[181] Screed City

[181]

08/14/2022 Sunday. Milk Crate. Stabbin' Cabin. Worlando Beach, Wyoming.

I mean, I have done basically nothing for the last three days and I am exhausted as Creep's lips when he did so many bong rips he got mouth sores. I mean, remember that? When he basically calloused his face? That was pretty funny. I mean, that is a lot of bong rips. I mean, where to start? The beginning, I guess, but when is that? Friday, at some point? I honestly don't remember.

I mean, I kind of remember Friday. I know I made the Taco Bubbys on Friday. I know I went to Larsen's Bicycles to see Lisa. I gave her two of the things. She gave me a bunch of t-shirts. I mean, I think that was Friday. I remember going to Second Treasures to find more t-shirts. I remember going to the Loaf & Jug to get pops for the ride to TenSleep. I remember packing for TenSleep. And I kind of remember the drive to TenSleep, but was that all we did that day? Me and G, before we went to TenSleep? I mean, the idea was to get there by 5p. But did we really do nothing else? I guess it doesn't matter, but it feels like it was weeks ago.

I mean, I remember getting to Brother Charley and Sister Megan's place. They had company over. From Billings. Drunk A and Drunk B. They had a few dogs as well. Not drunk dogs though, I think. I mean, we hung out in the kitchen. I drank a Ranch Water, margarita flavored. I remember that. Then they, meaning Drunk A and Drunk B and Brother Charley and Sister Megan went to the Brewery with Little O. Maybe Cousin Eddie and his GF? I think he had been in the shower for an hour at this point. With no signs of getting out. Teenage boys, am I right? Also, Cousin Eddie is now on the newsletter list, so, I mean, I don't know if anyone under the age of 35 reads electronic mails or not, but if he does, Hi Eddie! I will keep my zingers to a minimum. I mean, me and G went to the music festival instead of going to the Brewery because the idea was to hang out with Brother Buck while he was on call. In case any drunks fell into the creek or something. Got a corndog stuck in their blowhole. I mean, I spent $120 bucks buying three day passes for me and G. We got wristbands. We went straight to the Navajo Tacos/Nachos truck and got a taco and some nachos. Then we sat under a tree with Brother Buck and his EMT buddies. I mean, it was nice for a while. But Buck got distracted and G got bored. The music was playing, but we couldn't see the stage, only hear it. I mean, at some point I thought it was a good idea to start drinking beer. And for some reason I was drinking Buttwipers. I mean, it is a pretty unassuming beer. Mostly just dirty water. Butwhatever. I mean, if you drink enough of them, I guess. I mean, at some point even drinking beer was not enough to keep this party going. Oh, and it was raining. And kept raining. And was cold because of the rain. Did I tell you G was bored? And Brother Buck was socializing with other people not me and G?

I mean, at some point the rain stopped raining. Brother Charley and Sister Megan and Drunk A and Drunk B and Little O showed up. Oh, that is not true. Brother Charley and Little O showed up. The other three were off doing something else. I got sent back to the house to get a chair. Because I guess I needed a chair. I mean, that is the nature of these things. You bring your own chair. BYOC. When I got to the house I did some looking around for the chair I was supposed to bring. I couldn't find it. I got a text that told me to get these other three chairs in the house. The dogs, all four or five of them barked my ears off. I mean, I got out of there unscathed. Carrying three fold-up canvas chairs with shoulder straps. I brought them back. Set them up next to Brother Charley. G was having none of it. I feel like they just hung out under the tree the whole time. I mean, soon after this they came over and said they were going to Brother Buck's, who, also by this time had left. I said okay and I would get in touch in the morning. I mean, I sat down. Watching the bands. Drinking lousy beer. I mean, the music was not the best. Some weird jazz ensemble was playing. Dunk A and Drunk B were now around, doing drunk things. Coming and going. Seeming lost and confused. But also going over and dancing and then getting more drinks then sitting down, then getting up again to go menace other people. I mean, as someone that has spent many a long weekend being a menace to Society, they were trying my patience a little bit, and I have a lot of patience for drunks. I mean, I felt guilty about not dealing with them, really. I mean, they were not my house guests, so I could just ignore them, but poor Charley and Megan.

I mean, the night wore on. I drank a couple more Buttwipers. The bands kept playing. They got better after the octet jazz thing. I mean, the octet jazz thing was alright, in theory, just not the right thing for that moment. I mean, the headliner that night, a band called The Patty Fiasco was actually very good. I thought they reminded me of the Cranberries, Sister Megan thought they were more like Ani Difranco. Which, I mean, the second time I saw them play, the very next day, I would agree more with Megan than with myself, but I mean, maybe it was just the hijinks of the lead singer and her outfit that reminded me of the Cranberries. I mean, she was wearing short-shorts, cool blue shoes, and she was a tiny little thing and she did a lot of air-kicks. Plus she played a guitar. Sometimes. I mean, maybe Ani Difranco does the same things? I should look up some live performances.

I mean, at some point they were done. Brother Charley said he had set up a bed for me in his wood shop. I mean, we walked back to their house. Drunk A gave me a bunch of shit because I gave her a chair to carry. WHICH, I mean, I didn't give it to her, she asked for it, then she must have forgotten, and then she was like: "I guess I must look like a good mule to you. Which is why you gave me this thing to carry." Then she proceeded to poke people in the faces as she walked with the thing. Carrying it upside down. Jaunting off to the side. A drink in hand. Bragging about how good she was carrying things. I mean, for reasons like this and other equally annoying reasons, when we got to the house, I took my bags out of the rental and walked around the back of the house and into the wood shop. Circumventing the house altogether. I mean, like I said, I was feeling guilty that I didn't have to deal with this chaos, but I was in no mood to be part of it anymore. I mean, for the first time in like a decade I went to bed without brushing my teeth first. Because I didn't want to have to navigate using the bathroom.

I mean, wood shop was dusty, naturally. There was a fan and stuff. A cot with a blow-up mat tied to it. Luckily I had my water bottle. I mean, I pissed outside. Got naked. Put my air-buds in my ears. Put an Agatha Chrystie thing from my phone on and passed out. I mean, I assumed I passed out. I might have just been exhausted, I mean, drinking Buttwiper is the same as drinking Ticklers, just more sugar, so I don't think I was drunk, but I was also very tired, so maybe it was both things. Maybe I passed out and bonked at the same time. I mean, I did wake up at some point to go to the bathroom. But it was only once. And before I knew it, I the sun was coming up, I was now inside of the sleeping bag that I had fell asleep on top of. I mean, I could have slept more, but I had to use the bathroom again, and I couldn't just whip my wang out in daylight now. As much as I would have liked to. I mean, I got up. Brother Charley and Sister Megan were already up. The coffee was ready. We sat on the porch. Talking about stuff. Megan made some breakfast burritos. They were very tasty. I mean, at some point Drunk B came out to the porch and had a beer in hand. He said: "I found this beer." Then he told us that he had gone to the bar last night. With the dog. A story he would tell another four times in my presence throughout the day. I mean, I have no idea how many other times he told the story, but he told me that story four times. With no other details then he had gone to the bar with the dog. I mean, that is where the beer came from. I deduced that with my Sherlock Holmes brain. I mean, it was 9:30a and he and Drunk A were already drunk again. I mean, it was kind of funny, in a, Man, you are making me feel hungover, kind of way, but what can you do? It was NoWoodStock, man. A tradition of day drinking. I mean, I was okay with just coffee, the day was going to be long, and hot, and as much as I can appreciate a good day drunk, I was in no mood for it. I mean, me and Brother Charley and Sister Megan and Little O went to the music festival. I mean, I took a shower at some point first. Connected with G, but that is where we ended up.

I mean, when we got there these two eleven year old twins from Hyattville were playing cover tunes. They were playing "Fast Car" by Tracey Chapman when we got there. Which was a good sign. I mean, they were good, and cute. I mean, they did a great job until their last song. Which was "Sweet Home, Alabama." Which, I mean, sure these kids were only eleven, but fuck you. You can't start with Tracey Chapman and end with Lynard Skynard. It just doesn't work that way. You are either/or. You are either racist/The South will rise again, or you are, I mean, basically anything other than that, but especially Tracey Chapman, you can't be both. So, I mean, they lost me at that point.

I mean, the next guy was this guy called Christian Wallowing Bull. Who, I mean, my lord. I mean, the guy was great. He had a mohawk and a face tattoo. He had apparently won some sort of songwriting competition which is why he was hear, but my lord. Eleven A.M. at a music festival in TenSleep, Wyoming? Playing one long song in drop D tuning. I mean, the lyrics being songs about how White people suck and how he is going to stab everyone to death because of it. And then, in a very un-ironic way, in-between songs: "Thank you so much for this opportunity! You guys are the best!" Followed by: "This is a song about growing up on a reservation." Followed by the lyrics: "I grew up with Wounded Knee/ Kneeling on my neck/ Yet I am an eagle/ I will kill the wolf that did this to me." Then, when the song is over: "Thank you so much! I am so blessed to be here!" I mean, it was brilliant. Genius even. I mean, I saw him and his girl friend go into the PortaPotty together before his set. I mean, nobody goes into a PortaPotty with someone else unless there are one of two things happening. One: You are getting a blowjob, or Two: you are doing bumps. I mean, maybe they just had to piss, and the guy with the penis could pee in the urinal and the gal with the vagina could sit down. I mean, that would be pretty efficient, but I don't think that is what happened. I mean, the girlfriend eventually got on stage with the guy. I mean, she was cool looking, had a cool outfit. Like lederhosen, but American and Western somehow. And Christian Wallowing Bull said: "This is my gal, I kind of want to give her props, she is basically the Lady Gaga to my Bradley Cooper in A Star Is Born." I mean, I thought he was being ironic. And that they would play some sort of wild Stab Whitey/Pretty Voice crossover thing. But no. He was not being ironic. He said: "I wouldn't mind if she got what is coming to her, I could take it." Then they went into a very sincere rendition of "Give Me One Reason." And, I mean, I suppose I should have known, the way she acted on stage. Not shy, or insecure, the opposite. I mean, they really, really meant it. And, sadly, that hurt my feelings. I mean, he had been so brilliant, and so decisive before, and now they were just pandering. I mean, she was okay, she has a nice voice, but the joke was not even funny anymore. Which, I mean, Shane had shown up during the performance. We decided now was a good time to break away and go shoot the interview.

I mean, me and G and Shane got into Shane's vehicle. A great big SUV. We drove up TenSleep Canyon. Above Meadowlark Lake. Took a right. Parked at the bottom of a hill and walked up to the Fire Look-Out Station. I mean, the hike, not hard, but hard enough, I mean, being this high up in elevation was rough. For me and G. I mean, we did it though. We got to the top. Met a few tourists along the way. We snuck off to the side of the thing. Back in the trees. I mean, we spent an hour and a half recording the video. G doing the filming, Shane asking the questions. The whole time a thunderstorm menacing in the distance. I mean, the video is great. It's just that we had to use Brother Charley's iPad thing. Because it was the only thing that had an 1/8th inch port. Which, I mean, I would love to share some of it now, but I can't figure out how to get it from my phone to my computer. I mean, I used AirDrop to get it from the iPad to the phone, but that is as far as I could get. I mean, when I connected my phone to my computer the video doesn't show up, and I am too exhausted to figure it out at the moment. So for now, it only exists on my phone. I mean, the file is just too big to do anything with. But I am getting ahead of myself here.

I mean, we shot the video. Headed back over. Ran into some people from Worland. Who really did not want to talk about the difference between Vermont and Wyoming. I mean, who can blame them? But it was kind of funny how quickly they wanted to walk away when I started to explain the differences. I mean, we drove back down to TenSleep. Shane stuck around for a little while then ditched. I mean, Cousin A showed up so G had a buddy now. Which was good. I mean, I don't remember what happened next, but I know we ate some actual tacos. Like what they call "Street Tacos." I mean, at some point there was cheese cake and also at some point there were also corn dogs and fries. I mean, Sister Megan's mom was involved with the cheese cake. And Aunt Robin was somehow involved with the corn dogs. I mean, there was birthday, and some inappropriate things coming from Drunk A and Drunk B, I just can't remember the exact timeline. I mean, I know that I, personally, ended up just hanging out with Aunt Robin and Cousin Jamie and her little baby with a cute hair thing and Hurricane Mary and Carrie G. Who, I mean, what a blast from the past that was. The next door neighbor/Best friend in middle school's sister. I mean, it was nice. All of it. I mean, the bands played on. The conversation was pleasant. I mean, after 6p I decided to drink a Speed Goat. Which is the Buttwiper from the Brewery. Superior in many ways. Mostly just flavor though. I mean, I don't even know. At some point Jalan got on stage. The main draw to this festival. And he was good. Real good. His mom was sitting next to me. She gave me one of his hats. She said: "I bet you could get him to sign it for you." I mean, I am sure that was true. I mean, it's not like I didn't want him to sign it for me, but I don't really know what she was getting at. I mean, local celebrity aside, I know the dude okay enough, we have spent some nights together, I suppose she was just proud of him, but there was something about that interaction that seemed very telling, if not delusional, that kind of depressed me. I mean, the big fish in a small pond. And don't get me wrong, he is quite the showman, his songs are quite good. I just, the myth of the genius songwriter in the mountain town speaking the American truth. I mean, of course he would sign the hat for me, his entire business is predicated on signing hats for people. I mean, I don't know why it depressed me, but it did. I mean, it was a glimpse into what might have been for me had I stuck around. Day drinking at folk festivals, the bar being incredibly low, writing songs about how things are exciting at first, but nobody sticks around because as much as the West is a magical place, the reality is almost too harsh to recon with. I mean, it is a trope and it is un-original, and it makes me sad. Not because you have to go out East or West in order to fight for your art, it's just that no matter what you do for an American audience, your audience will always be American. And in order to be an Artist, you have to sell hats and then sign them for people. Because being an Artist is considered a hobby at best. And in a very un-ironic way, the "Cultural Board" considers Wyoming culture something that is important and needs to not be ignored. I mean, so much so that they hang a banner on the stage. Yet, good luck getting funding. I mean, "My tax dollars are paying for what?" Paying for faggots to strum their guitars? I don't think so. Meanwhile the entire economy out here is subsidized by the Federal Government. Then you see bumper stickers that say: "Libertarianism. Minimal Government/Maximum Freedom." And it makes you want to puke. I mean, my problem with Wyoming is not that people suck. People suck everywhere. It is just all the fucking lies that they use out here to prop themselves up. I mean, it is a lifestyle of cowardice and ignorance. On purpose. I mean, it is equal to UpState New York. I mean, they think that they are doing so well by themselves, yet nothing, nothing they do would exist without outside help. And the sad truth is that Jalan is actually pulling himself up by his boot-straps. Because there is almost zero funding for arts. Yet he is the faggot strumming his guitar, while all the farmers and ranchers and local business assholes are sucking tax dollars from the Federal Tit, which, I mean, I keep using the word irony to express my emotions, but this really is the state of things around here. I mean, a bunch of Socialized "Libertarians" decrying small Government while being subsidized. And because they can only get money from the Government by being "Fiscally Responsible" they pay the labor shit wages and even get the local idiots to agree to it by lying to them. And suddenly there are all sorts of arguments for not paying a living wage because supposedly the costs will be transferred to the costumer, when already that money is factored in because everything is already superficially cheapened by the Government in the first place. And they use words like "Right to Work" as a way to take everything from the working class and give it to the wealthy. So suddenly you are working 80 hours a week making $7 dollars an hour and you should be glad about it, because at least you have a job!

In this economy? You make $15 dollars and hour at McDonald's and you can't even afford a BigMac? You can't even afford to eat where you work? I mean, it is so stupid. So very stupid. These idiots are the stupidest among us. They don't have single clue how stupid they are. I mean, I have said it before, I will say it again, take all subsidies away from places like Wyoming and UpState New York and we would have our great American wilderness back, because nobody in their right mind could live here. Or more like, all those small businesses that the Right thinks the Left is destroying with their progressive ideals would actually strive if we took away all the Right-wing/Corporate-center soft landing bullshit that props this nonsense up. I mean, there is not a single farmer that could live out here without help. And the ones that can, it is only because they embrace local culture. I mean. I don't even know what I mean. It's not just Wyoming, it is America. Fund the Arts. They are just as important as wheat.

I mean, at some point last night I gave up on hanging out at the festival. I had seen all the things. I mean, the bands and people and stuff. I mean, I went back to Brother Charley's wood shop. I brushed my teeth this time. Outside. While taking a leak. I went to bed. Neither passing out, nor bonking. I mean, I don't even know. I woke up when the sun came up. Then I just kind of laid there. Trying to get back to sleep. I couldn't. I snuck inside and pissed. Then I went back to the cot and laid around for a while. Listening to sounds. Eventually there were enough sounds that I got up. Brother Charley was up, making coffee. I mean, we hung out for a while. Then we went to the festival. Cousin A was performing at 10a. She was great. The entire family was there. Brother Jade and Sister Athena. All six kids. G and Bother Buck and Sister Amy and Little J. I mean, we hung out afterward. It was very nice. There were corn dogs and waffle fries and tacos and onion rings and nachos and conversation. I mean, at some point G went back to Worland with Cousin A. I stuck around and talked. Then, when I couldn't take it anymore, not because it was bad, but because I was whooped, I drove back to Worland myself. Tried to do some things on my computer, to get the interview video uploaded. I mean, tomorrow, always tomorrow. I mean, I think tomorrow I may meet Liz Cheney. She is supposedly going to be at the Brewery in Worland. "Barnstorming" as they say. We'll see. For now, I need some sleep.

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