[208] Screed City

[208]

11/12/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Mice: 0

Joe: 74

I mean, I also got those two rats. And something ate seven cubes of poison. So, somewhere out there there is a pretty thirsty weasel? Whatever it is, it is pretty damn lazy if it's not eating the rats and mice until I catch them for it. I mean, I got back from Maine and none of the inside traps were set off, no turds anywhere to be seen. I mean, once again for the third time I have cleansed the Haus of rodents. I mean, I caught one mouse in the Garbage Room. The second trap was not set off. I mean, that happened last night. I didn't leave the traps set outside while I was gone because the weasel? would just come and eat them. Or not. They would just rot and stink. But something ate a single cube of poison. Either way, I'm doin' real good.

In other interesting news. For me, at least. The Publisher said that someone bought 136 copies of Etiquette [Italics.] She doesn't know who it was or why they bought that many books, but it doesn't hurt my feelings. I mean, who orders that many books? Book-stores usually only order 3 or 4 at a time. So if it is a book-store, they are a chain book-store. But who knows? Maybe somebody loves the book so much they want to give it to 136 of their closest friends? Or maybe some CEO thought this would be a great corporate stocking stuffer, you know, Jelly of the Month Club, Lampoon's Christmas-style? Or maybe, just maybe, someone's toddler got ahold of mommies phone and ordered 136 books by accident. Which, I mean, the odds of that specific thing happening are ridiculous. Or maybe some idiot thought it was Emily Post's Etiquette [Italics?] I mean, 136 is such a specific number. And who knows? Maybe someone finally understands my comic genius and is doing the lord's work? I mean, you can't knock it out of the park 100% of the time and not continue to be un-noticed, right? I mean, my Mexican co-ed joke from last time alone is worth selling 136 books. And you are going to love Hilarious [Italics] when it finally comes out. Can you win a Pulitzer for being a funny fuck?

Speaking of being funny as fuck, the Publisher also submitted Moveable Rooms [Italics] to the Vermont Book Awards. Which is funny not because she submitted it, but because Vermont has a Vermont Book Awards. I mean, what kind of books are Vermonters writing? How to Rhubarb [Italics.] A book about rhubarb. Not My Vista! [Italics.] A rant in 300 hundred pages by Judy Wood. What is all this Mud? [Italics.] A guide to cleaning mud from things. Snow Tires, Gas Tanks, and Seven Months of Winter [Italics.] A newcomers guide to living in Vermont. I mean, I could go on. The last person that one the VBA was this graphic artist named Alison Bechdel, who did a thing about doing out-door stuff in Vermont. Who, funny enough, also did a Youtube thing with it like I did for Sequestered [Italics.] I mean, she is pretty cool. Not like actually cool, she is nerdy as fuck, but what she stands for is quite awesome and she is quite successful. The usual Guggen-dime and Cormac McCarthy awards, so it is not surprising that she won. Her work is original and queer-focused, but like all things success, the more you got, the more you get. I mean, the award gets you basically nothing, $1,000 bucks and a little bit of press. I mean, it's a little like joining a dick contest with Lexington Steele. I mean, it doesn't matter what you got going on, when a dude like that shows up and does a back-flip just by popping a boner, I mean, you aren't going to win. You know what I mean? Like he has an extra third leg that rests on the ground and then when it gets hard it springs him backward and he does a back-flip? I mean, one time he was waiting to see a doctor and the doctor's anal snake broke so the doctor went to the lobby and asked him to come help. And Lexington said yes. And they put a camera on the end of his dick and then had him put his dick into the guys ass so they could have a look around. I mean, I am not saying the game is rigged, but if John Steinbeck had submitted a book to the California Book Awards during his prime, he probably would have won it. I mean, the Cormac MacArthur grant is like $800,000 dollars at this point. It's a little weird that she entered the contest. Butwhatever. The human ego knows no bounds. I mean, in a weird way, this might be good. That the Vermont Book Awards are looking for actual artists doing actual things in Vermont. OR, it could merely mean that money makes money, and lice makes lice. We'll see.

I mean, I think I should collate the Farmers Market thing for this very award. Make a book about it. Why not? That is very truly Vermont-style living. I mean, it embodies it all. The locals, the tourists, the nature of commerce, how work works in Vermont, why people are the way that they are here, I mean, aside from the Wyoming writing, the Farmers Market writing was well received. I mean, I don't mean to talk so much about book stuff, but I have to tell you, aint shit happening around here. It's been weeks of nothing. All over again. I am struggling with writing this newsletter because of it. I mean, here is the last few things that happened to me:

I worked 43 hours at the Brewery. Which was kind of fun. Sleeping on a shag carpet. Working 10 hour days. Building a bar for a tasting room that opens next week. I have been going home each night and writing a new Casper book called: Percolator [Italics.] Which is about two boobs who have had their power turned off and haven't paid their rent in four months, who are trying to figure out what to do with their lives. It takes place in a single day. I mean, it is basically Waiting For Godot [Italics] for modern times. I mean, getting up at 6a and working until 6p. Eating burritos. Burritos I make on Sunday before I drive 4 and 1/2 hours to Portland. I mean, I had a headlight go out. That was fun to fix. It blows my mind how hard it is to work on cars. How complicated they have become. How changing a light means removing a series of things from your engine that maybe you shouldn't be messing with. AND, Junior Mint is old. 2004 Nissan Altima. At any point the internal working could just turn to dust and there would be nothing I could do about it. 165,463 miles. I mean, I hear knocking when I turn hard to the right when I am putting my brakes on going down-hill. Which, remember that last knocking? From the last time I went to Portland? How a bolt had come loose from the calipers me and Brother Luke had replaced? Well, I bought a new bolt and it cost me $13 fucking dollars. Not because the bolt was special. The bolt was not special. It was an inch and a quarter 11 mm bolt that was specific to thing, apparently, but the thing is, it came in a kit. And I had to buy the kit. AND, the more I own a car the more I realize what a scam it is, but I mean, the Economy? I mean, owning a car these days and all days is the same as owning a phone. The different cords and this and that. And, okay, it is what it is, but my god! Buying a light-bulb for the head-light and then changing it out? I mean, I am glad to get this new information about how to do things, but it isn't like covering a mouse hole. I can't just go to Home Despot and buy some wood and some screws. I have to go to special stores with special things. Which is kind of fine. I don't know. Cars are actually quite cool. But the further we get away from being able to work on the things ourselves, I mean, I hate to tell you, the scam is just going to get worse, not better. I mean, if I was you, I would invest in electric car repair companies right now. Or the tertiary affiliates. Because things are about to become something none of us can comprehend.

I mean, there was really nothing else that happened. I mean, Colorado legalized Magic Mushrooms. And in a very hilarious turn of events, they also legalized Trip Centers. I mean, really? A place to go take mushrooms? State sanctioned? I mean, okay. I guess. Who the fuck is going to go to some government offices to trip? I mean, that is the last place in the world you would want to be high on mushrooms at. I mean, the places they have for shooting up, I understand that. Those drugs are dangerous as fuck. I wouldn't want to drop dead just because of having an addiction that required me to do the sketchiest shit in the world, but shrooms? To have some government goon looking at me the whole time. Making sure I was doing alright? I mean, imagine that? The most nerdy and straight-laced person you know being in charge of babysitting you while you tripped balls? The least likely person in the world to understand what you are going through, standing there, making sure you were alright? I mean, HAHAHAHA, that is fucked up! I mean:

"Hey, man, you look fucked up, are you sure you are alright?" Meanwhile the guy is turning into a snake and his skin is red blotches and his tongue keeps licking his lips. "Here, look at my hands, man, can you see one or two of them?" I mean, the fucker, whether he was doing it on purpose or not, would just be fucking with you the whole time. "Man, your eyes are so black. I wonder if you need eye-drops. Nurse! We need some eye-drops over here!" And suddenly you are on some table. Lying on your back. One guy holding your eyes open, another guy going: "Okay, you need to relax. Quit blinking." Meanwhile they are slithering. There is cotton in your ears. The smell of cologne. Great big white teeth smiling at you. Your skin sensitive to every touch. You don't know if you want to laugh or scream. The back of your brain now in the front of your brain. And these two sober assholes administering eye drops because they don't understand what is happening? I mean, how do you train someone like that? Because they have to be sober doing the job. I mean, also, do the rooms have like cool music playing? Black Sabbath? I mean, cool lighting? Or is is just like an operation room. Bright overhead lights. Cold metal tables. Plastic chairs. The nurses and doctors dressed in white? I mean, what I am getting at, is that, in my mind, they are going to just create a temporary insane asylum for people that just want to get fucked up. I mean, mushrooms are easy. You don't need to eat a pound of them to get the benefits. I mean, it would be like legalizing booze after Prohibition and then having Drink Centers for people drinking moonshine. I mean, I think that is the problem with how these things are understood. Why, yes, it is good to have safe places for people to shoot up, addiction is very real. Admit it or not. It is real and it a problem. Being alive and living on earth is a problem. Me, Joe, the guy writing this, I have done almost every drug out there, but one thing I did not ever do, and will never do for this exact reason is heroin. You can't casually do heroin. It is out of your control. And sadly, phentinol is even worse. I mean, these modern drugs are worse somehow than the shit has destroyed so many lives already. And because it is a problem that Society created, specifically Capitalism has created, it is up to us to correct for this maleficence. But shrooms?!

SHROOMS?! I mean, I love it. I want to see how it spins out. I mean, while writing this I went into the freezer and took some shrooms out and ate a couple stems. I mean, I love shrooms. The last time I got high on shrooms I had some vision about how shrooms worked. That mycelium was innate in the Earth and that when you took the shrooms you were basically becoming a mushroom. A thing that has been around since life began on earth. I mean, the reason we are even here, now. I mean, without mushrooms we wouldn't even exist. And I felt like it was a good connection to Earth. To go back to my, or our, roots, I mean, I even have been writing a short story about how mushrooms come back and take the Earth back. I mean, it is a horror story, but only kind of. I mean, many years ago I took shrooms at Guy's cabin in Wyoming and walked around barefoot in the pines and stepped on a pine needle and and a week later I nearly died because I got blood poisoning. I mean, they almost killed me, and I still love them. My point is, though, who the fuck is going to go into some clinic and trip balls? I mean, if you are that kind of person, someone who thinks it is a good idea to go into an insane asylum to do drugs, I mean, maybe you need to be there. Which, I mean, MAYBE it is a good thing? But as someone that just ate some shrooms, I mean:

IT'S A TRAP

I mean, stay away from drugs, kids. Cigarettes and beer. That is god's elixir. Cigs, beer, and the good ol' bible. And don't touch your private parts, because god is watching at all times.

I mean, I did go to G's theater show today. It was quite great! I mean, I may be biased, but G is a very good actor. And not only that, but comparatively. Objectively. They have something. Timing. A sense of humor. Charisma. I mean, it was a very good play. Engaging. I mean, there were even moments when I lost track of time. Hilarious at points. I mean, it was a high school play, so I wasn't expecting much, but I was genuinely surprised by the outcome. I mean, they named it Anti-Gone, and it was a reimagining of Antigone. Which was very political to begin with, and somehow they managed to make it relatable. And tragic. And it actually landed. I mean, this is a very high-tiered school and I would expect as much from them. I mean, it makes me nervous though. Years ago I was dating a girl who went to Yale, for theater. I mean, I think maybe I have mentioned the story about getting arrested for boning her in the bathroom at the Yale/Harvard football game? When we got drunk. And before that her father had said: "I don't know who to root for? I mean, I went to Yale undergrad, but Harvard grad." And I wanted to put him in a headlock and ram his head into the nearest building. But then later me and his daughter got arrested for fucking in the bathroom at the train station while there was a line a mile long and she was an asshole to the cops because she had never had to deal with cops before and I had about a gallon of trash in my pockets for some reason when they told me to empty my pockets and I was the kind of guy that just picked up random shit from the ground because at the time I was a "Found Object" artist?

I mean, she told me this horrible story about being at Yale. About how she and her cohorts had this play. This fucking play. Where her parents, her poor, yet disgusting parents, had had to come to. And the show, the theater show, where he parents were in the audience. Liz, her name was Liz, she was naked on stage, and there was a moment when this guy, I can't remember his name, but this guy, laid down on the stage, and naked Liz, with her parents in the audience, had to crouch down on this guys naked erection, and this guy was large, not Lexington Steele large, but large, and Liz told me: "I mean, during those performances I really wished it would go inside me. I mean, afterwards everyone was like, wow! I didn't know [Actor] had such a big one!" I mean, her entire thing, the reason things didn't work out, was because she had grown up in a world where you shoot everyone else down around you on your way to the top, and, I mean, I really only think the reason she told me this story was to make me feel small, that I didn't have a 10 inch dick that she wished she would have penetrate her on stage, but really, what I took away from that was her poor parents sitting in the audience having to watch this. I mean, Liz, I feel for you, your parents were, and are, garbage people, but Jesus, you need some help. I mean, this was the exact moment I realized she was just using me because I was the exact opposite of what her parent's wanted for her. And sure, that is cool and all. I mean, I am a; "Bad-boy." I play by no rules. A rebel. Dotty. But I am a human being. And it makes me nervous now, because I fear that G is going down that same road. I mean, I hope not. It doesn't seem like G is just being abandoned at some unfeeling elite churning mind-fuck school, but once money gets involved with anything, I mean, if G comes out of high-school as pissed off as I came out of high school or Liz came out of high school, I mean, that is a failure.

I mean, but also, maybe I am projecting. Because of my limited experience with being rich, I mean, watching my own child grow up rich is kind of weird. And they are talented. And smart, and I want only good things for them. And we can only go forward with good faith. And maybe that is the litmus test. If your kid goes to an ivy-league school and has a play where they get naked on stage and hopes a huge cock penetrates them, I mean, maybe that is not the best outcome? Or not? I mean, I am an artist myself that would probably have done the same thing, given the chance. I mean, to this day, if I could shoot a load on about 99% of the people I had to deal with growing up, I would. And it is no indictment on my parents. Well, at least my mom. Pegleg was fantastic. I mean, I don't know how she had the energy to keep us going. I mean, I would have drown myself in booze and cigarettes if I was her. Maybe even the devil's smokables. And my dad, I mean, four out of five aint bad, right? I am not saying he did bad, it was a numbers game. He didn't not lose. But here I am, 45 years on Earth, and I would love nothing but to punch that asshole in the face. But, I mean, we can't all be humiliated and alienated by our own fathers for no reason at all, right? Especially when growing up in a town that probably many years in the past would have murdered me for the sake of comity and he would have been okay with it. On the other hand, my father probably hated himself as much as I hated him. Which is something, I guess. I mean, he did come to my swimming match that one time. Which I, even as a teenager, found hilarious. Because those meets were so, SO, very boring. Watching people swim is paint drying.

I mean, him coming to that thing was the same as Liz's parents going to her sex-play at Yale. I mean, not only did I lose, but I was skinny and weird and was doing something that he hated. And the irony was, he forced me into it. With his whole: "All Trumans play football through eighth-grade" bullshit. I mean, I had to something when I started high school. And guess what dad? I now swim and ride mountain bikes. I don't hunt and I hate basketball. I will never again wrestle. You can fuck right off. And one day. Many years in the future I will drink all your beer in some weird moment of oddness where I am down in the basement just after Charley had left for college and you will say: "You really just killed the golden goose." And for some reason that will stick with me. 20 years after you are long gone. I mean, my point is:

Moms are awesome. Dads can suck dick.

I really hope I am not a bad dad to G.