[200] Screed City

[200]

09/30/2022 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. 67 Avenue. Ridgewood, Queens.

I mean, this is supposed to be extravaganza of a thing, I mean, 200, two hundred unhinged, man-splaining, myopic bitch-fests all leading to this one moment, and I got nothing! Nothing doing, nothing going, I mean, an uneventful day, after an uneventful week, after an uneventful month. I mean, I don't even know what I mean, and not only that, but I am supposed to read this junk tomorrow. On stage. In front of a crowd of fickle jerks. I mean, what can I say? I mean, there has to be something I can muster up, right?

I mean, I moved out of Portland. Out of Hampshire house. Which was kind of funny. I mean, rolling up my bed roll, packing my pillows up. Cleaning the toilet and what not. I mean, it is a little insane that I slept on shag carpet all month. Going back to Vermont on the weekends to do the farmers market. I mean, I tried to sleep in this morning. That didn't work out so well. 7a. Which is later than 6a, I guess, and two hours later than 5a, but it didn't really matter. I have been going to bed by 9:30p anyway, so it's not like I am tired. And I have been working 10 hour days, but so what? The only difference between an eight hour day and a 10 hour day is the last two hours seem to take forever. But that doesn't mean anything. Not when all you do after work is write for a few hours, drink a couple ticklers, eat a burrito and hit the sack.

I mean, the job get finished. That is good. I mean, finished until the next time I go back and work on it some more. I mean, I have a bunch of money coming to me. That is something. I mean, I don't know how anyone does it. I mean, working full time. Going to work every day. Having the weekends to decompress or whatever, and then just going back to it on Monday or whatever. And I don't mean that as a criticism of working, I just find it insufferable. But what can you do?

I mean, the drive down here was quite brutal. Six hours of interstate. Trapped. Absolutely nothing changing. Except traffic. I mean, that is not true, the roads are different depending on the state you are in. And it was quite startling to go from Connecticut to New York. I mean, it was like going from a highway to a dirt road, but without any signage telling you it is about to happen. I mean, I really was afraid my tires would break off or something, go flat, I guess. I mean, I winced and braced for impact. But I recovered and then suddenly there was nothing but traffic. Because, naturally, everyone is jerking around, zipping in and out, avoiding pot holes and trash, and blow outs. I mean, as much as New York hails itself as a liberal mecca, I mean, the gas prices and the roads alone tell me that this shithole does not favor the working class. I mean, the City itself, I can understand. There are quite a few people in the Metro Area, so construction is a logistical nightmare, but it's not just the City, the roads suck everywhere in New York.

I mean, whatever. I don't know what good roads and cheaper gas really has to do with anything. Really. But then you drive over the White Stone bridge and suddenly you can see the City proper, and it is an amazing sight, and because you look away from the road for one second, suddenly half the road has crumbled off into a ditch on the side, a bottle piss comes flying out of a van window up the way, some lady is putting on make-up while driving, and for some reason there is a guy pushing a shopping cart down the side of the highway and you don't know where to look anymore because the danger is coming from all sides. And then, when you think you are in the right lane to take the exit which you assume it going to be two lanes, because the highway is dividing, it is a single lane exit, and there are three lanes of traffic to get through before you can get there, and the guy behind you is doing the opposite maneuver and there is a line of cars a mile long that won't let you in, and you find yourself in front of a bunch of angry motorists honking at you for cutting in line. And you roll down your window and throw your hand out and point towards your license plates. "My bad! I am from Vermont, motherfucker! I don't know shit about these city streets!" But it is a lie. You do know shit about these city streets because you have lived here for 25 years and you just got distracted by the guy pushing the shopping cart down the highway and you forgot to move over into the turning lane, which, for some very dumb reason is a single lane exit on a five lane highway.

I mean, I spent 10 years not driving in New York. Well, I mean, I spent 10 years without a license. Using that as an excuse not to drive in New York. And, I mean, as much as had some sort of moral imperative to not drive, I mean, I have bad eye sight, it is true, I can't see shit, but my eyes aren't that bad. I am not blind. I mean, it was always an excuse. An excuse I never really had to be taken to task about, I mean, if you have a car in the City, you are kind of fool. I mean, not because having a car in the City makes you a fool, it's just, if you live in the City, having a car is pointless, and expensive, and is unnecessary, I mean, the amount of time you spend parking alone is reason enough to just park your car in New Jersey and never think about again until you need to, I don't know, drive to the Delaware Gap to go rafting, or whatever. I mean, the City is the City, man. I mean, how often do you go to Ikea? I mean, I know one person, exactly one person who lives in Red Hook. And that guy is an asshole. Who owns a car, by the way. And not only that, but he is the kind of guy who will charge you to use his apartment if, say, you have friends in from out of town, which is whatever, that is not the worst thing, to charge money for using his apartment when he is not there and you need to use it for friends, but that fucker, he has cats, and he will send out electronic mails asking for someone to take car of his cats for the weekend or whatever, and then charge you for staying at his apartment. And the worst thing about it is; people actually pay for that shit! Pay that dick money to take care of his cats for him. I mean, c'mon!

I mean, Red Hook? Really? It's the Staten Island of neighborhoods. I mean, you have to take a ferry to get there, and then when you're there, you can't relax because you have to spend your entire time worried about getting back. I mean, not to mention, nothing is ever open, so you find yourself carrying a twelve pack of beer from your local deli, thinking it will be enough for the party, but then you get to the party and nobody else has thought this through, so now you and twelve other people are drinking a single warm beer, wondering why the fuck you came all this way to just look at somebodies cats and talk about getting back home before the ferries stop running. I mean, at least the Staten Island ferry sells Budweiser’s. And you go by the Statue of Liberty. I mean, the only other option is to take the train, and then it's a 20 minute walk, and then, no matter what, you end up standing on some street corner, texting back and forth, saying: "I am by the Ikea, but not the Ikea parking lot, but kind of." And the response is: "Can you see the big number 14?" And then in response, you say: "I can." And the response to that is: "At what angle?"

I mean, I am joking. All I am saying is that aside from going to the IKEA, and living in Red Hook, there is no reason to have a car in the City. It will just drive you crazy. Cost you a bunch of money. And the benefit of it, I mean, unless you actually have a reason for owning a car, you are just giving yourself grief. Or not. I don't know. I parked pretty easy when I finally got to where I was going today. I mean, I don't need to move the car until next Friday. I mean, that is something, right? But tomorrow, I need to go haul ass to Tom's studio to drop off some things. The light pole. Some beer from the brewery. Some books. I mean, I feel like I should do this in the daytime. Then come back to Queens and park the car again. I mean, the only thing I have to do tomorrow in the day is bone Professor Curly and get this shit to Gowanus. I mean, the Ticklers too. I mean, I have no real desire to leave Junior Mint behind, and I doubt I will want to drive home after the reading. I mean, the lighting pole and the empty Ticklers bottles can get into a cab or whatever. I mean, logistically speaking, I am going to take the train to the reading. And the Publisher is going to drive there. I mean, my point is; there is no point. Things will be just fine. And then what? I don't know. I mean, the book festival is on Sunday. And the Publisher and Grit are staying with us in Queens. And, I mean, apparently there is going to be some heavy rains in the next couple days.

I mean, when I got to town I parked and transferred all my stuff into the trunk of Junior Mint. I mean, trust Society, but leaving shit in your car is not a good idea. You lock your doors, don't you? I mean, I agree with Bob Marley, that you shouldn't lock your doors at all times, or ever, I mean, I am a unlocked door kind of guy, but I do lock my doors at night, and when I leave town, but also, in defense of the anti-Bob Marley stance, I mean, some dude did come into his house and shoot him because his door was unlocked, I mean, he also made himself as thin as he could, standing sideways to the shooter, which, I mean, this detail alone, about Bob Marley getting shot gives me infinite respect for the dude, and I don't know, trust Society, but lock your doors. I mean, having anything available in your car is just a bad idea. I mean, crime, all crime is an opportunity, is all. And that struggle is real, and is a thing. Nobody does anything without being desperate enough to do it. And desperation is a fucked up thing. I mean, my point is; don't ask for shit, and you won't get shit, is all.

I mean, I went out to get some shirts from Junior Mint, for Scott S. and Lucy, Dishwasher [Italics] shirts. That Professor Curly was going to give them because they were going out to dinner tonight. And then I went to the grocery store. To buy some olives for PC's martini's. And the line was long for some reason. Like super long. LIke it went around the bend and then back to the beginning of the store. And, I mean, I was kind of intrigued about it. Standing there, holding a jar of olives. Not sure if I should just come back. Because, who stands in line for a single jar of olives? I mean, I wasn't in Red Hook, mind you, or even Staten Island. I mean, I had options. And one of the options was to just ditch. But I wanted to see what was up. I mean, the people in front of me were just buying whatever. I mean, one guy was buying some soda pop and a thing of eggs and some bread. And there was a family that was buying things, where one gal left the line to get something they forgot. And there was this one guy, talking on the phone, I mean, it was odd, he was wearing a fanny pack, and for a second I thought he was Beck, like from the music thing, like the pop star, but he was not, he was just talking on his phone, not shopping, and I thought that maybe he should take it outside, but I don't know, maybe Queens was now Hollywood? I mean, whatever. I mean, I got to the front of the line and I said:

"Pretty busy, eh?" And the gal checking me out said:

"Yeah, it's the hurricane coming." And I looked around. Nobody was panic buying anything. "Supposed to be rainy the next couple of days."

I said: "Right in time for the weekend, right?"

She said: "Yeah, right? The timing, can't catch a break, always the weekend."

I mean, c'mon! But that was hilarious. That she thought, or didn't think, I don't think she was fucking with me, but she really did think that this long line of random people buying things was because a storm was coming. And maybe a storm is coming. We will see tomorrow, But still, I mean, at the same time there was this guy wearing an MTA jacket telling her that he couldn't help her out because he needed to exchange a bottle of ketchup, and as far as I could tell, he did not work for the MTA, and had just floated into the grocery as an over-hire and was not particularly focused on the inner workings of the check-out line. I mean, he seemed quite harried, and the check-out lady did not seem harried at all. I mean, my point is; who the hell knows. Maybe tomorrow will be a great blast of weather, but what this grocery store is up to, I don't know. And I was glad that I waited in line to buy those olives.

[Insert Photo]

And also, because I intimated this last Screed. My estimate for how many words the [200] Screed would be. Here is my guess: 500,000 words. Here is the actual: 656,309. Damn! That's some fucked-up bullshit, yo!