[221] Screed City

[221]

01/11/2023 Wednesday. Weird Couch Thing. Room 303. Marriot Bonvoy. Horses Head, New York.

I mean, relentless. Finally finished the catholic job at 3p, then drove for five hours to Horses Head. It's a little brutal. Luckily the money is crap. I mean that. I mean, I was just telling Scott that I should tell the Boss I want to work two two week jobs, one in the early Winter and one in late Winter, that way I can remember how awful this work can truly be and I will force myself to find better work, or at least not complain too much about work like the work I am doing in Portland. I mean, I can just do that work one week a month and be done with it. It would be enough to survive plus more. I just need to stay focused and do other things in my time off instead of just puttzing around all day and writing all night. Killing mice and making Ticklers.

I mean, it was nice to work today. Exercise-wise. Lots of upper body work and ladder climbing. A couple brushes with death, some dumplings for lunch and almost sending a Genie lift into the seating. But we did it, we did a great job! I mean, this job really is quite funny sometimes. What we do, I mean, I mean, I was thinking today, I even said it out loud, that we could probably plan a road trip across America and rig in a different town every night and make it to California in about two months, raking it in the whole time. Like the circus, or a punk band. And everyone knows chicks dig Shackleheads.

[Insert Classy Couch Picture]

But the work is so very esoteric. I try to describe it, but I fall short. Like John Lyons says; It's work that you have never done before in your life. I mean, I have been doing it for probably 20 years at this point, but I still remember my first jobs, and boy were they confusing. I mean, my very first job was in lower Manhattan just after 9/11, we were refurbishing a theater on Grand street that many years later I would be performing a show at, a theater show, and when we were doing tech I was wearing my Harvard shirt for some reason, and this stagehand got mad at me for being on stage when they were doing lighting so yelled; Hey Harvard! Watch out! I mean, I wanted to yell back; Look, you little prick, I installed that rigging you are working on, don't tell me what to do! But that would have made me the actual asshole, so I instead moved.

But I remember going out for a smoke break just after 9/11 and for some reason Mayor Rudy was driving by in his motorcade, and I mean, I hated that fucker back then as much as I do now, but because of what had just happened, I mean, I waved at him as he drove by, feeling a sense of pride for some reason, I mean, it didn't last much longer than those few moments, but it was still kind of a weird thing that happened. So that was 22 years ago, and the dumb job I took just to make rent while I chased my art dreams has now become a multi-decade long struggle just to stay fed. How depressing. I mean, if any of you are thinking of doing an art career I have one bit of advice; Be born rich. Or at least middle class. There is no money in art, unless you are extremely lucky and have the skills to self-promote, but if you are anything like me, I mean, you're fucked from the get go.

January 26th. DISHWASHER launch. Brooklyn, Tom Fruin's studio. Gonna be bands and Ticklers and dessert by Kristin. I am even thinking of doing an artist talk-back, maybe an airing of grievances type of thing, where jerks can yell abuse at me for writing non-typical books. I mean, I just need someone to be the interviewer person. Maybe Andy would be good. Someone that won't ask me any book related questions. Tom? I mean, probably someone more feminine, maybe I should ask Jackie? Okay, note to self, send electronic mails.

Tomorrow we get a later start. A whopping 745a meet in the lobby. How luxurious! I mean, it is 9p already and I should hit the sack by 10p, but maybe I can get some sleep tonight, I mean, last night was a doozy. I woke up at 4a unable to get back to sleep, but like hell I was going to get up at four in the god-damned morning. I mean, it's just dreams, dreams and dreams and dreams. I think it is my diet, my diet and the early wake time, it messes with my system, and I read recently that your brain, or half of your brain stays awake when you are sleeping in unfamiliar places, I mean, I woke up this morning so very confused that I stood up out of bed before I realized where I was, I mean, that is why I was awake at 4a and not just kind of awake at 4a. I really did think I was in danger. Also, I learned about this other thing called Sleep Protest, or Sleep Rebellion, or Sleep Revenge, that is what it was, Sleep Revenge, where people like me, who have their waking life hours taken away from them by jobs, so they refuse to go to sleep on time because fuck Society, I mean, to go back to my earlier point about working for 20 years at a job I don't really care for just to make rent so I can make art, I mean, this is the reason I can only write at night. The daytime is for getting plowed by the Man. Even when I am not being plowed by the Man, I mean, two decades of insurgent art related nights that have left me exhausted and broken because I choose to be an artist, I mean, it is muscle memory at this point, and I don't know what else to do about it. It's hard to be a part-time prostitute as Jack Warren would say. I mean, sure, I could just watch television and try and get some decent sleep, but I know that would make me feel much worse than if I drank a bottle of whiskey and wrote a bunch of useless poems and then showed up in the lobby at 745a hungover and hating my body, I mean, what's that song? How you going to make it in the world today if you weren't made out for working? And you just can't concentrate.

[Insert Song]

I mean, the problem is that I know how to work, I just don't like doing it. Because it is always a bate and switch. Every single time. I mean, I have been trying to make up an analogy for this week of work. Which, I mean, I agreed to it, that much I accept, and I wasn't exactly misled, I just signed onto to something a month ago that wasn't what I am doing now. Which is fine as well, I mean, kind of. I mean, it is less than half the amount of money than what I had agreed to, and instead of the job being in one place for two weeks it is in a million different places every single day, and I can accept that, it's just that there is this thing inside me that can't quite understand how it is possible that you can ask somebody to do one thing and then at the last minute change it into something entirely different, and the analogy I came up with was this:

Imagine if I just showed up drunk at work? I mean, hey, I said I would be here and I am here, what difference does it matter that I can't actually do the job? I mean, that wouldn't go over so well, but somehow that power dynamic doesn't work both ways, I mean, the employer basically showed up drunk and now expects me to cover their ass, but at half the pay and all over tarnation. I mean, it is more complicated than that, but I am just trying to understand why I have such unpleasant emotions about being a working class boob. I mean, I can do the best possible job for this company and it won't make a bit of difference. They either stop hiring me, or they keep hiring me. The dynamic will never change. I have no bargaining power, which is fine, I mean, such is the nature of gig work, I mean, the only reason to say join a union is that you have the power of the union behind you, but I don't want to commit to that either. if I wanted to get a job, I would get a fucking job. So all of this is on me, all of it, but the bate and switch, that is what gets me. I mean, just do a god-damned day rate, I mean, we have travelled now, what? 13 hours at minimum wage? That's a day and a half of labor, doing nothing. But it's not like I wasn't working. I sure as shit was working. And by the end of it there will still be another six hours of travel, combine that with the fact that we are living on the road, away from home, I mean, I mean, I mean!

But it is all the same shit, different day, SSDD as Jay G'baur would say. I bore myself with my complaining. But I do want to figure it out! I want to understand why it irks me so much. I mean, I know the drill, I have known the drill since day one, why am I surprised? I mean, I guess it is merely a correction of sorts. And as I get older, the work gets more tedious and the idea of bringing swim trunks with you to the job because you might want to swim in the pool, or even here, at the Marriot Convoy, I mean, they have a bar downstairs, 10 years ago I would have gone down there and got drunk, maybe made out with some random weirdo that hangs out in hotel bars in the bathroom, I mean, there was fun at some point, I remember it, but now that I have crested that horrible hill that comes with being an adult, I mean, the greatest kicks I get these days is waking up to my alarm instead of getting up at 4a to see how many more hours I have to pretend to sleep before I reluctantly get out of bed in the dark and try and figure out how I am going to get some cream for my coffee. I mean, being working class is something to mock when you are young, but really, the thing is a morass, it is abysmal, and the only dignity in it is when you can pretend that it doesn't exist, and those days melt away the further you get from memories of fun. I mean, we all have to work, that I can understand, but why can't we all just agree that things like health care and decent working hours are a thing everyone deserves? I mean, when someone offers you two weeks of work, shouldn't that mean 40 hours of work, nothing more, nothing less? I mean, we are at 33 hours already, and it is just the middle of the week.

I mean, like I said, sorry, or maybe I didn't say I am sorry, but I am sorry for boring you with the details, but I find this confounding. And it's not just me I am worried about, I mean, it is American work culture that really grinds my nerves. I mean, I'm lazy if I complain, I am lazy if I am poor, I am lazy if I can't find a better job, I am lazy if my work place is unsafe, I mean, according to the structure of Society, unless I am doing no work at all, just raking in the big bucks, I am lazy, only rich bitches who do nothing are the ones working, because without Job Creators nobody would even have a tiny morsel of grain to eat, I mean, I am not a money guy, but I am pretty sure that if nobody had any money to buy the crap that everyone is selling, the whole system would collapse, and, I mean, here we go again with the Bezos Bucks, but Jesus Christ, just give people a stipend every fucking month and all of our problems would be solved, I mean, get all the robots to do everything, pay us all $1000 dollars a month to buy the crap and there you go! The snake can eat it's own tail for all I am concerned. I mean, if the idea is growth, it doesn't matter how the people get the money, it is all about spending it, I mean, it almost seems like they are trying to keep us under their thumb on purpose, right?

I mean, I am joking, right? Because that is exactly what they are doing. By THEY, I mean whatever, there is no global conspiracy, it's just that nobody has been able to articulate the memo that was sent out when Society started, that 99% of us do the work, and then the 1% reap the rewards. I mean, Society is neither just, nor constructive, if it was, nobody would be worried about losing their job, and people like me, who for the first time in two decades, has enough money in their bank account that they can stop worrying about next month and can finally worry about maybe six months from now, maybe a year, but nope, that same muscle memory that makes me write at night is the same muscle memory that one day, and very soon, all this shit is going to come collapsing down again like it did in 2008 and THEY need the workers of America to be nervous like that, to keep working, because the second people understand that shit will be just fine, I mean, suddenly your asshole boss doesn't have the power he once had, suddenly he can't show up drunk to work and force you to cover his ass, because who the fuck needs it? If I can get work next week anyway, somewhere else, fuck you, am I right? I mean, this economy is a nightmare for the rich bitches because without that fear they lose their power, and I mean, if #metoo taught us anything, it's that you get enough people to understand how fucked they have been their entire lives, anything is possible.

I mean, I will get off of my soap box now. But I will once again remind you of my landlord telling me that he bought the beer from the brewery that I work at so I have a job to go to, so he can take my rent money, so he can have places to rent, so he can have someone else pay his taxes for him, so he can buy more property to rent, so he can buy more beer, so I can work to pay his taxes, I mean, it really is that 1:1, and sure I need a place to live, but he also used to work where I am working now, but he refuses to do so now because the money is bad, and he is not wrong, but he has the luxury to say no, and if we are waiting for the rich bitches among us to save us from poverty, I mean, those fuckers pivot, and everyone loves an underdog story, that is, until they start losing money on their investments, then it is everyone for themselves, keep that in mind the next time your landlord has to increase rent because of something they neglected for years and years, I mean, it's not even a morality judgement, business is business, but that is exactly it, it is business. And the most painful thing to somebody that has money is losing it for not being cut-throat enough, humiliation, I mean, they are all afraid of being the shortest cigar in the box, and they will eat you alive to make it not so.

ABOLISH TURNSTILES