[166] Screed City
[166]
07/16/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.
Farmers Market Week Ten:
Well, back to the drawing board. I mean, a guy was wearing a t-shirt today that sums it up:
"Dreams are a wish your heart makes."
I mean, this morning when I first walked outside to get Junior Mint ready to go, there was a murder of very aggressive crows menacing the wild, and in the distance I heard a woodpecker. I mean, I chose to ignore the crows and focus on the woodpecker, because the sound that bird makes fills my heart with wishes and dreams, I mean, and then on the way to the Farmers Market I ran over a chipmunk. I mean, like what the hell? Mixed messages all around. Thanks Universe for making things clear. I mean, whatever, the day was hot and gross and the morning was fantastic and I sold out the Breakfast Bubbys but by 11a the business dried up quicker than wet worm on a hot sidewalk. I mean, I think I had sold almost 90% of what I was going to sell by 11:30a, and then it was just waiting around reminding myself that I had done alright. I mean, I sold 44 of the things. $264 dollars worth. I would have been ecstatic for $300 dollars worth, but this amount covered all costs with a profit of $100 dollars. I mean, if you don't account for time and stuff. But still, it's not like a took a loss.
But still, back to the diving board, ATBMS. I mean, here’s the thing. The Breakfast Bubbys are the way to go at this moment. I should increase those numbers by five, maybe 10. I mean, brought 10 GF Bubbys for some dumb reason. Sold just two. I mean, I know 10 were too much, yet I did it anyway. Plus they were also junk. I mean, the recipe I used for the dough was bullshit. I mean, tomorrow I will make only five, using just beef juice and gf flour, maybe some salt and garlic. That's it. No eggs, no baking soda or baking powder. Just the raw dog. Call it a Gluten Free Raw Dog Bubby. I mean, and then I guess make 10 extra Breakfast Bubbys. Butwhatever. It is supposed to be hot as hell tomorrow, a perfect day to spend inside baking like the wind. This fickle business is driving me insane! Unreliable and ungrateful bastards! I mean, it is like the writing, everyone always tells me they love it and think it is great, but then when I need people to buy the books or spread the word, crickets. I mean, today this dude came over and was very curious about the Bubbys. He bought a Cubby Bubby, a Usual, he ate it like a hound. I watched him. He wolfed it down, ATBMS. And then he came over and said:
"Dude! That was fantastic! You should have a line out the door!" But then not two minutes later I see him buying Vermont Style Tamales. I mean, I don't hold his prerogative against him, it's just, fickle! Mixed messages. And I don't know what to do to get the word out. I mean, whatever. I now have some extras I can sacrifice for the display, so that is a positive.
I mean, the morning at Beaver Haus went like normal. I was rudely awakened by the alarm. Forced myself to get up. Kind of zombied through the routine. Showered, shaved, washed my hair even. I was out the door by 7a forgetting only the trash can. I mean, like I said, I ran over a chipmunk, which was not good. But I got to the Farmers Market on time. Unloaded, did the usual stuff. I mean, I was ready by 8:40a. Things were selling good for about an hour and a half. No real nudity, but there was some boob siting’s and even an upskirt from the Vermont Style Tamale lady herself. Nothing to write home about. But how would that letter go?
Dear Mom,
Saw an upskirt at the Farmers Market today. No real nudity though. A couple of almost naked boobs. Didn't sell as well as I could have. The market is fickle. Give everyone my love.
Always,
your beloved son
I mean, the Dilaudid Lady from the Busy Body Society had a booth today. Selling fine china. Which, I mean, the gal is very odd. And this didn't help her case. I mean, I don't know, but it didn't look like she sold very much stuff, judging by how much of it remained on display. I mean, if I am out of place here, her stuff is from another world entirely. I mean, who thinks they can sell fine china at a Vermont farmers market? Well, she does, apparently, but who in their right mind would think that? I mean, I am talking out my ass right now, I should have gone over to get a closer look. Like maybe she actually made the stuff she was selling, but from where I was standing, it didn't look like it. Either way. I think she thought it would be easy money, but little did she know, those fuckers are fickle as shit.
I mean, at one point this guy came around and bought a Breakfast Bubby. He wanted some hot sauce. He asked me how to get it inside. I said "Oh, that thing has a sharp end there, you can just poke it in and squeeze." Fast forward to the entire front of his shirt and most of his arm covered in hot sauce. I felt really bad for him. I mean, he must have hit a potato. Clogged up the works. I mean, he also must have been squeezing pretty hard. I mean, I didn't know how to help. I gave him my bleach rag. Which, I mean, I didn't see him later, but he probably now has white splotches on his Polo shirt. I mean, maybe I will get sued? Good thing I got insurance.
I mean, that was basically it. There was no real happenings. The band got asked to turn down. Which pissed the singer off. He came over and told the Putin of Gluten, who knows the guy from growing up in Massachusetts. The band leader said he told Abbie to "Fuck right off." Which, I don't know if that is true or not, but the way he told it was convincing enough. I mean, I will say that people today were kind of assholes. Not just because they didn't buy all my goods, but I got attitude from quite a few of them. Mostly bully young White ladies. One of them came over, looking cool with her cool friends, she said:
"Oh, these are cute! What are they?" And like normal, I didn't know exactly what she was asking, so I said: "Oh, it's basically a stuffed bagel." And she thought about for a second. Then she looked at me and said: "Are they vegan?" And for some reason, I mean, I don't know if she was fucking with me or she wanted an honest answer, and, I mean, I always forget what things mean when people ask specifically vague questions like this. Like, vegan, vegetarian, gluten free, whatever. They mean different things to different people. I mean, not specifically, I mean, vegan can mean vegetarian but maybe more, or it could mean, actually vegan. Like no animal products. And she gave me a vague answer that could maybe be interpreted in just one way, if, IF, I was sure she wasn't just fucking with me. I said: "What is vegan again?" And she said: "Like, no milk or meat or whatever." And knew that she knew there was cheese in the Veggie Bubby, I mean, also I use butter. Either way, I don't think she actually cared. She was not going to buy one irregardless. So I said: "Oh, no then." Then she said: "Cool." Shook her head and walked off with her obnoxious friends to go harass some other rube.
I mean, people were just kind of hostile. I mean, it was hot, and muggy, but that doesn't mean you need to be a dick about it. I mean, it was like people were coming over just to test me. To make me work for it. For why? I couldn't tell you. I mean, some guy came over rubbing some sort of oil on his wrist. Standing there looking at the display. He said: "What do you got here?" And then he just rubbed his wrist, not listening to me, nodding his head. Then he looked up at the sign. Spaced out. Looked around. Looked over my shoulder at the band. Then he just kind of stood there, rubbing his wrist. Then as useless as he walked up, he walked away without saying anything. It was kind of bizarre. I mean, that sort of shit happened all day. I mean, do people get up one day and say to themselves: "I think I will go down to the farmers market and micro-aggress some vendors. Maybe get a popsicle. Yeah, that sounds like a good use of my time on earth today."
I mean, maybe I am just bitter. The tamales sold like hot cakes. The crepes sold like hot cakes. Literally. Even the Putin of Gluten had a good day. Just poor ol' Cubby Bubbys. Skunked. Alone in his misery, like always. Can't catch a break. Woe betide. I mean, the true bitterness doesn't come from these fickle assholes treating me like yesterdays meat, but from the fact that I had to go to the grocery store, buy 12 lbs of ground beef, four bags of racist onions, six lbs of mushrooms and some sweet sausage. And then had to come back home and prep and cook for three hours and then tomorrow I will have to bake all day. I mean, these ungrateful bastards don't even know how good they have it. And how do they repay me? By sticking their snooty noses up at me and walking off into the sunset. Like hep brats. Thinking they got it ALL figured out. I mean, they make me sick. I hope they all get sunburned.
I mean, the Putin of Gluten said he had a dream about stealing my car. That was kind of funny. He also told me about Johnson, the town he lives in, and how they have all sorts of fun things that they do. Like bands and pizza night and other social gatherings. I mean, it sounds a little like Brandon. I mean, I am not looking for nightlife here in Lower Granville, but maybe something. A town barbeque would be nice. Maybe a good ol' hoe down. A chili cook-off? A crash-up derby? I mean, I was thinking of making a t-shirt, I mean, not that this implies what I am thinking, but there is cross-over. I mean, I remember leaving Brooklyn thinking "New York without culture sucks." I mean, the shirt for here would be:
"New York Without Culture [is like] Vermont Without Nature"
I mean, Vermont Culture is dropping off horseradish on someone’s doorstep. Or leaving eggs in their mailbox. But still, a fun thing to do would be nice every now and again. Even if it is something as wild as having a band play some music and someone giving away free hot dogs. I mean, I guess the farmers market IS Vermont Culture. Minus the free hot dogs. But what can you do? I mean, I guess I could organize something. But who has the time? I got Cubby Bubbys to bake and I need to hit the skids Monday morning to get back to Portland to make money.
I mean, I don't even know what I mean. I just need to give up. The solution will present itself. I mean, tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Tomorrow I will bake 60 Cubby Bubbys and just be done with it. Maybe sleep in a little. Like 7a. I need to go to the store to get milk and something else I can't remember. I mean, it will be an all day affair, the baking. But it will get done. I will be glad I do it. And if next weekend the fuckers are fickle again, I will just roll my shit back. I mean, there will be one more market before leaving for Wyoming and then when I get back, there is no telling what things will look like. I mean, I am oscillating wildly as Morrissey said.
[Insert Oscillate Wildly by the Smiths]
I mean, one second I think I can take on the world with my Cubby Bubbys, and the next second I should just throw in the towel. One second I think I should stop writing, the next second I think I should start this other new novel. One second I think I should stay in Vermont forever and the next second I think I should move back to NYC. I mean, it is exhausting. I mean, there is no answer. On any front! The cost benefit always come out the same. 50/50. Fifty fucking fifty. Life here is easy but it is a pain in the ass. All work is hundreds of miles away. I mean, at this point I am working just to have enough money so that when my car breaks down I can buy another one, so I can go to work! But move back to the City and do what? I make three times the money up here as I do down there. So that sucks. But sharing rent with Professor Curly would save money, but then I wouldn't be able to write every night so I would need to get a studio, but then what? Where? I would pay as much as I am paying for rent up here. And as far as writing itself? I mean, I am like that Frederick dude from the children's book. Gather all of it you can when you can. Then maybe publish it later? I mean, I am thisclose to not sharing any of my fiction. Which I should probably do anyway, but still, it gives me pleasure to put that shit out there. I mean, and all the other projects. The Champagne Ticklers. The Cubby Bubbys. I mean, the t-shirts, the personal reflection of both growing older, but also trying to understand what it means to be alive. I mean, ARGH! Make it stop! I mean, the lynch pin is money. It is always money. It has always been money. And I fucking hate money. I don't want it, I don't like it, it makes people stupid and do shitty things, and it is such a foolish construction that makes Society run that we fight each other for fucking scraps. I mean, there was talk the other day about being a dishwasher at the Brewery. Did I tell you this? When we had the hot dog meet and greet? When someone suggested that the Brewery needed a dishwasher. And I was like:
"I'd take that fucking job. I mean, here, at the Brewery." And someone else was like:
"Yeah, thirty-five an hour with full benefits to just wash dishes! I would do it too."
I mean, Society, man. That is the what is possible. Yet here we are. Driving for four hours to make good money. Having to live in some unfurnished apartment without a fucking bed or hot water, but the money is just so fucking good. I mean, that, or taking a pay cut of 66% to live in a city that won't allow you the option to create because getting a studio is equal to getting another apartment, WHICH, you could afford if you worked in a different state. I mean, maybe I feel it the hardest because I have always been on the edges of polite society. I mean, I can't get a full-time job. I just can't. I have done it, and I would rather die. I would rather just start walking on the highway with my thumb out, and going wherever life takes me than have a full-time job. I mean, I think about this a lot. About the idea of just going off into forever somewhere else. But only when I am working all the time for someone else. I mean, I am not meant for modern Society. And that is okay. For me. I mean, I know a few people that would tell you otherwise. That I am a shirker and need to straighten up and fly right, but that is a conversation, not a reality. It is a basic difference of opinion. WHICH, I mean, I tell you! I am on their side. Well, kind of. I mean, I don't think people should tell me how to live any more than I should tell them how to live, but when it comes to how we should all behave, I mean, there is about 90% of all humans alive that would all agree with me on one point: The rich need to rot and dry up and die.
I mean, my boot straps aside, I will not be hitch-hiking to Alaska anytime soon. I mean, I am in the best relationship in my life. I mean, even if I barely see that red-headed butthole. I mean, she is busy and I am busy and we will be together again, soon enough, and I am old enough now to not feel like I am missing something. I mean, spoiler alert ATBMS, there is nothing out there that is so amazing that it is worth losing everything for. I mean, but that is just age. And it is weird when you get into a healthy relationship. I mean, the shame of the past, dangling like some Democles’ sword. I mean, not that you do stupid shit, because, guess what? Positive reinforcement is actually a good thing. But, I mean, life. Life gets overbearing and stressful and really boring sometimes. And all your things just seem like nonsense and you just wish there was a chili cook-off or a crash-up derby or even a great big bag of cocaine to do. Something to blow the old socks off. Once and again. And in these modern times, we are all living in some tantric edging bullshit that gives us just a tiny taste of what freedom feels like, and then we are right back to having our faces being shoved in the shit of the world. As the late-great Jim Morrison said.
[Insert Doors Shoved in the Shit of the World]
I mean, like Elvis, I mean, actually not like Elvis at all. That dude. I mean, Priscilla was 14 when he got together with her! G's age! THAT IS FUCKED UP. I mean, say what you will about Jim Morrison, but as far as I know, he was not doing shit like that. I mean, he died when he was 27, so, I mean, who knows. I mean, I don't fucking know. I won't defend his sex life, he was a perv to the Nth degree, but still, I mean, okay, I lost this argument, but I think I had a point. Which was, our faces are being shoved in the fucking shit of the world and we love it. We are all a bunch of fools. He bellowed. I mean, maybe this is just a Danny Sugarman thing.
[Insert Danny Sugarman talking about Jim Morrison]
Listen. It’s long, but worth it!
I mean, all I can say is this: Life. It is fucked up, but you are living it. Try to be good and treat good people with respect. Don't be an asshole. Go that way, really fast. If something gets in your way, turn.
[Insert Better Off Dead]