[161] Screed City
[161]
07/09/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.
Farmers Market Week Nine:
I don't know what to do. I sold out by 11:55a. 56 of the damn things. I mean, even had I had 60, they would have been gone by then. I mean, the last two, which were GF Bubbys, they were bought out of desperation. Because it was all I had left. I mean, in their defense, the GF Bubbys, the Putin of Gluten gave them a hell of a review. Although he thinks they need to have a beaten egg in them or something, to give the crust more chew, or bite, or whatever. Texture. But aside from that, I don't know. I mean, what can I even do about it? I mean, I wish this was last Summer and I had all the time in the world. Plus UnEmployment checks coming in. I mean, I guess I need a bridge loan. An investor? I need a real kitchen and a van and maybe a generator? I mean, I sold the first one today 30 minutes before I even opened. And the Glass Blower guy now has me convinced I need to do frozen Bubbys. Which I wanted to do last Winter, but these fickle assholes, nobody signed up for it. I mean, who knows? Who knows? There is no way for me to bake any more before next Saturday. I mean, and then I will only have Sunday to bake for the next weekend. And after that I will be in Wyoming for all of August. And then what? I will have to work my momentum up again and I will be back to ground zero. I mean, I need a food truck. That is all I can say about it. A food truck, a bridge loan, an investor, an actual kitchen and a generator. I mean, I think I can start taking this business seriously, that is if I want that. And I don't know if I want that. I mean.
I mean, I talked to this guy today. He said he had been in Vermont for 30 years. We were talking about Killing the Math, I mean, I switched from Cubby Bubbys to selling books at noon. I mean, I was telling him how I got to Vermont and the City. And he said:
"Yeah, the Winters here are brutal. I have a prediction, there is going to be a mass exodus next Spring. Three years of bad Winters will make people rethink things." Then his wife told me that she was from Toronto and this last Winter was the worst in a long time. Even worst than up in Canada. If that tells you anything. I mean, I think she said Toronto. Don't hold me to that, I don't know Canada maps, I don't want to give the impression that the city she was from was some coastal city with different weather, I mean, she was talking about a land-locked city. Maybe Toronto?
I mean, that is funny if it is true. That people are ditching. I mean, I am going to ditch. Come November I am moving down to the City for a few weeks at the very least. And December, and January, probably February. I can't take it. It is just too fucking much. I'll get some work at PS/NY or something. Maybe Jack has some jobs. Or Joe S. I mean, at a certain point it doesn't matter how much writing you get done, if you are wont to jump into the icy river and drown. If you know what I mean? I mean, I can't watch those idiot goats eat my screens and baby trees again.
Speaking of idiot goats. This morning when I went out to get Junior Mint ready and to feed those morons, I looked over and thought one of them was dead. Hanging from the manger. But they were not dead. Their horns were just stuck. And, try as I might, I could not get the fucker loose. I mean, it was the one without waddles, Not Waddles. He was shivering and there was a huge puddle of urine under him. Which leads me to believe he was stuck there all night. I mean, he had stood up on his hind legs, I guess to lick the goat shed? And because the manger is wider up top, he slid down and couldn't get loose. I mean, I was afraid I would kill him getting him loose, so I called the Publisher. Not long after that Scott came over. I mean, also, I was in my work digs. And I had to load the car, I didn't have the time or focus to be wrestling goats at 630a. I mean, I am not a husband for a reason. I mean, I was going to just unscrew the Manger and let the dick walk around with a chunk of metal around his neck until I got back later, if that tells you my feelings about the thing. But Scott had no trouble getting Not Waddles free. Thank god. I mean, those fucking goats. Their turds are doing wonders for my beans though.
I mean, after that bit of excitement, I was able to get my teenage vibes out the door and on the road by 7:06a. Only six minutes late. We drove through two covered bridges on the way to the thing. Have I mentioned this already? That I found a route to the Farmers Market with two covered bridges? When I bragged about this to G they said:
"What's so cool about that?" I mean, what's so cool about that? Get real.
I said: "Well, it's only the most fucking New Englandy thing you can do. Two covered bridges? That's gold!"
I mean, I put the third chafing dish in the trunk, FYI. Instead of on G's lap or on top of the other chafing dishes. So that is a thing I can do. It also occurred to me that I could put the back of the rear seats down too, if I needed to do that again. I mean, maybe I should do that anyway? It would give me more space. I mean, maybe I get a fourth chafing dish? I mean, at this point my Sterno consumption needs addressing. I have about 40 half-filled little cans that need a-burnin'. And two more cases of the stuff came in the mail today. Ugh, what is my life?
I mean, we unloaded pretty easy. G was helpful for a while until they really got in the way. Which was kind of funny. I mean, they wanted to help, but there was no helping to do. Not until the setting up. But I mean, the way I do things, I open two of my folding tables and put a table cloth on them. Then I put the chafing dishes on top of the table cloths. I light the Sterno and then finish unloading the car, because the product is first priority in this scenario. I can't have the things getting cold. But G, being a teenager, or maybe even just being a younger, cooler, smarter, version of me, they put all sorts of shit on the tables that I had to move before I could put the chafing dishes down. I mean, my entire work life is trying to find a place to put my stuff. Ask Scott, he knows. No matter what I do, I can't find a good place to put it. I feel like Joe S knows this too. As well as about 30 other jerks that I have worked for over the millions of hours I have gold-bricked.
Either way, I got all the stuff going and left to park the car. Came back. Set up the tent with G's help. Then we slowly got the thing ready. I mean, like I said, I sold a Cubby Bubby 30 minutes before even opening. The guy was like:
"You open?"
I said: "I'm not, not open."
He said: "Good. I had one of these last time. The ground beef one. I think this time I will try the breakfast one." I mean, I sold it to him. G took the money. And he took it and left. Then he came back and told me it was good. So that was right arm.
I mean, and then people just started showing up. I was out of Breakfast Bubbys by 10:30. G posted something on my @realcubbybubbys Instagram thing. And it went viral for about an hour. Like literally. 11,300 people checked it out for some reason. I mean, I got two new followers. And then it just stopped. I mean, I don't even know why this got triggered. The post was kind of dumb. It was a video of the penguin paper towel dispenser. With the caption "No sound, but the head still bends." Or something like that. Hashtag stuff. But for whatever reason 11,300 people checked it out. Then the internet got bored of it and moved on. I mean, it was kind of exciting for a few minutes. Then it was over and kind of heart breaking. Why did it happen? And then why did everyone lose interest so fast? I mean, for a brief second I thought I might see myself on Buzzfeed this weekend. But, sadly, that is not in the cards. I mean, this is just a testament to how horrible Social Media is. G said this sort of thing happens all the time. And there is no reason for it. Meaning that the SM companies do it on purpose to keep people coming back to their depression inducing social cocaine cigarettes. Which makes me feel so fucking gross. I mean, G told me she did something once that got them 5,000 likes. Which, I mean, I got 103 likes on my thing, I can't imagine what 5,000 likes feels like to a 14 year old. They said it was terrifying and gross. I mean, while this was happening the Putin of Gluten told us a story about going viral years ago, and he didn't know what was happening, that he thought a virus had infected his social media, so he deleted the post. And, as he said:
"It was the worst decision I have ever made in my cutting board career." Which was funny, and endearing and tragic. I mean, the poor idiot, so close to the sun his wings burned off.
I mean, that excitement faded. The masses kept coming though. Buying the slop I was slinging at them. Like the pigs that they are. Just joking. People seem to love the things though. And they should. They are delicious and I put a lot of heart and soul into them. In spite of my gold-bricking sensibilities. I mean, if a job needs to get done, it should get done good, right? I mean, I only half-believe that. Pay me to do a good job and I will do a good job, but mostly I am just a glorified sand bag. And as such, I get paid like a glorified sand bag. I have no moral compunction to give my American Boot Straps 110%, because, guess what? Fuck you is what. If the name of the game is to get me as cheap as possible on your side, the name of the game is to give as little of myself as possible. That's gold-bricking 101, sucker. Yeah, send me to Buffalo for the week and only pay me for 1/3 of my time and then nickel and dime me with "Travel hours?" Okay, then you get 1/3 of my care when I am actually working. I could care less if it is prevailing wage. There are 24 hours of a day. And if 16 of those hours force my body to be in Buffalo fucking New York, I mean, I am not there to get in touch with American fucking culture, if that is what you think. I mean, pacing back and forth in a hotel room by the airport is not my idea of enrichment. Buffalo Wild Wings is not my idea of fine dining. I don't care how many 36 oz margaritas and app variables there are. I still have to go back to the hotel room and wake up at pre-dawn just to make your horribly thought through "Job" get done. You should fucking pay me for that time I am using to be there you dicks.
I mean, Professor Curly's sister came to the Market. To drop off a goose lamp and maybe find some green beans. She brought her room mate with her. Who is this hilarious as hell dude that I just love. I mean, I don't know what he is up to, but I rather enjoy spending time with him. He is incredulous, but very practical, he is vulnerable and very smart, but also very delicate. I think he has had a hard life. But he keeps going. And I respect that about him. Plus he is funny and cute.
I mean, they hung around for a while and then headed back to New Ham. Leaving the goose lamp with me. To give to PC. It's a cool lamp. Supposedly worth a lot of money. That PC's sister found at a Listen thrift store. I mean, it was a nice addition to the booth. Had I had that generator I could have plugged it in.
I mean, I didn't see a single bit of nudity today. Close though. The UpSkirter was wearing her very special upskirt outfit, the original one. The one that shocked me all those weeks ago, but alas, there were no moments of new shock. I think mostly because it was cold first thing so she was wearing tights. Then there were very few dogs coming around. That is usually when the real action happens. A dog comes over to her CBD booth and she just lets it all hang out. Walking out front. Bending over. I mean, it is incredibly distracting. Not because I am looking for it, but because, I mean, I don't even know. It's naked hoo-haw. I find it impossible to not notice. I mean, unless I am busy at the moment. So maybe that is why there was no nude cleave ATBMS. I was too busy selling Cubby Bubbys like the wind.
I mean, speaking of nude cleave. Molly Gray came around the Farmers Market. Shaking hands. She is running for congress. I know nothing about her. I need to do some research AMEC. About all of the people running for things. I need to fill out my ballot ASAP. I guess tomorrow or next Sunday. I mean, I got an early one because I am not going to be around for the actual election day. But Molly seemed funny. She talked to the Putin of Gluten for a while. Asking him what his issues were. Sadly I was busy slinging Bubbys so I didn't hear his answers. And then she came over and shook my hand, which was hilarious. I mean, I wanted to talk to her, but once again, the jerks needed their Bubbys. I mean, she is attractive. And had nice jeans on. A decent hair cut. She seemed no-nonsense. I mean, this is what I vote on. What people look like and whether they are no-nonsense or some-nonsense. I mean, she had a nice ass. Just joking. I mean, she did, but that is beside the point, I mean, my bigger concern is her jugs. Just joking! I mean, her titties. Just joking! Her hooters is what I mean, that is what changes my voting lever. JUST JOKING! I really am just joking. I know nothing about her aside from seeing her signs next to the highway and meeting her today. I mean, I am sorry for making those jokes. I know how hard it is for women in the world and I don't mean to exacerbate the problem. I mean, sadly, I may be saying this shit as satire, but in the real world this is probably what she is being judged upon. I guess. I mean, Vermont is a very odd place, so maybe the normal rules don't apply. I mean, whatever. I know exactly zero about her from the hand shake and the nice jeans she was wearing. In fact, I didn't even notice her boobs at all. I only noticed her ass because she came around the side of the Putin of Gluten's tent and nearly knocked my Cubby Bubbys over with the thing. Which is how I noticed the jeans as well!
I mean, right before noon G decided that we should have a bowl of water for dogs to come over. I sent them to the hardware store to buy one. They had some scheme that they would offer free petting for any dog that came around. Which was very cute. I mean, once the Cubby Bubbys were gone I turned the "FOOD" sign around so it now said "BOOKS." I erased the Cubby Bubby stuff on the sandwich board, and the menu board. G wrote: "Free dog petting." On the menu board. As well as "Books!" on the sandwich board. I added "Fresh" to the "Books" so the sandwich board read "Fresh Books!" Which lured a few people in. I mean, nobody bought anything. 12 different people showed up to look though. Which is whatever. I mean, I have some ideas about it, but we'll see. I get excited about the idea for a minute or two, but then the thing falls flat. Selling your own books is kind of a bummer. It makes you feel like a dilettante. Like you are self-published and doing like a "Wild Animus" thing. If anyone remembers that asshole going around to college campuses pushing his awful book in like 2005. I mean, I hate it so bad. it's worse than Social Media somehow. I mean, I should just sell Whiskey Tit books. Or just the local stuff I write. Like Moveable Rooms [Italics] and even Sequestered [Italics.] At least then there is something to connect it to. I mean, standing there with a thousand different things that have no connection at all to Vermont seems like a shot in the dark. I mean, although, Cooking Cockroach [Italics] even if people don't know, they seem to be drawn to that one. So next week I think it will be these three instead of the other stuff. And maybe the Publisher can hook me up with some Newborn [Italics] and The Drowned Woman [Italics] and The Fountain [Italics.] I mean, I feel like I could sell those ones. I like the authers and I know the work. Plus it would be good to have some local flavor.
I mean, the last hour was kind of uneventful. The few people that were interested in the books didn't buy nothing. But it was a sign that people will come around. Check some shit out. And those books don't go bad. They just get re-packed, sit around, and live to fight another day. I mean, I almost sold a copy of KinderRinder [Italics] just by calling it:
"Not for the feint of heart." But then the guy got interested in Cooking Cockroach [Italics] and we talked for a while. He knew about Dana H. [Italics?] but not Is this a room? [Italics] he said he had a home in Vermont, one in the City and one in Cape Cod. I mean, I entertained the fucker thinking he would buy that book, but he left, claiming he would be back, but he did not come back. And I felt gross. I mean, I can't do it. I can't. Selling self-published books to millionaires? I mean, it's not that, but it is on the edge. Not because of what it is, but because of what it looks like. I mean, I don't have the personality to do this. I would rather just give the books to people that would read them and be done with it. The transactional bullshit, the selling my art, yeah, I don't got it. I got it with the Cubby Bubbys because those things rot if I don't sell them. But books, those can sit on a shelf for a lifetime without going bad. Even unread. Ugh.
I am two decades late and two decades early. I look wrong, but my writing is where things are heading. I mean, I honestly, just now, while writing this. I mean, I don't know if my writing is the future, I was being hyperbolic and feeling sad for myself, so I said it that way to make myself feel better, but I realized, quite exactly while I was writing this, there was a moment in my 9th grade year of high school, one of two that I actually finished, I took this dumb class, taught by this absolute asshole, about markets and selling shit. He had us come up with a product that we were supposed to describe and then figure out a way to describe it. So people would want to buy it. I mean, that class was formative for me. For three reasons. The first reason, that asshole, who was the band teacher, who did a very good job at getting the Worland High Marching Band into the various "Bowls" around the country. I mean, including the Rose Bowl, I mean, the marching band at my high school was actually very famous. And I was part of it for some time in middle school, playing snare. But let's not revisit that bullshit right now. Or maybe we should. I got kicked out of the band for not doing my "Snare" homework. I mean, before I got kicked out I got de-moted to bass drum. With the likes of the very dumb [Redacted] but also there was a bully on the drum squad, who would hit me with his #12 drum sticks and he played the timpani. I mean, if I think about it now, it makes me red with anger. Those fucking assholes. The drum squad, the band, and the Conductor. I mean, middle school sucked. But still, Lorinda, she died because the asshole Conductor got so angry with her before a parade, in Worland fucking Wyoming, a homecoming parade, I mean, she forgot her hat. Her drumming hat. So he yelled at her so bad that she got into her car and drove back home at a million miles and hour and flipped the thing over the edge of the road and fucking died. I mean, she died driving back to get her fucking hat. And because she was a teenager she thought it was the end of the fucking world. And this fucking asshole was the teacher of this stupid class I was taking. And Lorinda sat behind me in that class. And now she was dead because of him. I mean, I still want to strangle that fucker. But he was teaching us about economics. And this thing about "Widgets" or something. I mean the second thing was this guy Mark. Who was an Inuit? From Alaska. If I am saying that right. No offense at all if I am saying it wrong. I know for fucking sure it isn't the term that was used in the 90's. But he loved drawing a T-bone on the blackboard. And I would laugh and laugh. A T-bone! He would even write "T-bone" under it. And he did it because of me. Anyway. This brings me to my point and the third thing I remember about that class. I was fascinated with the idea of describing things in minute detail. I mean, it was hard. And as much as the Conductor was an asshole, and how stupid the class was, I took a lesson away from it. And the lesson was this:
Describe in great detail everything what you are trying to give to people.
I mean, I think it is good advice, probably. Having a product is a special thing. You don't want to mislead. I guess. But how that factors into this, is that at that moment, not being able to describe anything. Being 15 or whatever. The idea of things even being a thing was foreign to me. But still it stuck with me. And maybe I can't do it really, with the Cubby Bubbys or whatever, my writing, all of my writing is just catching up with the details of what the fuck happened. And, I mean, from putting socks on to taking a shower to brushing your teeth, I mean, it may seem like filler, but it is not. It is merely my mind trying to sort the shit out. And some details are important, some are not, it depends where you stand on your desire for details, but the second you leave them out, then what? There is no reference. I mean, I am not saying this gigantic piece of garbage of a man is the reason I write the way I do, but he didn't not have an influence. I mean, between him, his wife and his son, I mean, their entire bullshit family, oh, also the daughter, but she can be excused somehow, her swimming skills combined with growing up with pricks all around her, but still, I wonder what happened to her? Her brother, the purest of assholes, I know that he went on to be a grade A asshole somewhere else, but his sister, I do actually wonder. Guy probably knows. I should ask him.
Anyway. My point. I can't catch a break. I am too pretty for this world. Too smart and talented. Too ahead of my time, yet too 90's to get my notice. More rights for male rights, am I right? I mean, I might be writing Gravities Rainbow [Italics] as we are speaking, and none of you fuckers would even notice because Louis CK couldn't keep his rapey hands off his hotel dick for two fucking seconds.
I mean, whatever. I hate to say it, but man, the 90's were fucking wild for dudes like me. I mean, I am not saying I was the problem, but I am not saying I wasn't the problem. I was between the ages of 13 and 23 and, Hoh Boy! I was not very aware at all about the things I was doing. I mean, I can only apologize for myself, and I do apologize, but still, the reason you don't get any other apologies from these fuckers is for good god-damn reason. Things were not good during that decade. To admit that for most of these dicks would be an collapse of world view that would destroy every single ounce of self-knowledge. I mean, I had the luxury of being bullied during this time so I have self-reflection, but, I mean, I think almost every toxic male thing that exists today can be followed back to about mid-December 1995. Something changed that year. And I don't know what it was, but it happened and now we have to deal with it.
Anyway. Back to the Market. Me and G packed up when it was done. I got the car and we drove over to Canteen. G wanted a root beer float. I said they may have one, if not, they had ice cream. G wanted the root beer plus the ice cream. Either way. We drove over. Ordered a slushie and some fries and a cheeseburger. The drink came fast. The food took forever and made me sick. It was not good. It was expensive enough though. I mean, we ate it on a picnic table. Drove back to Lower Granville and G packed their stuff up while I unloaded the car. Then we got on the road to Manch Town. G slept the entire way. I thought about high school. And that is that. They went home with their mom and I drove back here. To Beaver Haus. I mean, I have been writing for three hours. I need to hit the sack. Tomorrow I have to clean real good because Professor Curly is coming up next weekend. And I need to deal with the next Donkeys [Italics] because the 15th is mid-week. I mean, then I get on the road on Monday, like 5a and head back to Portland for the week. I mean, no rest for the wicked ATBMS, right? I mean, now I have to edit this crap. Which I will do a poor job of because my brain is mush now. But either way, I will leave you with a song I will listen to while doing so.
[Insert Editing Song]
Smell you whenever.