[165] Screed City

[165]

07/15/2022 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Back in Vermont. I guess. The ol' in and out. I mean, it's the Publisher's birthday! Happy B-Day, Publisher! We had cheeseburgers on DogBoy Beach. The DogHouse Matron came to the Compound. More talk about buying that place. If only there was money! Can't somebody win the MacArthur? Professor Curly, I am looking in your direction. Think of the possibilities. Hot dogs, bands, beer. A real Mecca of Vermont culture.

I mean, I guess I need to keep this short. The Farmers Market is looming. I set an alarm for 9p to unthaw the things. I mean, once that starts happening, it is all systems go. I need to hit the sack by 10p at the latest. Otherwise I will hate myself tomorrow. Came back to a little bag of horseradish root. From the Dog Collar Lady who lives in Upper Granville, she thinks my name is Rory. Did I already tell you this? Or did I dream it? Or maybe a third option. I mean, last night I had a dream that I was having a steak dinner served on three different tables. Which is a pretty good metaphor for my life at the moment. I mean, the thing was not very tasty and very unsatisfying and it was very complicated to eat it. I mean, food, of course, means satisfaction and nourishment in your daily life. Which for me at the moment is fractured. I mean, it is all good, it is just all over the place and sadly exhausting. The only through-line is my personal body. And Junior Mint. Just me and JM against the world. Neither of us can catch a break. Woe betide.

I mean, those fucking brakes. The front ones are great now. But the back left one is a bane. Had I a free second I would investigate, but there is no rest for me or JM. I mean, I sure as shit aint going out to figure out that shit this second. I will just let the metal scrape and scrape until the cows come home, ATBMS. I mean, whatever. I guess next week at some point me and Brother Luke can spend a couple hours fixing it. Or not. The important brakes are fixed, so some lousy noises coming from the rear is only slightly concerning. That's what she said. Right?

The oil got changed. What a racket that was. I mean, I hope they did it. I really am not sure they did anything. The guy was so sketchy. Like really sketchy. I mean, I hauled as to the place before they closed last night. The place was empty. The guy asked me what I needed then he asked me to get out and to pop the hood. Then he told me to wait inside. He drove the car into the bay. I waited like he asked. I mean, I saw them open the hood and do things. They even started the car and turned it off again. Which is what you do when you are changing the oil. But what skeeved me out was that the guy didn't have change for this guy in front of me that was paying in cash. I mean, his bill was something like $134.99. And the guy had two $100 dollar bills. Which means that the oil dude only needed three twenties to give him change. Which for some reason he didn't have. I mean, as a farmers market dude, that amount of change in $20's is ridiculous. I mean, I decided to help. I said I had some cash in my wallet, but it was in my car. The oil dude took me out to Junior Mint so I could get my wallet. I had $80 dollars in $20's. So instead of paying for my oil change with my card I paid in cash so the guy could use my change to give the other guy change. Which was whatever. I don't mind paying cash. But then when we were standing there waiting for the other guys to finish changing my oils, he started talking about the strip club down the street and how the girls would come in and pay in singles and $2 dollar bills. And how sometimes he would give people change back in singles sometimes. I mean, that story alone was fishy. I mean, how often do the strippers come in to get their oil changed? I mean, sure, sometimes. Like, six strippers, getting an oil changed like once or twice a year, and then they pay in singles every time? I doubt it, but maybe. So that is what? 6-12 times a year that this happens in theory, right? I mean, he acted like they come in once a week paying cash for oil changes. Which is nonsense. But then I asked him about the hours, about why they close at 6p instead of staying open until like, 8p, you know, so people like me can come get their oil changed after work. And he was like: "I don't know, I mean, sometimes if we don't make enough money for the day the boss says we can stay open an extra hour to make up the difference, and then we do it, and not a single person comes in, you know? And then there was this one time that this lady needed an inspection and was like, I work until 4 can't you do a job after 4? And I was like, the guy leaves at 4 so there is nothing to do, and she was like, but I work seven days a week, and I was like, what? You don't have a single day off? And she was like, I don't. And, I mean, who doesn't have a single day off? She works every single day of the year? You know what I mean?" I didn't know what he meant. I was hoping the story would be that he was a nice guy and told the lady he would convince the guy to stay a little longer for her and that everything would be okay, but that was not the story he told. I mean, at this point he was like: "Oh, you can go. You already paid." And I said: "Can I get a receipt?" And this is where the true sketchiness of the operation came into focus. He was like: "Oh, you want a receipt." Then he hemmed and hawed about it. Making excuses: "Oh, right, you paid cash, that is why it didn't print, and the guy before you paid cash too, so your thing didn't even go through." I mean, I wanted to say: "Look, I understand how this works, I don't care that you are stealing money from this terrible operation, I know all about how to steal from businesses like this, how cash is easy to hide, I mean, I may or may not have done it myself a couple times, I mean, these fuckers just use you up and spit you out, there is no moral dilemma on my part, but still, just print the fucking receipt, man." I mean, as far as I can tell they actually changed my oil, I hope so. And I did feel a little bad that he and his workmates didn't get a bigger bonus for the day, but damn it! They better have put fresh oil in the thing.

I mean, afterwards I drove out of the lot and into a gas station that was right there. Being smart, I stopped and got gas for the drive home. I mean, I got back to Hampshire House at almost 6p exactly. I spent a few hours working on the treatment for Look Who's Driving Now! This screenplay I have been writing with Professor Curly. I went to bed as soon as I was done. Waking up twice being like three feet away from the mat I was supposedly sleeping on. I mean, my god! The fact that I couldn't tell the difference between the mat and the carpet? I mean, did I make this joke already? That is was like Sling Blade. When he explains that his dad was nice because he dug a little ditch for his hip to hang out in when he slept in the shed?

[Insert Sling Blade Hip Scene]

I mean, between that and the steak dream and then in the morning, the very icy cold shower. I mean, it's good I grew up the way I did and have lived most of my life in abject poverty, because a lesser dude would be a little unpleased with these living conditions. Me, on the other hand, it was actually above the normal rock bottom. I mean, the shower was kind of refreshing, if not frustrating, the bathtub is one of those clawed footed things with a full scope shower curtain rod. And since I only have one half of the curtains, a puddle of water appears during the shower, which makes for an annoying thing to have. I mean, considering I am using a dirty shirt as a bath mat and a wet dirty shirt means a wet shirt to deal with. I mean, sure, if I had all the time in the world to deal with wet shirts, but I don't and bringing home wet dirty shirts in a plastic bag is pretty annoying and considering my propensity to forget about dirty clothes in my travel bag, I mean, a wet dirty shirt becomes a very ripe and ruined dirty shirt pretty quick if you don't deal with it. I mean, whatever. I mean, I am getting paid very well for this job, which is also a bonus. I mean, if I was getting nickeled and dimed on this job, I think things would be different, but it is the opposite. I mean, isn't that funny? That just paying me enough to feel like my time isn't being wasted and exploited make other aspects of my life, even if intolerable, tolerable? I mean, I feel for the middle class, I actually do. They get the short end of a very irritating stick. I mean, taxes-wise. They have to watch everyone making more than them not pay any taxes and anyone making less than poverty wages, they don't pay taxes either. Which, I mean, if you are pissed off that some dude making $35,000 dollars a year not paying their fair share of taxes, you can fuck right off. I mean, is buying groceries a luxury to you? It is not. But when you are poor it is, and if you don't think that is a tax, on the poor, I mean, the solution is pretty simple. Tax the fuck out of the rich. Don't tax anyone making less than, I don't know, $400,000 dollars a year. Problem solved. Let the rich fight it out. Forcing the poor to fight the very poor is on purpose. I mean, clean your head out about what taxes are. Especially property taxes. Think about the fact that, what? 20% of your income goes to paying your mortgage. Less? And for poor people like me, 40% of my income goes to rent? To pay some other assholes property tax? Yeah, I know, I am stupid for being poor, but then consider where all of my other money goes. Compare that to where all your other money goes. There is no return on investment when you buy a loaf a bread. I mean, aside from keeping you alive. I mean, for anyone making between $30-$60,000 dollars a year, every single dollar paid out is a tax just to stay alive. Think about that. I mean, the banks tax you if you don't have enough money in your bank account for them to gamble on the stock market with. Doesn't that drive you fucking crazy? You get penalized for being poor.

Okay, I have to stop. All I am saying is that the poor is already taxed for every single penny they spend. So get over it. I am sorry that the middle class seem like they are getting it from both ends. But they are not. They are getting up the ass from the top just like everyone else. And the sooner we all agree that that is what is happening the sooner we can solve it. Stop blaming the poor for you tax problems. I understand where you are coming from, but the argument is specious.

I mean, where was I? Oh, I just ran out to get the Cubby Bubbys from the freezer. On to phase two. I got 30 minutes left. I must screed like the wind. I mean, today was nice. I picked Brother Luke up at 7:40a. His car had a flat tire. I don't know if he took the bus home from work or what, but I left him at the Brewery at around 12:45p. I mean, I spent the morning doing drywall work and some painting. Putting signs up on bathroom doors. And then, around 10a, I started ripping down fencing 4x4's into construction 4x4's. Which was kind of a loud and dusty endeavor. I mean, I am very convinced that woodworking is not a very healthy line of work. It just isn't. Remember when Joe S got that giant toothpick sized sliver in his hand? That he was convinced was just a little thing that got infected. He had to go to the doctor to pull it out, and the thing was not just a toothpick, but an over-sized wooden match thing. I mean, it was disgusting. But that is only part of it. The noise, the dust, the noise and the dust, the saw blades, that, if you get distracted for one second? I mean, Joe S is also missing a couple fingers, I mean, I don't mean to single the guy out, I am just saying. that last cut of the day, you know? You are looking at the clock, thinking, maybe a nice cold beer would be nice, you think: "Yeah, I should cut this last board, why not? It will make things easier tomorrow." And then you are running the thing through the table saw, a little bird flies up onto the window sill, you look over. You say: "Oh, hey little birdie." And when you look down again: "Wait? How many fingers am I supposed to have? Oh, look. Tiny red sausages. Haha. Sausages." You don't know it, but you are in shock already and suddenly you are wondering where the ice is and maybe a bag of sawdust will preserve your nubs. You pick up your phone to call somebody but you can't use the thing because all the blood is fucking up the screen. Then you walk next door to the granola factory and say: "Hey, Alex, can you...?" And Alex passes out the second she sees your bloody fingers. Her employee runs over and takes you into the bathroom. The other employee calls an ambulance. And that is the last thing you remember.

I mean, that is artistic license, but still, wood working is bad news. I mean, me and Brother Luke had lunch from the Tasting Room Roach Coach. Which, I mean, they make good food. They have a $22 dollar lobster roll if you are into wasting money on things that taste like garbage. Hey-o! I am just joking. I understand that lobster is tasty to people. I get it. I mean, there is a long list of things I don't like. And maybe one day I will write a book about the things I don't like, and maybe, like somebody that is actually ambitious, I will explore those things in a earthly way. Like, I mean, instead of just writing about how I don't like them, I will travel the globe to try and get convinced otherwise. I will call the project: "I Think Your Food Sucks. Convince Me Otherwise." I will be like the anti-Bourdain. Open to nothing. Champagne, lobster, potatoes, certain cheeses, wine [WHINE], rhubarb, knishes, cold soups, most fish, hoppy beer, mushrooms. I mean, I am not a picky eater at all, Brussel's sprouts, I mean, but I am not convinced that the world of gormandery is what it seems to be portrayed as. I mean, yes, a Deluxe Sandwich, which, I mean, Hind-dog loved those things growing up. Basically, I mean, not even basically, specifically, they were just mayo between two slices of white Wonder bread. He loved them. But he was the same guy that refused to wipe his ass after taking a shit. I mean, his mom was so very confused why he went through so many pairs of tighty whities when he was a teenager. I mean, the dude, I don't even know. Between that and the "Wet Dreams" he was always having, I mean, his poor mom, I mean, he had a secret drawer for all of his expulsions. I mean, as far as I know, instead of asking questions, she just kept buying him package after package of new underwear, but, I mean, yikes, if she knew about that drawer, I have very large and heartfelt sympathies for that mom. I mean, a single mother with this kind of teenager for a son. He refused to wipe his ass! And not only that, but the guy was having nocturnal emissions every night, he was too religious to masturbate, and not only that, and I don't know if these things are connected, but the guy has a huge thing down there, I mean, I can only assume that the "Releases" were as big as the thing. Which, I mean, that drawer of terror. Did his mom come around every weekend with a pair of tongs and a plastic bag, wearing rubber gloves, and, I don't know, a face shield? Did she deal with it? Or did Hind-Dog take the stuff out into the back yard and bury it? I mean, I don't know. He only told me about the first part and the second part, never the third option. I mean, all I am saying is, his poor mom. I mean, religion is not good for Society. You can't hide what it is like to be alive. That shit backfires.

Anyway. I got on the road. I stopped at a restaurant supply store near the Brewery. Hoping to find a new chafing dish. One with a metal handle. They had a few good ones, but nothing I was looking for. So I left. I mean, I will be back. They had a pot so big you could boil a toddler in it. I mean, I have no designs on boiling a toddler, but still, that fucker was huge. Who needs a pot that big? I mean, I would love to have it. I mean, we'll see. But my needs were not met. I mean, the closeted gay guy that worked there would love for me to come around more often, I mean, he was very cute, I mean, I don't know if he was closeted, but he wasn't acting like he was out, and the place had a very, don't ask, don't tell, vibe about it, but maybe I am projecting, either way, I will be back. Because there are some very cool things there.

But my point is, I don't know why, but my phone was telling me that the trip back was going to be 4 and 1/2 hours. Instead of 3 and 1/2 hours. Which, I interpreted as there being some heavy traffic around Boston or something, meaning, I would rather take the back roads back instead of sitting on the interstate for an extra hour. So, I took the awesome ride over the White Mountains in New Hampshire and the back roads through Vermont. I mean, it was worth it. An extra 45 minutes, but the scenery. I mean, fuck it. I may do it again on the way back. I listened to more Donkey BOT. I mean, that book is something else. Shane is something else. It is just so good. Don't get me wrong, I mean, just to be clear. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but if you like comedy about the being stuck in the working class, get yourself a membership.

I mean, whatever. Don't get me wrong, but I got to motor if I am going to do this thing tomorrow. I will tell you all about it tomorrow night. Happy birthday, Publisher! May the pubes sticking out of the hole in your shorts always have wind blowing on them!

[Insert Birthday Song]