[209] Screed City

[209]

11/16/2022 Wednesday. Cardboard Box. Hampshire House. Portland, Maine.

The Tasting Room II passed inspection. Not that I told you that was a thing that was happening, but it is the reason I am in Portland this very moment. I mean, the bar itself is looking quite good. I did a great job. So far. Tomorrow I have to tile the fucker, which, I mean, wall tiling. Vertical tiling, I guess. I need to have a system in place that I have not figured it out what it will be yet. Although just talking about now made the solution present itself. I will just run a length of wood, like a wooden lip on the bottom to keep the tiles from sliding down, and Rachel Voila! I mean, otherwise it should be pretty easy. I need to cut 18x6 tiles at a 45 degree angle on the short side. Which, I mean, Brother Luke has a sweet ass tile saw I can borrow. I mean, I have tomorrow and half the day Friday to do it. So, butts crossed. I mean, I would prefer not to come back to Portland until after the Dishwasher [Italics] launch, but that is December 15th, and today is November 16th, so, I mean, I know next week is G's birthday and TurkeyTime, so, next week is out already, but, I mean, then what? I sit on my thumb for three weeks? Whatever. Why am I telling you this?

I will say though, the last time I was in Portland, I sent out a newsletter where I hyperbolically claimed that the Engineering Department declared me a Liberator for bringing the Haunted Hot Dog Roller. Which, I was not being honest. I mean, Professor Curly thought it was true, well not really, she asked: "Did they really call you a liberator?" I mean, sorry for the confusion, but. I mean, BUT. Yesterday, at or around 2p there was a meeting for the Engineering staff. In the shop. The idea was to have a hot dog party and then do the weekly Parlay. Which is a general staff meeting to discuss the ins and outs of the Brewery. I went because, you know, hot dogs, I mean, normally I am not allowed at those meetings. I am just a tool to them. I mean, not just in general, what I think doesn't matter, because why would it? I mean, I have ideas, that is for sure, like, I mean, a cafeteria would be nice. Two different shops would be nice, more storage would be nice, maybe some more employees, I mean, the place is expanding like crazy, but it doesn't seem like they are taking the rate of expansion as seriously as they should be taking it. But like I said, what the hell do I know? Who the hell am I? But I digress. The meeting was intense. Quite serious. But also at this intense, serious meeting, there was a table with hot dog fixin's and the Haunted Hot Dog Roller. Just rollin' and rollin' and rollin'. I mean, people were wolfing the dogs down. dog! It was something great. And right as the meeting was finalizing, the head dude, S., said: "Okay, any other business?" The dude that set up the hot dog party, a Mister Ross Johnson 2.0 said: "I would like to thank Joe here, for giving us the hot dog roller and making all of this possible." I mean, I shit you not, the crowd of about 25 people started hollering and clapping and hooting. UNIRONICALLY. I mean, it was unbelievable. I mean, I have been on stage hundreds if not thousands of times, and never in my life had I heard actual sincere applause like that. I don't know, it kind of filled me with hope and joy.

[Insert Parlay Photos]

I mean, I don't know what else to report. I mean, I come here to work, not to fuck Marty. Which, I mean, Marty the Mustache, the old I Weiss boss, who was this uncouth, chain smoking, coke snorting, drunk, who one time said: "I would fuck a snake if you held it's head down." Came to a job site, where was it? Not Westchester, NY, but close, whatever, out of town, the kind of place you had to take a, Larchmont?, one hour train to get there, in addition to the subway to get to the train, and then take the train and subway back every day, as well as work the eight hour shift as well as be there by 7:30a. I mean, I say this because fuck you I Weiss. Whatever, I don't want to get into it. But one time on that job, Marty came out to see how things were going. Things were moving slowly because, it was a job and jobs go slowly, especially if they are an hour train ride out of the City. I mean, something happened that was making The Mustache upset. And he was there to pound his fist on the table to get things moving along. And for some reason he and Lawrence, who was the foreman on the job, who was this very odd guy, who I liked quite a bit, but he was odd, he loved S&M and his mom was an abusive alcoholic living, or dying, I guess, in some Asian country I can't remember, he loved to rock climb and he was taking writing lessons because he wanted to become writer. I mean, he was the first person in the City that I knew of that had a compost bucket in his apartment. I mean, my point is, he was all over the place. But he had anger issues. Issues that he did not know how to handle very well. Mosty he just pushed them inside and had his wife beat them out of him in their bedroom. But sometimes they would explode in un-foreseeable ways. I mean, he was up on top of three tiers of blue scaffold. The heavy duty stuff. Not the aluminum crap that we usually used on these jobs. I mean, it was a big job. I was on the ground. Ground Guy. Marty, The Mustache, came onto the site, already upset about something. He and Lawrence started getting into it. The Mustache on the deck, next to me, yelling up at Lawrence, three tiers up. Lawrence yelling down, standing on top of the scaffold. And then, for whatever reason, The Mustache yelled up: "Are you here to work, or are you here to fuck me?" Which was already funny. But then Lawrence decided to come down from the scaffold. So for about twenty seconds that question hung in air like some asshole boss's beer fart while the scaffold swayed and bent as Lawrence climbed down it. And, I mean, I was right there. The Mustache, who was, what? Like 5'5? I mean, he was not a tall man, nor was he a thick man, but he was a well-dressed man. His mustache glistening. Probably a couple lines of coke in his nose. Maybe a beer or two in his belly. Smelling like cigarettes. I mean, I think he was from Pennsylvania, so he had that accent. Lawrence finally got to the bottom of the scaffold. Lawrence had a lower lip that was much bigger than his upper lip. And in times of duress, his lip stuck out in a way that the jerks I worked with secretly called him: Lower Lip Larry. I mean, I didn't, but they did. I mean, he was at least seven inches taller than The Mustache. He was wearing all black. Covered in work dust, metal dust, his face and hands very dirty. The Mustache I think was wearing a suit, or something close to a suit. I mean, Lower Lip Larry got up in The Mustache's face. His lip protruding a mile if it wasn't an inch. And he puffed. Literally puffed while staring The Mustache in the face. And, The Mustache, being the dick that he was, did not flinch. He was looking for a fight and he got it. I mean, sadly, for me, at least, and the comedy of what was happening, Lower Lip Larry said: "Come with me." And he and The Mustache took their argument outside. And things got resolved. And work commenced. Because there was no real big wow. Lawrence was indeed there to work, and not there to fuck Marty. But, I mean, I remember thinking that Lawrence would come back with bloody knuckles, he would pack his tools up and leave the site without speaking to anyone. But it didn't happen. I mean, I don't even think I got any details of what they said to each other. I mean, I don't even know if they ever made up after that. Usually in those instances with The Mustache or really anyone at work, you would end up at the bar later, maybe someone would buy a bag of blow, you would get sloppy drunk and work it out. And everything would be fine after that, but Lawrence didn't drink, and when he did, he drank like an IPA back before it was cool, or back when it was super cool but nobody knew what it was.

Anyway. I am here to work and not to fuck Marty. So may days are pretty boring. Lunch is the best time of the day. I spend 30 minutes with Brother Luke in the break room. Eating. He brings food from home to share. I bring a burrito to share. Depending. I mean, this week I made; Swedish meat-balls with caramelized onions and beef sauce with Cheez Wiz, a pork and potato thing with onions and jalapeño, and a beef burrito ala Taco John's, with white onions and Taco Bell sauce. Plus we have chips. And apples. Lots of apples. I mean, I have eaten at least one apple a day since the hot dog incident a few weeks ago. And I won't lie, the apples, I mean, it is, or was, apple season, but still, $.99 cents a lb for the best apples I have ever eaten. I mean, normally an apple, a single apple is like $1.50, and it is like eating sawdust wrapped in skin. Sawdust wrapped in skin that just makes you more hungry. But $.99 cents an lb apples are great! $5 dollars for a bag of apples? Like 20 of them. Maybe less, but still. And they are good? I mean, this week Brother Luke has been bringing in sandwiches. Salmon-style. Not tuna. And I have been getting to know the employees. I mean, it has been nice. I mean, the work is simple, they give me all the tools and help I need to succeed, because they actually want me to do a good job and support my work. I mean, it is bizarre, how much that changes my morale. I mean, I haven't gold-bricked in so long I don't even recognize myself anymore.

I mean, speaking of not recognizing yourself anymore, last night I had the worst middle-aged dream I have ever had. I mean, for some reason I needed to put some clothes on. And the clothes I was putting on were old clothes that I remembered loving to wear. And all around me were people saying: "That is a great outfit, you are going to look great!" I went to put the clothes on and they didn't fit. The pants wouldn't close, the buttons on the shirt were too tight. I was confused. I tried to pretend that they fit fine, but I knew I was lying. And then, this is what really fucked me up, because I woke up feeling fucked up from this dream, I looked in the mirror. And in the mirror, the face that looked back at me was not my own. I had this dumb beard and my nose was like the nose of one of the Disney Snow White Dwarves. I mean, I can say Dwarves, right? When it is in direct relationship to Snow White? I mean, how long before they change that title? Or maybe they have already done it, I don't know, I'm not on social media, but I haven't read about it from the Racist Right's Propaganda Conglomerate. So maybe it hasn't happened yet. Or maybe it got lost in all their other bullshit. But I feel like that one would stick out, or not. I mean, Snow White isn't gay yet. Soon enough. And then, whoa boy! Society will collapse! But back to the dream. I mean, I was just normal looking with this great big cartoon nose. I mean, whatever. What can you do? You get older. And because you get older, for some reason you age. And as you age, for some reason you don't look as young as you used to look. I mean, whatever, I am making jokes, but still, can't your brain just leave you alone sometimes? Especially when you are sleeping on shag carpet, with only a blanket for padding and a week's worth of burritos while you spend the week in Portland making money? I mean, why add the psychological stress of also feeling like you are older, and will keep getting older, to the mix? Brains are stupid, man.

I mean, I finished Percolator [Italics.] Kind of. I mean, there is a last paragraph that I need to figure out. I mean, I won't spoil it, but something happens and as much as I would like the book to end with nothing. Like actual nothing. Like, the book just ends, take it or leave it. It's not that kind of book. There is neither a sequal, nor a dying. I mean, usually I just kill the character off, or I just leave it open for the next run, but with this one, I mean, it is mostly dialogue. And you can't just be like: "Buddy didn't know he had a heart condition. From birth he was destined to die suddenly. Was it the stress of the situation, or was it just his time, it's hard to tell. But as he was falling to the ground, Guy had a look on his face, like a dragonfly had flown into his mouth. That was the last thing Buddy would ever see." I mean, the whole story is just these two boobs talking to each other. And like Waiting For Godot [Italics?] it needs to end the way that play ends. Exactly like the beginning. AND just by writing this, I know the answer! Fuck. Okay. See what I mean? Give up first, the solution will present itself. I mean, the thing just needs a capping. That is all. I mean, I start the book describing the wind in Casper, Wyoming, I should end the book describing the wind in Casper, Wyoming. I mean, I didn't spoil it either. The ending. Things are looking up.

[Insert Bar Photos]