[197] Screed City

[197]

09/22/2022 Thursday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

I mean, I'm baaaaack! Seven more days and I can finally catch a break! 19 days straight at this point. Then the concrete pour tomorrow, the Farmers Market on Saturday, back to Portland on Sunday, and work 10 hour shifts Monday-Thursday, then NYC here I come!

I mean, I got new glasses. They finally arrived. Progressive lenses, I mean, I like my glasses like I like my politics, broken. See what I did there? An old switcheroo. But they are progressive lenses and they rock. Brother Luke said they make me look like Grandpa Leck. My our dad's dad. I just need a high and tight, if you know what I mean. Because I kind of do look like him for some reason. Minus the haircut. But wow, not having to take my glasses off to read things. What a luxury. Thanks mom!

The Donkey [Italics] USB things came. Mixed feelings. Not nearly as cool as I thought they would be, but at least I paid a lot of money for them.

[Insert USB Photo]

In other Donkey [Italics] related news, the Donkey [Italics] books in full are here! Available only for my subscribers or anyone that shows up at the Brooklyn Book Festival. Anyone else has to buy it in serial form. You know, the pure form. How god intended it to be. So, if any of you heathens are looking for a fantastic time, send me a message and I can sort you out.

I mean, the first thing I did when I got back to Beaver Haus was to enter the New Yorker caption contest. My submission: "I don't know what happened, my cork fell out and now everyone says I stink." The cartoon is a bottle of ink sitting in front of that Frued dude holding up an ink blot test. Worshack. Horshak? Worcestershack?

I mean, I broke a mirror and that is supposed to be seven years bad luck, but my lawyer says he can get me five.

I mean, it's the Autumnal Equinox tonight. At like 9:03p. Do like me and stand up as straight as you can at that moment. It is the shortest you are all year. I mean, relative to the sun. I guess. But also the tallest you will be relative to the earth at that moment. With regards to pointing north or whatever. Either way, the next three months will be, um, I mean, it is better not to think about. But hey, at least you will get some sleep, right?

This week has been pretty uneventful. I put some metal over some things. Did some dry wall stuff. Planned out a bar thing. Ate some burritos. Slept on shag carpet. Wrote a few chapters of Dangler [Italics] which I may change the title to Moke [Italics.] I mean, one of the main characters is called Horse, and I don't like that, and Moke is another name for a horse. In Australia, in England that is what they call donkeys. And at some point his buddies start referring to him as a cancer donkey because he shaves his head and he has big ears, so they think they are being real funny about it. But they are just jerks. Like everyone else. Poor, Moke, can't catch a break. I mean, spoiler alert, people suck.

I mean, today was hilarious. In that, I don't even know how anything gets done ever kind of way. I mean, I had one job to do. A very simple job. I was going to lay out where the bar was going to go and then make some markings on the floor. That is it. Nothing more, nothing less. That way on Monday I can start work straight off. Spend the week hauling ass and hopefully be done with it by Thursday. Then I can take most of October off, deal with Vermont shit and go down to the City for an extended break. Catch up with old friends, and then go back to work in November. Speaking of friends, I have been working so much I totally forgot Rambona's birthday. Happy Birthday, Rambona! I mean, it was nearly two weeks ago, but still, right? You can wish people belated happy birthdays, that is the only reason we have that word, belated, for moments like this. I mean, the word has no other use. I mean, it means other things, but nobody uses it in any other way. Nobody says: "Oh, shit! I have all that belated work to do!" No, they say: "Oh, shit! I have all that work to do that I ignored!" Or whatever. "My belated laundry!" I mean, if this was 1923, maybe. I mean, I digress. Happy Birthday, Rambona! Many happy belated returns!

But today, I mean, it started out alright. I packed up my stuff, did some belated cleaning, got the hell out of Hampshire House went to the Brewery. I took a look at the dry wall mud I had drying from last night. I mean, it was 14 hours later and the shit was still wet. It was cold and humid in Portland this week. The Brewery Tasting Room was going to open at 11a, so I still had some time. The drywall was for the backing of this sink they were putting in. And I just needed to finish the drywall and then get the wall painted. So as to not cause grief in the future, but the mud wasn't drying. So I aimed some fans at the wall and let it ride.

Then there was the morning meeting. A thing that took nearly half an hour. Which was basically just noises coming out of people's mouths. To me, I mean. My job there, right now, is to do side projects that either don't need contractors, or can be done using staff as opposed to multiple employees. I mean, the fence/ bar top thing I have been doing for weeks now is a perfect example of that. A kind of, help doesn't help, scenario. Like, unless someone else knows exactly what I know, there is no reason to get anyone else involved, if that makes sense. I mean, sure, the job would go faster, but at what cost? It doesn't need to be done until the Spring, but it does need to get done, however, they don't want a whole crew coming around and bulldozing through everything to get the thing done in a weekend or whatever. I mean, I am quick on my feet, like Taylor Swift, I mean, my point is, yes, the job needs to get done, but there are a lot of ins and outs, and the job just can't get done in one fell swoop, however, they also need somebody, like me, that is competent and can see the project in the big picture kind of way where it will actually get done, as opposed to having in-house employees do it, who, I mean, they are great guys and work hard, but they are basically custodians. Which is honorable as a vocation, but it doesn't mean they can plan and make fifty feet of linear fence get put up in a way that will one day become a bar that can be used by thousands of people over time. If not tens of thousands of people. I mean, I am not saying I have perspicacious abilities that no normal man has, I am just saying that I do have the experience needed to get the job done, and they, meaning the Brewery, understand this and therefore pay me well to make a thing like this happen.

And yes, having an extra hand would make things go faster, but going faster is not the point. The point is that it gets done, but also gets done on the Brewery's schedule, not the contractors schedule. If you can pick up what I am putting down. I mean, my point is, after the morning waste of time meeting I drove over to the storage facilities to look at some tile that is going to be used to face the bar. To make the face of the bar. If that is the way to say it. You know, the looks. And that was funny because I was greeted by four guys, doing what? I don't know. I mean, they had nothing better to do than take me to the tile and watch me look at tile. I mean, I literally had a handler. A facilitator. I mean, I needed a ladder, he went and got me a ladder. And because this was a great big warehouse, it was like I was being jockeyed along. I mean, it was impossible to think with a guy breathing down my neck, even if he was helpful. Because, naturally he also had questions about what I was doing. I mean, what I was doing was simple, I was looking at imported Italian tiles, trying to figure out how many I needed to do this bar thing, I mean, all I really needed was a single tile and to know how many boxes there were. A thing that took me two minutes to do, but because I had all this other intervention I mean, suddenly I am giving the guy a history of the Tasting Room, and he is waxing politic about other tiles the Brewery has used over the years. I mean, can't a dude just be left alone to look at some tiles? I mean, I am not saying that he wasn't needed, I mean, I just wanted to be left alone so I could think. But he didn't do that. He didn't leave me alone. I counted the boxes of tiles. Made sure I had the right ones, via text photo. Took two single tiles with me and had the guy walk me right back to where I knew exactly where I was going. I mean, maybe he was trying to keep me from stealing secrets from the Brewery? I mean, when I got there in the first place the first thing they said was: "You Joe? Your brother said not to shoot you." I mean, I laughed. Pulled the gun from my bag. Murdered them all, and then went inside and stole all the beer formulas. Like David Webb. Who, if you are not familiar, is the birth name of Jason Bourne.

I mean, it was raining outside. I went back to my car. Good ol' Junior Mint. Then I started driving back to the Brewery. In fact, I got back to the Brewery. But I realized I needed some more information so I pulled over and put the words Home Depot into my phone. I mean, the Home Depot was right across the street, basically, from the warehouse. So I drove back. I called Professor Curly on the way. She had some good movie news. Which was good to hear. We talked for the drive, but then I had to go because I was working. I guess. I mean, I spent at least an hour in the Home Depot just looking at things. Grout. Plywood. Backing. I mean, an employee asked me if I was okay, if I needed help. I mean, I must have either seemed confused, or lost, but I said: "Oh, no! Thank you, though!" I mean, nobody ever asks you if you need help in a Home Depot. I mean, I must have looked like I shit my pants or something. Because I was startled by the question. I mean, that, or maybe they actually want to help you in the Portland Home Depot by the interstate. Which, I mean, didn't we go through this process a few weeks ago when I went to Rutland and couldn't find a cart? I mean, screeds don't repeat, but they do resemble themselves, ATBMS. Rhyme.

I mean, whatever. I spent a bunch of time looking at things. Then I went back outside. It was raining. I told you that. It rained all morning. Twice, no four times I said to people I ran into: "Oh, it's raining in Portland, how original!" I mean, I even did it twice to this guy that was walking out of the brewing area and into the storing area. The first time he held the door for me, we walked outside and I said: "Rain in Portland? How original." He laughed. And then 10 minutes later the same thing happened. He opened the door for me and said: "Didn't we already do this before?" And I belatedly said: "Rain in Portland? How original." He laughed. Again.

I mean, I am sorry, this story is just going to be long but I am trying to tell you how un-productive this day was. I mean, I called the Publisher on my way back to the Brewery. We talked about the Donkey [Italics] book in total and the USB things. And how to deal with that. I mean, there was something else I wanted to talk to her about but I couldn't remember. Then we talked about the concrete pour tomorrow, that I would get in touch with Scott, but I never got in touch with Scott. And I didn't ever remember the other thing I wanted to talk to her about. I mean, more proof about the day and how it was kind of really awash.

I mean, I had this grout chart that I needed to show the project manager for the bar project. I had the two tiles for looks. I texted her. She said she could meet me at some point. But she wouldn't be around until later. I mean, I don't know exactly what I did, but there was some talking about the drywall in the Tasting Room by the bathrooms. And then, I mean, I will cut to the chase with that, because it was truly a thankless task. The final agreement about that was this: "The solution was worse than the problem." I mean, it really didn't matter. I mean, I put the sheet rock where it needed to go. The sink guys could put the sink in. Such is life. What happens next is NBD. No Big Deal. I mean, three hours of work, for me, $270 bucks, peanuts in the grand scheme. So we just let the thing slide. I mean, tomorrow the sink will be put in, and the Brewery, meaning me, will deal with the thing. And such is life.

I mean, at some point me and Brother Luke had lunch. And it was good. And then someone helped me find the lady that, hold on, I forgot. I mean, so I ended up starting to try and do the lay-out for the bar in the New Tasting Room. The thing that the fence/bar thing that I have spent so much time making is related to. I mean, I am never going to finish this story. I should just bail. But I went over and tried to start doing layout. And there are these other guys working there. And they are knuckle dragging, chain smoking, I mean, I don't really want to disparage anyone, I get it, work is work, and I DO NOT look down on them, I mean, everyone in life deserves the dignity of existence, I mean, I am saying that ironically because there is NO dignity in being alive. That is my whole point. I mean, if anyone bothers to go back and read anything I have ever written my entire point is that being alive and here, now, working for a living and living life as we live it, dignity is dead, I mean, I am in no way against these guys, I just wish they had the perspicacity that I have, where, I mean, maybe if we band together, maybe, just maybe, being working class won't be so fucking humiliating, but, I mean, Brother Luke told me a story about this one guy, who I was about to meet, about how he needed to borrow Brother Luke's key card so he could use the bathroom because: "Otherwise, there is going to be a mess that nobody wants to clean up." Because things get slippery down there. And the egg and bacon and cheese sandwiches, and the Marlboro Reds and the dirty coffee, waits for no man, ATBMS. I mean, when I finally ended up meeting up with the framers at the New Tasting Room, I mean, things grinded to an absolute halt. I mean.

[Insert Grinding Halt By The Cure]

I mean, when I met the guy, he was fantastic. He didn't give two shits. He was just worried about the pipes. And I had to ask the entire cranky crew to move things so I could do some layout. And they seemed pissed off, but it wasn't because they didn't want to move the shit, they were just lazy and had turds poking out of their butts. And there was no bathroom around. Without a key card. And the irony was, they were building a bathroom! I mean, my point is, as a Progressive, which you can tell by my glasses, we are with these guys. They don't give two shits. OR they have plenty of shits to give, I mean, the Orange Douche speaks to them because he says the right things, but that doesn't mean nothing when he instead gives their money to the billionaires instead of the Working Class, so we, meaning the Left, whatever that means, I mean, without Bernie as our head piece, we got no way to convince these poor tender fools who could care less about politics, they just want a bathroom on the work site that they can use, and a place like this Brewery, who spends untold money to make workers happy and healthy, doesn't know how to make private companies like them understand, BUT HOWEVER, pays a very good contract to them, to do the work on purpose and for good reason, but the guy, still, and forever going forward, will nearly shit his pants, and the other guys too, because when they go out for breaks they smoke Marlboro Reds and eat cheese and egg sandwiches. I mean, my point is, YES, use the bathroom, but the place is clamped down like Fort Knox. And if Brother Luke has to lose his key card in order for this guy to not shit his pants, I mean, that ain't that cool. I mean, maybe I was going into the warehouse to steal the secret formula, but these guys, not so much.

I mean, whatever. Later in the day I met with the guy and we looked at the blue prints. I called them: "Blooper Prints." Like always. The guy laughed. Because it was true. I mean, there was two different meetings today about where the bar went. As well as at least 10 different conversations. I mean, and this was just about me making a single mark on the concrete before even thinking about putting some anchors in the ground. AND! on top of that, the idiot framers, who, like I said, aren't idiots themselves, I mean, whatever, work is work, you go to work and then you aren't at work anymore, those idiots, being lazy, destroyed the patio because they were lazy and drove their International-style trucks, I mean the owner of the company must have some sort of love for old trucks, which, I mean, they are cool looking, but at this point in life it is like showing up to work with a Dodge Charger, I mean, the 90's called and they think you are an idiot. I mean, have the car or truck, I don't care, blow coal, but having that shit as your work truck? You should also wave a: "Trump Won," flag. I mean, where we go one we go all. Okay, you are an idiot. Note taken. Now, how about you don't destroy my very expensive patio? It's not funny when business is involved.

I mean, whatever. This is taking too long. My point is this; my entire day, all six hours of the work I did, was only and basically dealing with things that were just hypotheticals. And conversations. And as much as it was confusing to talk with the guy that nearly shit his pants and the guys that were doing the most loud and un-forgiving work, fools, basically, because their political leanings would be better served by voting for Progressives, like my glasses, then the Orange Douche, who says a lot of things, but gives all the money to bosses and not the workers, which is what the Brewery is actually doing, I mean, that is kind of the point, what the Dems don't realize, is that all we really need to do is give these wild, and kind of mis-guided fools, is a bathroom to shit in. I mean, labor is me and you. I mean, it is like 90% of the population. I mean, give a dude a pot to shit in. I mean, I don't look down on these guys. I am the same as them. They are funny because they are idiots, but aren't we all idiots? I mean, they have kids too. Their kids know what's up. I mean, there is a reason the Bernie voters voted for Trump. Reality is real. Work sucks. Shit is hard. The problem with Trump is that he is a liar. Bernie, however, is the real deal. I mean, this soft revolution is going to change things for the next 50 years and we have no figurehead. And it's people like me and this other guy, who can barely get through the morning without shitting his pants that will make all the difference.

I mean, my whole point is this: Work is hard. Don't go to college because work is hard and then you have also a bunch of debt. Drop out. Work at McDonald's. Live on the beach in a tent. Because it doesn't matter anyway. When you can finally afford it, rent a house out and sleep on shag carpet, while commuting four hours both ways. And then, THEN, you will finally understand how the economy works. Because, really, the economy doesn't make sense at all. I tried to get a job at Trader Joe's once, and they didn't hire me because I had a different job at the time that paid twice as much money as working for them. Which made me look like a junky. Because only a loser would take a 50% pay cut. And, yeah, I was a loser, but I just wanted to have reliable income. But a lazy bones like me, according to them, was not worth the disposable labor that I represented. I mean, no offense, but Trader Joe's is not the beacon of humanity you think it is. Yes, it is cheap, but guess what? It comes at a cost. Just saying.