[167] Screed City
[167]
07/18/2022 Monday. Kitchen Cardboard Box. Hampshire House. Portland, Maine.
All this travel and working makes me want one thing. To be in NYC. Don't know why, but there is something down there that is calling. I mean, Professor Curly told me that Becca was trying to get a show at the Chocolate Factory, and that made me jealous. I mean, performance. I am missing performance. I mean, the shits a huge pain in the ass, but for some reason it makes up for all the lost time. All the travelling and hours thinking only of others. I mean, watching that clock, tick, tick, tick. What? It's still only 3:06? I swear I just did an hour of work! I mean, today was kind of fun in a, very loud, dusty and hot kind of way. Basically making cedar 2x4s. Ripping 8 ft, 5 by 5s into 2 and 5/16ths by 5 inchers. Then plaining them down to 2 and 1/4 by 5 inchers. I mean, the work was satisfying and easy. If it wasn't for the noise and the heat and the dust I would have had a great go of it. I mean, I can find a way to complain. I always do.
I mean, this morning was a rude awakening. Forcing myself out of bed at 5a. Yesterday I baked all god damned day for those ungrateful bastards. I mean, I hope I baked my bitterness into the Bubbys, because those fickle assholes can choke for all I care. They don't know what's good for them. I mean, I was able to clean up and make bean burritos before the work whistle blew. I mean, I was feeding the idiot goats at 6:08p. And then I said to myself, out loud, because I live alone and there is no one to talk to, I said: "Fuck it, whatever else I need to do, I'll do in the morning. If I'm late, I'm late." And I was not late. In fact, I was right on time. Although it was a close call. I had to pack and syphon some Ticklers. Deal with the compost. Make sure the place was not going to make me cry when I got back. I mean, I was on the road by 6:30a. I had to stop for gas. Outside Bethel. I bought a diet Coke and a breakfast sandwich. Got on the interstate. And drove for three very boring and annoying hours. Got to the Brewery. Met up with Brother Luke. Talked about work. The weekend. The week ahead. Then I went back to the shop and started running 5x5s through the table saw.
I mean, whatever. Work is work. That work though, I mean, I find it very hard to do. Not because the work itself is hard, it's just the dust and the noise. Wearing a mask. 90 degree weather. My glasses fogging up. Dust on everything. Shooting in my eyes. Dousing my clothes. Even with a mask, getting into my mouth and my lungs. My nose. I mean, I even tried to use a face shield, but nothing doing. I mean, it's not healthy. I mean, say what you will about making bitter Cubby Bubbys, but at least it isn't loud. And the flour dust doesn't make you feel like a cancer magnet. I mean, that job is more zen than anything. And kind of funny, because it has an end. When you are finished, you are finished. Done. With woodworking, it just leads to more woodworking. And if you get good at it, people will hire you to do more of it. It is like that old email joke. From the internet:
"I think it's funny that the reward for responding to emails is more emails."
But, I mean, lunch eventually came. Brother Luke brought pepperoni and mushroom pizza, a spinach salad with a sweet vinaigrette. Tiny oranges. I mean, I think they were supposed to be tangerines, but the insides were more orange-like than tangerine. I brought bean burritos with racist onions and white cheddar Cabot cheese. I mean, that cheese is something else. If you get the huge cubes of it. Not cubes, rectangle tubes? I mean, the smaller the thing the less tasty it is. Loafs! The big loafs are the good ones. The smaller ones have less flavor for some reason. I guess the flavor leaks out when you cut it up? It's not the same, it's just not the same! I mean, I had an ice cold sparkling water. BL had a Luke warm Canada Dry. Which I thought was funny. I mean, they had a party for the Brewery on Friday after I left and there were drinks left over. I mean, why Brother Luke would want to drink a Canada Dry that had been sitting in a cooler in the sun all weekend, I couldn't tell you, but he did. I mean, after lunch the Monday Free Ice-cream truck pulled up. Something was wrong with their generator. We walked over to try and help out. Or specifically, Brother Luke walked over to try and help and I followed him. They thing wouldn't start. The lady was about to call it a day. Also, it was starting to rain. But BL insisted on figuring out the thing. I watched for a while. Had a few theories as to what was happening, but kept them to my self. I mean, the thing just wasn't getting gas. My thinking was the gas tube got kinked somehow. Which, this is the reason I didn't say anything, because, sure, that was maybe possible, but it was very unlikely. I mean, that is the real test of smarts, recognizing that your idea is stupid is smarter than fixing the problem. I mean, I went back to getting dusty. BL eventually walked by. I gave him a thumbs up or thumbs down? thing. He gave me a thumbs up. I turned off the plainer and asked: "What was it?"
He said: "It wasn't getting gas."
I said: "I knew it! I figured it was a kinked hose or something."
He said: "Well, it wasn't that, but you were close." He said something about a filter or something, but I didn't know what he was talking about, so I just nodded. Then I got back to making dust and noise.
I mean, I finished doing all the stuff to the boards. And at some point I needed more coffee so I went into the Brewery proper, the breakroom. Got some coffee and some cashews. Went back to the shop. I mean, the garage door had been open because I was coming and going so often, which meant the shop was as hot as it was outside. I realized I could shut the door now, so I shut it. I spent the next couple hours modifying the router so I could cut grooves into the posts I had cut last week. Where the cedar 2x4s would rest. And this was nice. Being inside. No hot winds, no rain, no dust or loud noise. Just me and my smart brain, the one that knew what was wrong with the generator, but not really, I mean, whatever, making a jig for a router isn't that complicated, you just have to know the end result and take good measurements. But there are a lot of ins and outs. So it took some time. And I was glad to take that time. I mean, it means that tomorrow will be more dust and noise, and it is supposed to be hot and sunny tomorrow, so, I mean, at least I am under that tent. I mean, it took me 30 minutes to clean my shit up after the day of mess making. Which, I will say about a brewery operating 24 hours a day, with two different crews, or three, I guess, I mean, it forces you to clean up after yourself, which is good for a shop. Not leaving a huge mess for you yourself to deal with the next day is a good practice. And it is even better when it is foisted upon you. I mean, also, this mandates time every day to deal with things. Which, in our modern way of thinking about work, which is actually outdated and stupid, but to not consider doing prep work for tomorrow as work, I mean, like some after thought, that keeping the work site clean and manageable is somehow an "After-work" thing? I mean, no, it is part of the job too, you should pay me for that as well. Which, I mean, what makes this Brewery so "Progressive," and it is progressive, is very simple: Treat people with respect and understand that work is work. I mean, that simple logic goes pretty far. I mean, the equivalent would be if it was my business and I had employees making Cubby Bubbys and after they were done for the day the would clock out and have to do the dishes. Or worse, I mean, I guess this wouldn't be worse, but in a, fuck tomorrow kind of thinking, to have them leave all the dirty dishes in the sink and then do them first thing the next day. I mean, it might sound like I am complaining about jobs in the past, but I am not, this is common practice on pretty much every job site you visit, you know. You work the 8 hours or whatever, work is done when those 8 hours are finished, but instead of half an hour before the day ends you say, "Okay, let's clean up." It is more like the day ends, 8 hours after you start, or whatever, adjust for lunch, I guess, buy you get my point, and then you spend the next 15 minutes putting shit away and whatever, cleaning up. Unpaid. In a rush because, fuck you, I am not getting paid for this. I mean, I don't know how we got here, but we need to take our labor back. I mean, time management should not be the employee's problem unless time management is the employee's job. Right?
I mean, either way. The Brewery's practices are good policy. Work is work. Cleaning up after working is also work. Driving five hours to a job site it also work. If I am holding a broom, driving a van, sitting in a van, or doing serious things 50 feet in the air, it is all things I am doing for somebody else that is making money off of me being there doing it. I mean, it is a question of respect is all. And your American-libertarian-boot-straps-hard-work-is-it's-own-reward-until-we-are-once-again-living-in-a-feudalistic-state can fuck right off!
I mean, I have been thinking about these rants lately. How the hell I am going to be able to read them on the radio. Like, do I bleep out the curses? Like pre-record? Do I just censor myself as I read them? Or is that impossible? I mean, it is kind of conundrum, but I just had a fantastic thought. All I need to do is do a "Control F" before I print them out. I mean, isn't there like a list of words you can't say on the radio?
Shit
Fuck
Cunt
I mean, I guess I would have to find the list. But shit, I mean, unless I spell cunt wrong, or whatever, all I have to do is do that find thing and replace all, right? Cunt becomes "See you next Tuesday," fuck becomes "For unlawful carnal knowledge," shit becomes "Shake his itinerate tambourine." I mean, on and on. I mean, I will also have to look out for:
Shitting
Fucking
Cunting
Good Dill Cunting [Italics] a porno about a genius pickle maker who comes from the bad part of town and is also good at humping. See how this works? You just spitball and things fall out like liquid shake his itinerate tambourines.
I don't know. My diatribe about the modern state of the working class aside, I was done working at 5p. BECAUSE! I had started cleaning up at 4:30p. And it took me 30 minutes to clean up after the day. BECAUSE! The for unlawful carnal knowledge-ing work was so greased old drains don't answer my napkins-ed dusty, I had to do quite a bit of cleanup. I mean, whatever. Brother Luke came around and inspected my work. He had some ideas about things. Pointed out some flaws. I mean, it was a 50/50 about who was right and who was wrong. I mean, I love working with my brother. Twin brains of sorts. I mean, lots of things can go unsaid. So that is nice. I mean, we talked more about the week. He took off and went home. I took off and came over to this place. I mean, there was talk about looking at my back brakes, maybe seeing a band downtown on Wednesday, I am going to take care of the kids on Thursday night so BL and L can go out and make sweet emotions. I mean, logistics, basically. I mean, I got to the area. Parked. Loaded my arms up with my multiple bags. Opened the trunk to get the Ticklers I had syphoned this morning. And, do you want to guess what happened?
I will give you a second to take a wild swing.
I mean, they had fallen out of the bag that I put them. A reusable bag. Which was fine. I went to put one of them back in the bag, For three and a half hours they bounced around in the back of Junior Mint. Then they sat in the trunk for seven hours in 90 degree heat. Then I grabbed the nylon strap that holds the lid to the bottle. And Kaboom! I mean, a face full of hot, wet Tickler juices. Hands and shirt and car keys included. I mean, of course. I mean, getting your stuff out of the car an into the hotel or whatever, the temporary rental, I mean, it always sucks, you try and do it all, every time, but getting a Tickler facial was pretty annoying and was very unforced. I knew it was possible. And not only that, but it was raining at the same time. I mean, I took the stuff inside. Went back outside to go to the Walgreen's to get some another two shower curtains. So I don't make a mess every time I shower. I mean, it is the only solution. I mean, this very cute and very femme friend of Dorothy's. I mean, what is more offensive? Saying, "Very femme gay," or "Very femme friend of Dorothy's?" I mean, as a straight cis White. I mean, it really doesn't matter what sexual orientation this person has, or how they identify in any way, but the interaction wouldn't have happened in the same way if it was somebody else. I mean, without taking about one million liberties in describing this person. I mean, I don't know. My "Impression" was that this person was cute and gay. They were wearing very short shorts. Khakis. Had a nose ring. And bright eyes. I mean, whatever. I should maybe not over think it. But they opened the door, I was right behind them, they let out a sigh and said:
"Oh, that's the stuff." The air conditioning.
I said: "Hot enough for ya?" We walked towards the back together. I knew where the shower curtains were because of last week when I bought one before. They were either going to get something from the pharmacy, or worked there, either way they were walking with determination, like they knew the place.
They said: "Oh, it's unbearable."
I said: "Yeah, tomorrow is supposed to be worse."
They said: "Really? No."
I said: "Yeah, both hotter and sunny." Oh! I was also wearing the high viz vest.
They said: "Well, you got to stay hydrated, if you work outside, and judging by what you are wearing, you do."
I said: "Yeah, right. Thanks! I'll do my best."
I mean, I don't know why I enjoyed that conversation so much. I mean, missing NYC, I guess. I mean, two weirdos connecting under odd circumstances. Making assumptions about each other. Then splitting ways. I mean, city living.
I mean, I guess I am here now. Will probably eat a burrito and go to bed. The carpet beckons. In the morning I will take an ice-warm shower with complete coverage. I mean, I guess the puddle of water won't be there. Supposedly tomorrow Brother Luke is coming over and we are going to figure out the hot water heater and maybe fix the dryer. Which, I think is the payment for staying at this place for two weeks. I mean, if he is getting charged for me staying here, that is kind of a sick joke. I mean, sure, it is a "Space" that is not the gutter, I mean, there is a toilet and a carpet and running water and a refrigerator, but still, I mean, I guess I am using electricity and cooling, which means those things should be paid for, but aside from that. I mean, as long as I don't burn the place down. Which, I mean, how would I do that? I got no pans. I mean, maybe if I light a smoke or something? Fall asleep with a cigarette in my mouth, burn a hole in the carpet? I mean, if anything, I guess I could go out and find some friends and throw a kegger. Portland has quite a few miscreants running around. Disposed. I mean, it would be a nice for unlawful carnal knowledge you to the housing crisis that is plaguing America at the moment, that we refuse to deal with, that I myself am not making better. I mean, living in two places, owning two cars, I mean, that is guilt. Actual guilt. But then again, I don't know what would be happening if I wasn't living in Beaver Haus right now. Probably that place would be vacant and then it would be an Air B&B during the "Seasons," so, I mean, if anything I am forcing the landlords to reconsider the usage. Which, will probably help the next guy. I mean, right? Either way, here is a song that has come on the radio twice in the last week. I mean, maybe it is a sign I should play it on Screed City Radio?
[Insert Weed, Whites and Wine [Whine?]]