[204] Screed City
[204]
10/28/2022 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.
Just drove back from Portland and boy are my ass-cheeks tired! Just joking. My butt doesn't get tired, my back gets slumpy though. I need to start doing back push-ups or whatever. it's just the world has beaten me down so much. Yesterday night Sister Lauren and Brother Luke and I were talking about how tall everyone in our family is and Lauren asked me how tall I was and I said: "Well, I used to be six foot even, but all these years of the world beating me down, I am probably about five-ten now." This was after we were talking about how Cousin H has a class mate who goes by Sonic now, and he said if he changed his name it would be to: "Butt-cheek." So, I mean, things come full circle.
Driving back was great, I mean, as far as a four hour and fifteen minute drive can be. I mean, aside from getting tricked by my phone into getting on the fucking interstate for nearly an hour. I mean, I couldn't believe it. And it happened so fast there was no turning back. But at least I was in Vermont by that point. I mean, I got home to a full mailbox with a package. A package leaning on the front door. A dead rat in the garbage room. A dead mouse in the basement. The boiler showing a Err 80 code. Which I had to think for a minute to remember how to turn off. Then I remembered it was related to water flow, so I turned a lever and the thing went away. I still don't get it. Why that fix works. Because it also works the opposite way. I mean, it's gonna be a blast for the New Landlord to have to come over here every day I am gone this Winter to make sure the boiler is working. That will be like a full time job for that lazy bum. I mean, if the pipes burst in this fucking house, I mean, smell ya never, Vermont! We had a good run.
I mean, the mail though. What a reception! The first thing I opened was a letter from the Mission Tortilla Company. Which I was not expecting. The other day I was eating some tacos. I mean, I buy the 24 pack thin corn tortillas to make tacos with. They are not as good as fresh pressed, but as far as factory made they are second only to the ones you get in NYC that are made in the Bronx. Those things are sold like day off production. Fresh, I mean, real fresh! But the Mission ones are quite good. The thin ones. I use the cast iron pan thing that Scott and the Publisher got me for my birthday last year. I mean, I love that thing. But that is not my point. My point is that I have noticed with the last three or four batches of 24 count tortillas I always end up with an odd tortilla at the end. I mean, I make tacos using two tortillas per taco. I mean, I noticed, then I noticed again, then I noticed again, then I got curious. I finally looked at the bag. It said 24, right there in writing. I mean, I bought some more. This time I counted the things when I opened the bag. Sure as shit, there were only 23. I was hoping it would have been 25, then I would have taken my lottery monies and made more tacos, alas, nope. So I did like any normal taco eating American would do, I went to their website and complained about it. I said they had ruined my last taco multiple times and they should be ashamed of themselves. Misleading me like that. And that was that. I gave them my address and phone number. Never heard from them. Not even a: "We got your email thx." I mean, I thought, well rude, and went about my life. But that all changed. I opened the letter, thinking there may be a check in it or something. There was no check, but there was a very concisely worded apology. An explanation. A commitment to figuring out the problem and two coupons for $1.99 off my next Mission Tortilla purchase! I mean, I would have just taken the apology. That is all I ever want from the world. But they went above and beyond.
[Insert Mission Apology Photo]
And if that wasn't enough to put a smile on my face, I opened the package that was crammed into the mailbox with four hundred stupid ad magazines that Professor Curly gets, and the dumb old New Yorker amongst other junk. I mean, the package was a birthday present from Augustin. There was a book about donkeys, a book called Maledicta 9 that I need to look further into, but what blew me away was this book called The Klassic Komix Klub. Which is something very special and goes right to my middle school brain. The biggest part of my brain. The part that gets used the most. It was like he sent me a lb of cocaine. I mean, the gift that keeps on giving. Thanks, Augustin! I mean, here is a little taste:
[Insert KKK Photo]
And if that wasn't enough to turn my smile into plaster as Neil Young would say, I mean, I opened the second package. I mean, I knew what it was. It was long an slender and would surely shoot my eye out. I mean, the Gamo Varmint Break Air Rifle .177 Caliber Pest Control and Hunting Rifle with a 4x32 Scope. 1250 feet per second of pure varmint destruction. An adjustable trigger, a cushioned butt for low impact. Coal black. I mean, those tuxedo wearing tree rats don't stand a fucking chance.
[Insert Air Rifle Photo]
I mean, I don't even know. Michael is working on the cover for Dishwasher [Italics]. The book is finished editing. Me and Teresa are working on something for the back. I mean, the book will be out by the end of November. Just in time for book buying season. I mean, I got money in the bank. More money coming from this week of work. I mean, my birthday is starting to look pretty sweet, if I don't mind saying so myself. I mean, I have even beaten my hot dog problem. Kind of.
This week was quite nice. I got to Portland on Sunday evening. I was driving over the White Mountains thinking about hot dogs. Thinking about solutions to hot dog problems. I mean, I had the haunted hot dog roller in the back seat of old Junior Mint. I could hear it begging me to turn it on and have another round. See if I could 14 this time. Maybe more. I mean, I passed a guy on the road selling bags of apples. Like you do at this time of year in the North East. I mean, I almost slammed on the brakes, but I didn't. I mean, I hate a bad deal. I really do. I mean, apples are a rip-off to begin with, but getting fleeced on the side of the road during apple season is a double-rip-off. I kept driving. Got to the Hampshire House. Unloaded. Which took two trips. Settled down for a few hours of writing. Got up the next morning at 6a. Drove to the Hannaford's on the way to the Brewery. Went inside. Bought a bag of apples and a bag of chick pea chips. Because of the hot dogs. I mean, I paid $5 dollars for something like 20 apples. Which is the right amount of money to pay for 20 apples. I mean, usually those garbage fruits cost like $1.50 per useless purchase. I mean, I wouldn't mind the cost if you could guarantee the apple was good. But half the time the apple is merely sweet dust that gets caught in your teeth, the skin, and only makes you more hungrier. Not to mention, if you don't slice them, you lose about 1/4 of the thing due to seeds and core. I mean, whatever, I won't dignify those jerks with a concerted screed, I mean, my point is; I finally got a good deal on apples and because of the time of year, the apples have all been quite good.
I mean, I have been eating two a day now since Monday. Sliced, naturally. Not a single bad one so far. No bruises. I mean, a couple were kind of mealy, but such is life. I won't be sending and electronic mail to anyone about it. I mean, things are looking up with regards to the hot dog problem.
I mean, I was in Portland for a specific reason. My initial plan for right now was to be in the City for the last two weeks of October and then I was going to go back to work. But they needed to Winterize the Tasting Room. Which is three days of very intense work that means taking down a bunch of panels, putting up new panels, covering things with plastic, or vinyl. I mean, they have this trailer thing that parks there and sells food. That was something that needed to be Winterized as well. Where the trailer meets the structure. I mean, that was my main job. Figuring how that would work. Because the trailer is a Silver Stream kind of thing. With curved sides. And the structure is very straight and rigid. I mean, it is a complex problem that requires quite a bit of thought and know-how. Luckily I have spent a couple decades dealing with problems like this, so I neither ambitious or intimidated with the project. And it was quite the project. And it took all three days we had to do it. In the end the thing basically got done. I mean, it isn't Winter yet, so there is still time to finish what needs finishing. I mean, I am going down to the City on Sunday or Monday. Doing a reading on Thursday. Then coming back to Vermont on Friday. Then back to Portland on Sunday. Meaning, there is a week of time where, I mean, iff, if and only if, there is some sort of early freeze or blizzard or something, I will be back there in like a week. To finish the job.
I mean, that basically sums the week up. Nothing really happened aside from work. Oh, that is not true. When I pulled into Portland on Sunday my right side brakes were making a knocking sound. Which I did not like, but the brakes were still working, so. I mean, brakes! What is up with me and brakes? I can't catch a brake! Or I caught all the brakes. But my fucking brakes. I mean, Junior Mint knocks around a lot. The shocks and struts and the age of the car and the design, I mean, knocking noises don't really bother me. But when it is tied directly to the brakes, I mean, that is cause for concern. I mean, I drove to work the next day. It was raining like crazy. I assumed it was the rain causing the knocks. Then the next day the same thing. Still raining like crazy. Still the knocking. Then on Wednesday, nice weather and still knocking. I had looked on the computer to see what could be causing the thing. It told me the caliper was loose. I got to work early on Wednesday to have a look-see. Sure enough, one of the caliper bolts holding the housing in place was gone. I mean, I will spare you the details, but I took the tire off in the parking lot of the Brewery, laid down on the wet asphalt, figured out the right bolt I needed. Found a facsimile in the shop. Put it in. It kind of worked but not really. I put the tire back on. Went to work. Haha! I didn't spare you the details at all! Sucker! I mean, what was causing the knocking was the brake-pads were engaging, but only kind of, and the caliper was whacking against the rotor. So, just by putting something there to hold the thing in place made the noise go away. But it is only a temporary solution. I need to get a proper bolt. I think I will go to Middlebury tomorrow to find one. Hopefully. I mean, I stopped at a store on my way back today and the guy didn't have one. It's possible that Get in the Zone! AUTO-ZONE! Won't have one either. Or that other place, if they are even open on Saturday. I mean, I am not that worried about it. Not yet at least. I mean, I drove over some pretty big mountains, New England-style, today, and things were fine. I mean, if I can't get one tomorrow I can get one in the City. It's not an odd bolt. I mean, it is specific for the caliper for some reason. I mean, it is basically a 14 mm machine bolt. But Big Bolt fucking with the little guy once again. I mean, maybe I will send an electronic mail. I mean, I learned recently that Europe, the new bastion of ACTUAL DEMOCRACY, has made it illegal for phone companies to make vastly different charging cords for their phones. Like, I mean, that drawer of useless expensive cords that everyone has, I mean, maybe it is even a box in your fucking closet, I mean, FUCK YOU everyone one of these companies, it is now illegal in Europe to do that shit. It only took 20 god-damned years of bullshit. I mean, I had this idea for a graphic novel that would be called: Fife-Man, that was just a regular guy, like me, going about his business, and when things went sideways for him, things that were more than annoying, that were actually a human rights violation, like getting charged for cords for phones and devices that inexplicably have different charging ports, things that seem annoying, but should be an immediate class action lawsuit, Fife-Man would get so upset the he pulls out his fife and starts blowing on it like the wind. Summoning the ghosts of a thousand angry civil liberty lawyers to fight injustice. I mean, it would be like a mobile Screed City. But with lawsuits.
I mean, speaking of lawsuits, the temperature was 56 F when I got into the house. I have been here for three hours. It is now only 58 F. I don't know, man. The heating bill is the bag of highway apples of wasted money. Fleeced! I don't like being fleeced. It makes me want to pull out my fife and fife like the wind!
I mean, I finally brought the haunted hot dog roller into the shop this morning. I had meant to bring it in on Wednesday, but the caliper bolt took precedence. I mean, I won't lie, the thing was met with a resounding celebration. Like Hitler's Anschluss of Austria. I mean, people were taking photographs. Tears in their eyes. Banners waving. I mean, seriously, this guy Matt was like: "Seriously? We have been talking about this for years! I am going to send a photo to Dan!" And I was like, "Where is Dan? He aint been in all week." And Matt said: "Oh, he is on leave. He just had a baby." I mean! Sending a photo to a guy on leave that just had a baby about a hot dog roller?! If that isn't success, I don't know what is. I mean, I warned everyone. About how it is haunted. How it took me down and I had a Hot-Dog Man grow out of my threshold, how he shoved his hairy arm up from the toilet and strangled me to the floor and then forced me to make a hot dog family for him. But nobody seemed to care. They were smitten, transfixed, mesmerized with the thing. I mean, I slowly backed out of the shop, just as the clouds started rolling in. Counting the stacks of money they had handed me. I mean, I got to the car just as a lightening bolt struck me from this world, and I am writing this from my desk in hell, hungry as shit, and the only thing to eat is this one, single, tasty hot dog, that every time I take a bite, an alligator comes up from the floor and clamps it's jaws on my loins. But it is worth it!
I mean, I don't know. There are good things in the world. I had a dream that everything would work out just fine. I mean, what else can you think? Sit around and be negative all your life, you'll just end up dead anyway. I mean, I need to spend some time next week making a plan for the future. I mean, my birthday is on Monday. I mean, the next phase is here. I need to get focused. I mean, one last thing.
On and around the conversation I was having with Brother Luke and Sister Lauren and Cousin H where I was bemoaning the fact that I used to be tall but then Society got me down and then Cousin H declared his new name to be Butt-Cheeks, we talked about how it kind of sucked having a birthday on Halloween. Because nobody cares about your birthday. And I told them about the worst birthday I ever had. I was turning thirteen. Nightmare On Elm Street had just come out. I was wearing a Freddy Kruger mask. A torn black and red sweater. I was out trick-or-treating with my friends. And for some reason they decided to ditch me instead of coming to my house to eat cake. I mean, I remember standing on the sidewalk watching them walk away. I mean, I won't lie, much like Fife-Man, this is my, "Origin Story," I mean, those fucking jerks, Daniel, Jason, Jason, Andrew, and Andrew, you know who you are, I mean, I remember the tears running down my face, under that Freddy Kruger mask, the smell of that plastic and the absolute betrayal of my supposed friends. I mean, I know I ran home after that. I mean, I also know that my mom was waiting for me with presents. I don't remember my dad being there, but he must have been there, but it was those tears. Under that fucking mask. I mean, my "Friends" didn't know I was crying. And I was able to hide it from them. But if Fife-Man was around back then, I mean, I would sue all those mother fuckers for breach of contract! I mean, who the hell abandons their friend on their thirteenth birthday? Monsters! And for what? They just wanted to get more candy somewhere else. I mean, I won't lie, that, combined with about a thousand other things that happened in the next year sent me into a spiral that I still feel today, but man. That initial act of abandonment, it was fucking brutal.
I mean, what can you do? I am alive. Slightly shorter than I should be because of the weight of the world. I got a book coming out in a few weeks. A haunted hot dog roller in Portland. A gun to shoot tuxedo rats. A very amazing book of hilarious comics. I got an apology from Mission Tortillas. Professor Curly has amazing red wires springing out of her head. WHO! Mind you, agreed to 50/50, so whatever she gets, I get. I got a sweet-ass ride. I mean, I think I am doing alright. Happy Birthday to me! And to celebrate, here is a call-back to the beginning:
[Insert Mr. Soul]