[206] Screed City

[206]

11/05/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Dump day! Also known as, fucking Vermont day. I mean, whatever, I was able to cram five giant bags of trash into Junior Mint, so that is good, I mean, did I tell you I have rats? I mean, I got back from the City yesterday. The reading went great, not that you care, just joking, you might care a lot, what the hell do I know? But it went very well, Perry was awesome, read some poems, Julie Hair was great, told some story about her alcoholic father that she found in her basement from like 30 years ago, that she had to blow dust off of. I mean, the bartender liked my thing so much she joined the newsletter, Kelly, welcome! Even gave me a free $9 dollar beer! I mean, it was good, a nice turnout, I mean, if I was smart I would figure out how to do more readings down in the city, like maybe do the punk rounds again. I mean, if there are even any venues left. I mean, I think I convinced Julie to do something at ABC No Rio, but I only have her electronic mail to do follow-up, I mean, she uses an Earthlink account, so I don't expect a response this year. I mean, the drive back was much better than the drive down. No traffic and the scenery getting prettier by the mile. Then you finally cross over into Vermont, and suddenly a weight gets lifted off of your emotions and you can relax again. But then you get home and the three cubes of poison you left in the Garbage Room are gone, the peanut butter is licked clean from the rat traps and there is a dead mouse in your basement. I mean, Vermont is kind of exhausting. But there is new information I have garnered. Great information. Like, for instance, I found the hole the mice have been coming in from. I mean, it was something out of a cartoon. I should have taken a photo before I shoved a cube of poison in it and then boarded the fucker up. I mean, Stony Mike. If I ever see that asshole again I might just punch his stupid nose.

I also learned, finally, and stupidly, what the mysterious valve above the boiler does. The one that both starves the boiler of water and also floods the basement. I mean, fucking Stoney Mike! A heads up would have been nice. You fucker. You see, what happens is the boiler losses water while it is operating, and because of that you need to refill the thing every once and a while. And to do that you turn that mysterious valve until the thing is filled again. Then the thing runs real well for a while until it runs out of water, the boiler error codes, stops working. You fill the thing up again and voila! The system works. I mean, I understood this instinctively last Winter. But for some reason in the last, I don't know, seven fucking months, I forgot all about it. So, like an idiot, I turned the valve into the "On" position and just left it like that, and now all the carpets I put in the basement to deal with the dust are suddenly soaked. Waiting to mold. And, I mean, this morning when I went down into the basement to turn the boiler off because for some reason it is 72F in November in Vermont, I mean, I almost got on the phone with the New Landlord to get Stoney Mike's phone number so I could deliver a special five-finger sandwich to his idiot face. I mean, also, after I discovered the poison cubes were gone from the Garbage Room yesterday, which was a good thing. There are some pretty miserable varmints out there right now, I peanut buttered the rat traps and reset them. This morning I found two dead mice in the Garbage Room. Which, if Brother Luke is correct, I think it was him that told me this, maybe it was Scott or the Publisher or even the New Landlord, although I doubt it was him because he was kind of a huge dick when I complained about the rat problem. Like it was my fault there were rats. And that I should be more careful with trash and that for some reason it was my problem not his, even though the entire rental agreement, the structure of lessor/lessee is; I pay your dipshit ass to deal with this shit and you pay your mortgage with the money I give you. But the common wisdom is that if you have rats you don't have mice. Which is not true. At all. In any way. However, catching two mice instead of a rat or two seems like a good thing.

I mean, I was kind of excited about dump day. I like going to the dump. Who doesn't like going to the dump? Especially on a Saturday morning. I mean, I got a birthday card in the mail from Aunt Dianne when I was gone. Thanks, Aunt Dianne! And in it was a $20 dollar bill. Which! I mean, the dump only takes cash. And you can either pay by weight, which has a minimum charge of $20 dollars, or you can pay by bag, which is $6 dollars a bag. So if you have more than three bags paying by weight is the cheaper way to go. Meaning, Aunt Dianne's very thoughtful and generous birthday card paid for my trash today. I mean, it was almost kismet.

I mean, before I left last Monday I had rolled up the five huge bags of double bagged and maybe even triple bagged trash into a tarp I found in the Haunted Tertiary. Assuming the rats would somehow manage to get inside, butwhatever, I had no other options. I mean, when I un-furled the thing today I was surprised that the ruse had worked. I mean, four days is not that long of time, so maybe the rats would eventually have found a way, or eaten a hole or two in the tarp, but either way, the trash bags were unmolested. I mean, I cleaned out the trunk, put a bag in the passenger seat, three in the back seat, and one in the trunk.

[Insert Junior Mint Trash Photo]

I mean, I kind of laughed about this. It was very Vermont. I mean, filling up your sedan with bags of trash and taking them to the dump. I mean, as a way to prove this point, I got into Junior Mint, had to adjust some of the bags so I could see out. Mostly the huge bag of trash in the passenger seat, but also the middle bag in the back seat. So I could use the rearview mirror. I mean, I got on the road. The highway. Heading to Bethel. As I was driving I looked in the rearview mirror. There was something strange that I was seeing. Like a color scheme that I didn't understand. So I slowed down to let the car behind me catch up. And, I mean, the car behind me was a mid-80's diesel powered Mercedes Benz with three hunters wearing hunter's orange inside. I mean, they took a right at Hancock, so I don't know what they got up to, but, I mean, maybe that is more of an UpState New York kind of thing, or whatever, like Deer Hunter, the movie, or whatever, where you drive out in your car and come back with a deer carcass strapped to the top of it, but it seemed very Vermont-style to me at the moment, with the giant bags of trash obstructing my view.

I mean, for some reason on the way over Bethel Mountain the radio was playing fantastic old country songs. Specifically, "The Girls Get Prettier At Closing Time." Which, I mean, that song, on one hand is is quite fantastic, the arrangement, the piano and the song structure. But the lyrics, man, they would not be okay in this day and age. However, I mean, the guy spends a lot of time rating women on a scale from 1 to 10, and how he goes home with an eight and wakes up with a one. But he does say that he doesn't mean to criticize the women, that, "Even Robert Redford overhauls." Whatever that means, but the song is quite good. Here, give it a listen:

[Insert Girls Get Prettier]

I mean, it was nice. The day was weird. The wind was blowing and the skies were ominous. I mean, it was 72F in November in Vermont. All the leaves are gone. I mean, it seemed like it should be snowing, but instead it felt like late Spring. I mean, whatever. I was enjoying myself. Listening to old country. Trying to come to terms with how good music can also suck really bad. Like maybe, just maybe, it was in good faith back then? I mean, beer goggles are a thing. I am not saying they are not. I just wish that there was an equal an opposite song that came on afterword about a gal that slept with a total loser on accident and what she did about it. How men are quite gross, actually, and how Society is structured to keep women down on purpose. I mean, on the way back this song by Tammy Wynette came on called: "D-I-V-O-R-C-E." Which painted the exact opposite picture that needed to be painted, I mean, whatever, what the hell do I know, I mean, we still have a lot of work to do in the Society we live in, and maybe songs like: "The Women All Get Prettier," or whatever is it called, need to not be played without comment, or context, but that is asking a lot, and I don't mean to suggest that disc jockeys are responsible for the moral compass that should exist on the radio, or whether that is even a thing that needs to happen, I mean, like all things in a capitalist Society, somebody is buying what is being sold, so there obviously is a market for it, but still, I mean, I don't know. I enjoyed listening to the song because it is good. But it is a very odd message to be sending out in this day and age. And even the divorce song was just as bad. I mean, emotionally, it makes sense. It sucks to get a divorce, especially when children are involved. But the song kind of gives you the impression that life after divorce is so horrible for women or mothers that it is best to just stay together even if the marriage is not worth being in anymore. I mean, here is that song too, so you can decide if I am just being sensitive or not:

[Insert Tammy Divorce]

I mean, I drove over the mountain. Listening to good songs. Feeling intense about things. The wind blowing. The clouds ominous. The window down. Because it was so warm. I mean, I got to Bethel. Then I kept driving. I passed the interstate turn-in. Which, I mean, I ran into quite a few cars outside of Bethel. Slowing things down. And they all got onto the interstate. Which made me sad. Have I ever mentioned I hate the interstate? I feel like I have. I mean, on my way back from the City I took the Taconic. Like always. But also like always, I had to fight with my phone trying to get me to take I-95 North. I mean, it really fights me. Constantly, Saying: "You can save 10 minutes if you take I-95." I mean, I scream at the fucking thing. Every time. I mean, NO! I don't want to save 10 minutes of travel to give myself five hours of disgusting American capitalism! I mean, that 10 minutes of time takes a year off of my fucking life, man! I mean, it would be the same as if the phone said: "Would you like to make love? Or would you like for me to anal rape you using your blood as lube? It will save you 10 minutes." I mean, I know I am being dramatic, sensitive, but it really does hurt my feelings and I don't know how to make it stop. Because if I am not careful, if I am not hyper-focused about what I am doing, that fucking phone of mine will actually send me down the worst possible options of all possible options just to save me a few minutes on my travels. I mean, this happened to me the last time I came back from Portland, if you remember. I mean, I grew about 40 gray hairs because of that 50 minutes of bullshit some dick-weed code writer decided I would prefer. I mean, yes! Shorter trip=good. Sometimes. Like maybe when you are going from Queens to Red Hook to eat a couple meat balls at the IKEA, but when you driving back up North, and you are at the manifold ennui, or even worse than that, the manifold of destruction versus the pleasant ride home that, sure, it will take a few minutes longer, I mean, "Would you rather have your face be shoved in the shit of the world, OR, would you rather enjoy the next five hours?" I mean, c'mon! Can't there be a button on your thing that tells them to ignore the algorithm? I mean, on the way into the City I wanted the opposite. I mean, just saying. You got that button, you can use it when needed. I mean, I am not a genius here. I mean, I was doing this stupid coding back in 7th grade. It's not that fucking hard. If this, then this. I mean, I understand the problem, and I understand the solution, I just want everyone to get on my side. Which is never going to happen. I mean, it is basically just me and Scott. Taking the back roads. The scenic route. Everyone else just wants to get to the Eat Fresh, I'm Lovin' It, as fast as they can get there. Which is just fine by me. I mean, life is what it is. If your feelings don't get hurt by taking the interstate, I mean, that is pretty cool. I won't fault you for it. But for a guy like me, a guy like us, me and Scott, I mean, sorry Scott if I am speaking for you, maybe you enjoy a good interstate ride from Queensbury to Baldwin, I mean, just joking. Nobody fucking enjoys that ride. NOBODY. Nobody does! UpState New York is garbage! Rochester? The racists there dumped the Frederick Douglass statue into the river! How is that even a thing? And those fuckers are primed to take over the Governorship of New York because of, I don't know? Gas prices and New York City has Black people? I mean, I was thinking about this today, about how maybe it is a good thing for New York to become a "Red" state. Because it would mean that all that money that gets channeled UpState from the City would dry up. And all those fuckers, the ones that don't understand where their money comes from, how NYC is funding all of their bullshit, their schools and towns and whatever, it would go somewhere else, and suddenly places like Gates/Chili would have to rely on local commerce to fund their school systems, I mean, of course they would blame the Democrats, but really what would happen is those idiots would suddenly be living in a world of total collapse. And everything that seemed nice around them would become empty buildings and road side advertisements like everywhere else in UpState New York. And then, at that point, people would stop voting. The woke lib-tards would get back in control. The money would start flowing again. Then they would have their hair on fire because of how much money the Dems were spending on funding schools and infrastructure, and all along their taxes would be the exact same. Instead of going to corporations they would go to working-class people, I mean, no offense, not true, great offense, if you are Republican you are a moron. None of your ideas are good. Or work. You want feudalism and fascism. And there is no amount of banging on tables that will solve your crime problems. You can't just throw everyone in jail. Jail is expensive as fuck. And not only that, but being homeless is not a crime. Doing drugs is not a crime. Being Black is not a crime. Or Mexican, or Jewish. Or a Woman.

I mean, I got to the transfer station outside of Bethel. Next to the interstate. Where all good emotions go to die. I mean, I parked in the parking lot. The last time I had been here I had to get a placard because I was in Professor Curly's Real Estate Wagon. Which was now down in Queens. Sitting on 67 Av, not getting a ticket. I mean, she said that she had gone three weeks now without moving her car. Without getting a ticket. Which, I mean, I think the apartment is in a sweet spot. The Thursday/Friday parking versus the Monday/Tuesday parking versus the very odd daily bus route: "No Parking," means she has carte blanche to just let the car hang in the breeze. I mean, even when the Publisher went down there for the Brooklyn Book Festival that didn't happen this year because of weather, there was a moment when it became clear that the parking in Queens was something arbitrary at best. Very ordered, but also, kind of not enforced. Like maybe there wasn't or isn't enough cops floating around to give out tickets for parking violations. Which, I mean, I don't know, maybe that is a good thing? I mean, maybe not? It is the same thing with the schools up North, where money comes from. I mean, money comes from tickets. Is that good? I don't know. It would be nice not to get a ticket for parking your car and then spending $200 hundred dollars at a restaurant for your birthday. I mean, local economy is something. But also the idea of the street sweeper coming by. I mean, humans are kind of animals. They make trash. Streets should be cleaned. I mean, I still, to this day, I mean, I have quite a few stories of people being wild, but the best the most egregious one, when the guy, eating some sort of sandwich, on the subway, finished the sandwich, wadded his sandwich things up, the next subway stop, he threw the trash onto the platform. I mean, sure, that was kind of logical, there aren't trashes on the subway cars. But, what? Are you a monster? I mean.

I mean, I went inside to get a placard. The guy, who, mind you, was wearing a t-shirt that said: "I Paused My Game To Be Here." Who was in his 20's. Who actually seemed to be enjoying his job said:

"What is it you want?"

I said: "I need a number thing." I made a square motion to him. He turned around and walked over to the stack of placards. He came back with the number: 3047. He handed it to me. I said: "And do I just drop of the trash at the..." He cut me off.

He said: "Do what the guy tells you to do." I nodded. Kind of annoyed with his attitude, but sure, I got it. The system was the system. I went back out to Junior Mint. Got in. Went around the back of the transfer station. Waited for the truck in front of me. Pulled up. Flashed my card. The youngster gave me the thumbs-up. Meaning he registered my number. Weighed me. I drove over to the dumpsters. Where, I mean, the building that they used to use for collecting trash had collapsed since the last time I had been here. They were now using dumpsters instead of a kind of wild palace of trash. I mean, they accidentally solved a problem they didn't know they had. I mean, the guy waiting for me, to tell me what I needed to do with my trash said, I mean, he was covered in detritus, I mean, his clothes were not clean, he was quite old, and did not seem to be enjoying his job, or maybe not, maybe it was the opposite, like he rather enjoyed his job because when I got to where he was he pointed at the bucket of a tractor. At the same time a guy was unloading trash from the back of his truck, while a very loud and aggressive loader was moving things around.

I said: "What do you mean?"

He said: "Use the bucket, or you have to wait."

I mean, parked and got out of Junior Mint. I placed all five bags of trash into the bucket of the loader. I looked around. The place smelled like a dump. I decided to get back in the gate-keeper's graces. I mean, I assumed he didn't like me. Because I didn't know what he meant when he pointed to the bucket. I mean, this was twice now that I was confused. I mean, I said:

"How ya doing today?"

He said: "I'm doing."

I said: "Wild weather we are having!"

He said: "Pretty wild."

I said: "Alright."

I got back into Junior Mint and drove back to the weighing station. I showed the placard. I parked and went inside. I payed the guy with the: "I paused my game to be here." shirt $20 dollars. I mean, I went back outside and got back in my car. Drove back over the mountain. I mean, I stopped to get gas. Because I am leaving for Portland tomorrow. I mean, to save some time. Because tomorrow the clocks change and sunset will be at like four in the fucking afternoon, and I need to get on the road by noon because of it. I mean, I stopped in Roach-Town to get some victuals. To make some burritos for next week. I mean, I won't lie, I got some tasty food coming down the pike this week. I mean, I don't know, making money sucks, but I got to do it. I mean, did I tell you DISHWASHER [Italics] is finished? The party is going to be December 14th? At Tom's. There might even be bands. That, or I may just read the entire thing submerged in a tank of water. Naked and whacking off. Eating your grandma's dirty diapers off the floor of CBGB's. I mean, we'll see.

I mean, just in case:

[Insert Riding With The Ghost]