eye by it's tooth? A horse in the bush is worth the money soon fooled? I mean, I don't know. Something like that.
Either way, I have been at it since dawn. I suppose I should ditch. I don't know what is coming in the next few days. I have an idea, I guess. I know I won't be able to report on the Farmers Market on Saturday, but I will take notes. Maybe sometime next week I can get a second to report. I mean, unless on Saturday night I get into Brooklyn with some time to spare. Which is entirely possible. Ari has a party that night and I think Professor Curly is going to it. I mean, I would go, but there is no way in hell I can pull it off. So, maybe I can puke something out when I get into town. But there is no way to plan for that. I mean, we will see. I mean, not that it really matters, but like all things, if I don't stay on top of my shit, who the hell else is going to, right? I mean, me and Jesus. We can't catch a break. You know? Just dangling around for your sins. I mean, at least Jesus had a team of dedicated professionals helping him out. Me, I got nobody. All alone. Trying to make ends meet. The world against me. I mean, you think Jesus suffered, he gots nothing on me. I mean, all he had to do was hang around for a while and then they gave him a nice cave to hang out in until he was ready to come out again. I mean, everyone was waiting for him to come out. They even opened the door for that dude. He didn't need to lift a finger. That fucking boulder of his. I mean, I got Cubby Bubbys, and interstates, and weekend traffic. Gas prices out the wazzoo. Bad brakes. This guy Will breathing down my neck about things I don't care about. I mean, I got it bad over here. And Jesus, he's just hanging out in his cave, like some jerk on the wings of some stage, waiting to make his big entrance. I mean, boohoo, Jesus, read the room.
I mean, whatever. I was supposed to be saying that me and Jesus were the same, and now I turned on the guy, I mean, what can you do? I like Jesus. All I am saying is that I think he would be pretty bored driving down the interstate. I mean, imagine him sitting shotgun, the only radio station that comes in is French Canadian pop music. Stuck behind a tractor trailer spraying muddy water on the windshield. Nobody letting the driver pull into the fast lane. I mean, he is sitting there. Nothing to look at. The car going too fast to roll the window down to smoke. The horrible pop music. He looks over at the driver. The driver. Sick of Jesus's shit, says:
"Don't start, man!" Jesus says:
"I didn't say nothing!" The driver, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Says:
"Yeah." Jesus keeps his mouth shut. A moment goes by. He says:
"Um, I have to pee."
All I am saying is that the interstate sucks. Even Jesus would agree.
[Insert Draggin The Line]