[157] Screed City

[157]

06/30/2022 Thursday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

I mean, whoa. Not in some dramatic way, just, I mean, it occurs to me that I am finally home. It has been a while. And there is still so much to do. And a lot has happened and I don't know what to make of any of it, but I made some money, had some good times, drove about 800 miles, had some good food, a few larks, saw three cities, a theater show, a fiancé, a brother, a niece and a nephew, took some showers, slept, I mean, I did it all! The American dream incarnate. I even pulled myself up by my boot-straps! Just joking, fuck that shit. I mean, let me tell you what I think about that kind of thinking...it stinks. Abolish turnstiles.

I think I over-watered my cacti. They are all lying flat now. But also they are sprouting new things. I mean, cycle of life, right? I mean, my avocado plants are doing splendid. My Russian Olive tree has yet to sprout. Everything else seems to be thriving. There is some cool new flower things in the front of the house. The mowers must have just come. The lawn is freshly mown. I mean, I guess they got the memo about not mowing down the baby trees. I mean, the stakes I put up haven't been mowed down. The beans are doing well. From what I can tell. The Ticklers have settled down. The dead yeasts clinging to the bottom of the jugs. I mean, the fridge smells. I know I have some rotten stuff in there. I can't catch a break. I mean, just joking, but my milk went bad before I left. With three days left on the expiry date, as the British goons like to say. I mean, when was the last time we spoke? Last Saturday, I guess. When I drove down to the City after the Farmers Market. I mean, I missed a great party I am told. With all the familiar faces and intrigue. I mean, Professor Curly and I got up the next day and went to Philly. That was something. I mean, she decided to get her nails done before we left, so that created a thing. But I was able to buy another chafing dish in China town. Then we ate some fancy corn dogs. One with cheese and a sweet "Shell." The other one had potatoes for a "Shell." I mean, I guess I could say, coating? A coat of potatoes? I mean, that would be cool, a coat made of potatoes. Whatever. We drove to Philly, packed up as much shit as we could fit into the Real Estate Wagon. I mean, we had to leave some things behind. We boned on the bed one last time. That was very zesty. I made some popcorn afterwards. PC and Jess are going there on Saturday. To get the rest of the stuff. I mean, we got back to Queens by 6:30p after some very heavy traffic. Cross-loaded a rug and some coats and the chafing dish into Junior Mint. Went into the apartment. Got ready to go out again. Were out the door by 7p. I mean, it was complicated. Some things went wrong. We took the train and then had to take a car to Jess's show on the Lower East Side. I mean, we barely made it. The show was top notch though! Worth all the stress it took to get there. I mean, I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard during a theater show. If ever. I mean, maybe Cabaret was as entertaining. I mean, in terms of absurdity. I mean, Jess is hilarious and genius. I mean, I still haven't fully processed the show. It was that [Italics] good. I wish it was still going on so I could watch it again and take more in. I don't know what to say. Hats off!

After the play we took a car home. Which seemed very luxurious, but I would have paid $100 bucks to just get home at that point. I mean, we were in bed by 11:30p, but the alarm went off just a few hours later and I was on the road to Portland. Pulling into the brewery at 10:30a. Going straight to work. Then working until 6p. I mean, that night, around 8:30p, when Brother Luke came downstairs after getting the brats to bed I said "I can't wait until the clock says nine." I mean, I was pooped. When 9p came around I was in bed and asleep within minutes. I mean, it was nice. I slept really good. Woke up at 6a and got right back to it. I mean, you have no idea how hard I work. You should all be ashamed. You lazy-bones. Sitting around doing nothing all day, while I go around doing all the stuff. I get done in two hours what most people get done in a whole week, or something. I mean, just joking. Working at the brewery is quite nice. Pleasant even. They treat the employees quite well. Myself included. I mean, I get sunburns and stuff. I am hungry at times. But they have hot coffee ready at all times. Cold coffee too, if you are into that sort of thing. Snacks even. Chocolate covered peanuts even. I mean, I don't know what I mean, but it is a funny place to work. Almost absurd. The place is running 24/7/365. Which is nuts! Robots. I don't know, 100 employees? Getting bigger every day. I mean, you see people drinking beer for their job, which is funny, to see a person sucking on a beer at nine in the morning for work reasons. And all the cans and kegs and bottles and sacks of stuff. The smell of fermentation. I mean, I don't know what I mean, but watching it is like watching money being printed. It is impressive. I mean, I think they have a very progressive business model, where they pay people well, give them good benefits and whatever, but holy shit, that thing is just piling stacks on stacks. With no signs of relenting. I mean, our job this week, or my job specifically, was to help these sub-contracted company build new bathrooms for the Tasting Room. Or the TR as the employees call it. I mean, it kind of sucked. I don't say that in the way that I mean the job sucked, but it was a construction site for certain. Chop saws, dust, noise, stressed out jerks, a dumb arbitrary dead-line, I mean, I had very little sympathy for the sub-contractor. It was a big project, but they did stupid stuff that made their work harder for them, and instead of just doing the work, they complained a whole bunch about how much they were working. I mean, how is that my problem? I am here to help, it seems like you mis-managed your labor, which is on you, not me, I mean, maybe the brewery told you that they would give you workers if needed, but the workers aren't working for you, they are working for the brewery, so boo-hoo if they have to peel off to go do brewery stuff, I mean, they did things like use U-Line things. You know the one? The Fascist supply company that decries America First, but gets everything from China because it is cheaper? The same company that does everything in it's power to undercut the working class but uses God as a way to justify their practices? You know who I mean, I mean, this sub-contractor also had a team of immigrant labor that came in and did the drywall for them. I mean, meek and scared, and probably undocumented labor, who would act like beaten dogs if they happened to kind of be in your way while you were carrying a ladder past where they were working. I mean, I will assume that most of who is reading this doesn't know what I am talking about, so I will take some liberties, these poor guys, who are extremely good at their job because they work like mad-mudders on every job-site they are on, but they are not documented so they have to keep a low profile, and therefore try to keep out of the way so as to not be noticed. That, probably, I mean, I am certain, but I am not absolutely certain, I mean, the company the sub-contractor sub-sub-contracted to do this job, is using these poor guys, stealing their labor, their monies, I mean, charging the brewery the same money I am getting and only paying the workers a fraction of the monies, I mean, and then paying the workers a fraction of that labor cost. I mean, and then the sub-contractor has the gall to complain about being overworked? I mean, you are not overworked, you just don't know how to manage your time properly. I mean, my guess is that the sub-contractor knows full well that he is stealing people's wages. It doesn't matter though, because in the end he will get the big pay-off. And in a job like this. Which probably was at least a $100, 000 dollar job, maybe more, he will walk away with at least an extra $10,000 dollars because of it. How do I know, you ask? Because it is simple math, my friend. Any extra money goes straight into their pocket. He doesn't give a shit. Which is why he uses U-Line. If he thought about it at all, which he didn't, because that is how shit works, but if he did, he would be very ashamed. I guess. I mean, I don't know. Capitalism is bullshit. True-cost would destroy the farce. And we can't have that.

I mean, the gall of the guy. Oh, right, you are Jewish, what I meant to say is, the pure hutzpah of the guy. I mean, Professor Curly is Jewish, she went to the doctor the other day, and the doctor said:

"There is something wrong with your gall-bladder."

Professor Curly said: "What?"

The doctor, who was not Jewish said: "Oh, right, you're Jewish, what I meant to say was, there is something wrong with your hutzpah-bladder."

Professor Curly said: "Oh, that makes more sense."

Ha-ha. I am still working on that joke. I mean, Brother Buck had his hutzpah-bladder removed not too long ago, and I thought of that joke, but since he is not Jewish, nor am I, I have been trying to cram into something that I can't really cram it into. So PC is now the victim of my joke. I mean, maybe it needs to be more general. Like, I mean:

"Doctors these days, am I right? They have gone too far. Always trying to make people feel comfortable, I mean, they got some bad press and all, what with Doctor Kevorkian helping with the suicides and stuff. You know what I mean? The bed-side manner stuff. But shit is getting out of control, I mean, really, my friend Ilan Bachrach, who is clearly Jewish, went to the doctor the other day complaining about a pain in his gut and the doctor took a look at his chart and said, It looks like something is wrong with your gall-bladder. My friend was confused. He knew nothing about gall-bladders, or even that he had a gall-bladder that could be messed up, so he said, What? And that damn doctor, thinking for some reason that my friend didn't understand what he was saying because he was Jewish, the doctor said, Oh, right, you are Jewish, what I meant to say is; there is something wrong with your hutzpah-bladder. I mean, what? This woke mind-virus has gone too far! What next? Am I to believe that doctors should start calling it a Schmunda-smear if someone comes in with the name Sarah? Society is on the brink, man. There is just no telling anymore."

I mean, I don't even know. The joke isn't really that funny in the first place, but then your add the weird element of a non-Jewish dude trying to make the joke. I mean, it's not anti-Semitic, but it kind of implies anti-Semitism. From the doctor, and then from the change of tone, but then again, if your are explaining the joke does that not mean the joke has already failed? But then again, the Right Wing Facists’ just started a new search engine for anti-Semites. It's called:

"Goygle."

I mean, maybe that is where the joke was going all along. A gateway joke. Poor Ilan. He can't catch a break. Tell me about it, brother.

Either way, I don't know what to say. I have to get my shit together ASAP. Tomorrow I have to bake like the wind. I can't be standing around making jokes all night. Funny or otherwise. I mean, I guess I will set my alarm for 7a. Try and sleep in a tiny bit. I doubt I can, but I will try. I mean, Saturday is fast approaching. If I was smart I would do some things right now to make my life better, but I won't. I am in no mood. My ear hurts because I listened to loud things for too many hours on the interstate. I mean, that torture. Just driving and driving. Staring out in the distance. How meaningless life is. Just driving. Hours of time that I will never get back. The idea, that after all of this is said and done, lying on my death bed, my life flashing before my eyes, and this is it? Endless miles of interstate? Crappy novels written by Richard Hell, I mean, if you think that I am a self-absorbed whiner, open one of his garbage-dumps, I mean, how much time can any real human being spend talking about how everyone around him was just hanging onto every word he was saying like it Jesus Christ himself come to town to deliver horrible poetry. I mean, I always wondered whether the books he wrote were worth reading and now I have the answer. No. They are not worth reading. I mean, I have the book because someone thought it reminded them of me, which, I mean, I can kind of see it, I do complain a lot, and I do have a myopic view on things, but still, I mean, I don't think I am that bad, I mean, am I? Do I give off the impression that people sit around waiting for me to have profound thoughts? That the lyrics to my songs, the songs I write on a whim, are somehow profound and cross-generational in meaning? That "Groupies" are deserved? That I somehow changed the nature of rock music just by hanging out on the "Scene," looking cool and shooting heroin? I don't know, man. Check me out on Goygle.

Whatever. I can rant about whatever the hell I feel like. That is my prerogative, or whatever. Next Friday I will have my own radio show. So nobody can shut me up. You think you got it bad, I guarantee that I have it one million times harder than you do.

[Insert Blank Generation]