[222] Screed City

[222]

01/12/2023 Thursday. Cushioned Stool. Room 126. Room 2 Suites. Saratoga Springs, New York.

Okay, one more day, but jeez! It's amazing how quickly something simple can become an albatross. A great big, tedious, exhausting albatross. I mean, today was just supposed to be a little looking around, maybe some adjustments, then a light lunch, some pleasant conversation and see ya later suckers, but nope, one second you are minding your own business, doing a routine fire curtain inspection and the next second you are knuckles deep in 50 line-sets re-tying op line with the floor blocks 4 1/2" off the deck. I mean, there was a moment today when I was watching a conversation about this madness unfolding thinking to myself; This is life? I mean, it was actual philosophical dread, the Scream guy kind of dread, what do they call that? Existential crisis? I mean, it was insane. Like, I mean, is this one of those moments that flashes before my eyes as I die? Standing next to a lock rail listening to such banal and almost pointless banter about how far the floor blocks should come up off the deck? I mean, compared to death, I mean, I guess this is pretty important stuff, but compared to anything, literally anything else in life, I mean, it wasn't so much that the action had no meaning, it was that I had to devote so much attention, so much focus just to make it happen, and then what? Nothing, that is what. I mean, really, we weren't even doing a job, we were re-doing a job that was poorly done in the first place. I mean, three minutes per line. Per line set. 50 times over. And over. And over. And over. And over. I mean, we had Jackson Browne rocking us out from Scott's little work speaker, so that was good, and the stage was large and clean, so that was good, and the people working there were a couple of weirdos, so that was good, but my lord.

[Insert Line Sets Photo]

I mean, from about 10a to about 330p we did this work. And it was work. I mean, I would put the wooden block spacer under the floor block while Scott held it up for me, then he would tighten the rope lock, then untie the rope. I would stand on top of the lock rail and pull down on the arbor with some webbing attached to a carabiner and Scott would re-tie the rope, tell me it was good, I would let go, get down from the lock rail, go to the other side of him as he taped the rope with electrical tape, then I would hold the rope as he cut it with C-16s, and then while he taped the tail of the rope under the knot he just tied, I would remove the old tape from the next line set in preparation for the next thing, then I would get down on the deck, on my hands and knees, Scott would lift the floor block, I would put the wooden spacer under the thing and we would start the thing all over again. And again, and again, and again.

I mean, just writing about it is as tedious as it was doing it. I mean, the best part is that when we were done with that we had to go up to the loading bridge and do the same with some double purchase line sets that were behind a thin sheet of metal, that, I mean, luckily? I mean, we couldn't do the work, it was a Project. Meaning we would need someone to agree to have it done because it would take at least three hours and would involve quite a few ins and outs, I mean, once again we were staring down the barrel as the bridesmaids would say of another St Francis De La Soul High School in Pittsburgh, I mean, another nights stay, another days work at a one day job, I mean, I won't lie, it was about that moment when I nearly broke down in tears ATBMS. Literally, not figuratively, I mean, I was at my wits end ATBMS. I mean, I am having trouble coming up with metaphors or whatever because of it, I mean, I just can't take it anymore, and I am not being hyperbolic, it's too much, I don't have the patience or the guts or whatever, I mean, it was peak slog, the most profound slog, I mean, the best part of the best part of the best part was that after all of this was figured out, after it was realized that we could not, with the limited resources we had, we could not finish the job and as a special treat we then had to drive 3 1/2 hours in the pouring rain from Elmira to Saratoga Springs. I mean, maybe that is it. Maybe that is all it is, the end of day bullshit, I mean, the travel, the never ending job that just keeps adding more work to your day, because driving is just as much work as working is, don't let anyone ever tell you different, I mean, it's not like we were cruising down the coast in some sporty rag top blaring deep trance and taking match stick licks of molly, I mean, we were in a giant work van going top speed in a gale, after sundown, with nothing but the deluge of spinning long haulers tires keeping us company, or something, I mean, I feel like I am trying to make up for my poor metaphor skills by interjecting crappy poetic nonsense, but still, I mean, 3 1/2 hours on the interstate in the pouring rain after a full days work just to get to the hotel and hop in the sack for a few hours before we have to do it again, I mean, at some point it isn't work anymore, it is torture, and maybe my complaining makes me seem like I have lost grip on my American Boot-Straps, but c'mon! How does this even need to happen? It's ludicrous.

But I won't let myself be sucked into this debate again. Not like last night. I mean, tomorrow we go back to Vermont after the work gets done and I can check on my Ticklers, see what the mice have been up to, focus on fiction again, and you won't have to listen to me complain for at least four days, ALTHOUGH, next week we are back in Albany! Sally and the racist union boobs, I mean, I don't know if any of them will be there, but maybe it will be the cap to that story. The ending. I mean, maybe you remember Sally? The chain smoking, sailor-mouthed, uncouth motherfucker that she was, who would bring us baked goods and describe the shits she took in the honey buckets? The poet of Rensselear? I mean, I need to collate that thing. It was quite the wild ride. I mean, that happened a year ago. Can you believe it? I mean, of course you can, you probably have no clue what I am talking about, but for a few breathless weeks last December and January there were some very odd times, and I mean, I guess, in a very funny way, I look back on them fondly, not the racism and the hell job that it was, but if the existential dread I felt today means anything, that was a good five weeks of terror. I mean, from a distance I can almost feel nostalgic about it. I mean, remember the time I was trying to cross the street with my high viz vest on and all the cars thought I was directing traffic, so instead of just driving by so I could cross, they all slowed down and it took me a good ten minutes to cross the fucking street? Pure gold.

I mean, speaking of gold-bricking, we have not had a single second to gold-brick this time around. I mean, the work has been relentless, and because we are making the least amount of money, our jobs are the hardest, dishwashers of the theater field, I mean, it's no Brewery money, a thing that Scott said was not gold-bricking, but platinum-bricking. HAHAAHAHA. And it is true. That work makes this work look like, I mean, I can't even say it, not because I can't, but because in the scheme of things it is all the same, and everything relative is relative to something, and I don't even know where I would begin to measure what kind of nonsense we are up to compared to the global idea of working. I suppose it is not forced labor, not at all, we agreed to it, and we are compensated for it, and aside from the sore muscles and the cut on my finger and the gash on my hand, I mean, I am not dis-figured or something, and Jesus Christ, I am doing it again! I mean, talking about work is worse than talking politics, I need to stop. Sorry.

The mystery of the phony book is still a mystery. Nobody bought into the scam, so I guess I am going to have to spend my hard earned doll hairs to get a copy myself. Thanks for nothing. All I asked for was $1 dollar from 50 of you jerks and you really let me down. I mean, I don't mean to shame anyone about anything, but you should be ashamed of yourselves. Was it because I called it a scam? Or was it because this is only interesting to me and the Publisher? I mean, doesn't anyone want to know if there is a robot out there writing books under my name? Or if there is some ghost writer farm in like Ohio that will take any idea you give them and charge by the word to make a book for you? And can I get that job? I mean, this garbage is routinely 3,000 words, what is that translated to $.10 cents a word? $3,000 dollars? Just joking, it is $300 dollars though, right? Carry the three and divide by ten. I mean, whatever, I mean, if I can make $300 dollars a day writing garbage, and I do this shit for free? Finally I can pay off my Columbia MFA loans. The Moon In A Glass, more like, A Moon In A Cash-Box! It was a light and blustery day, the hedge groves were undulating with tension as Jimmy Corcoran was swinging his whistle down the yard-bridge. They called him the Cork, or Corky for short, but there was nothing short about him, he was tall as an ancient Spruce, nor did he cork anything, he had a mouth like waterfalls, the kind that took waterfalls in as well, waterfalls of libations, and also he had a beard, but his beard was mostly bristles, sharp pointy bristles, and he talked with a squeaky voice and one day he had his arm in a sling, that was the day we see him walking down the hedge groves, swinging his whistle, because he was a cop too, a tall, drunk cop with bristles for a beard and a squeaky voice. Ol' Corky, you dastardly dog, what are you up to this time?

See! I can do it too. I mean, the fiction I write is all improv nonsense anyway, why not pay me $300 dollars a day to do it? I mean, already Corky has an arm in a sling. He is drunk and he is a cop. He looks hungover, and he is tall. There are a million places this could go! And he keeps swinging his whistle so it's like the thing takes place in some other point of time, like the 30's or something. I mean, I don't know, how do I get in touch with these farms? Do I finally need to figure out how to get on the Dark Web? I mean, I have a PC, I use a PC, which, I mean, I can't even look at porn without the thing exploding on my lap as I sit on the toilet, I mean, is there a buy-in for this scam? Do I just need to own a MacBook or something? Get on some messaging boards? Join Reddit? Or whatever, I mean, the only spam I get is hot locals looking for hot action, I mean, because I have a PC I can't explore any of the scams out there, but that is pretty fucked up if there is a buy-in, that you can only be part of the scheme if you have the money to own a computer that isn't susceptible to viruses, right? I mean, it seems pretty rude that I can't be part of the thing because I can't afford it, right? I mean, typical woke culture ruining America. Biden's America, am I right? It's CRT all over again. Becca Blackwell in my DMs, probably.

I mean, I should probably go, I have a early day tomorrow, I think we are meeting at the van at 7a. Or at least that is how I remember it. Not in the lobby, but in the van. At the van. I should eat a burrito and watch a show about ancient Egypt, I mean, I learn so many things late at night. Like did you know there was a highway to Thebes? Where people would stop at some random rock and draw birds as graffiti? And they would also write things like; Pharaoh Sux Dongs? They have a whole series about it. Here is that one:

[Insert Ancient Egypt Age Of Gold]

I mean, I don't know if I told you this, but I pay for Premium YouTube, and it is the one thing in the world that makes me feel like a millionaire. Highly recomended. All the other streaming shit is bullshit, and of all the "Social Media" stuff out there, I mean, I have waxed extensive about this, but aside from YouTube and the iPod, there is nothing worth anything aside from these two things, I mean, nothing has any value aside from these two things, and the iPod is no longer around, but in my very humble opinion, it is worth spending the $11 dollars a month to have YouTube videos without ads, I mean, it is life changing, and as much as I hate corporate America, I mean, I am agnostic about what anything internet related will have on our long-term cultural goals, I mean, I am increasingly repulsed by the computer, I mean, there is a cultural shift that is happening and I don't thing it will be the 'puterphobes or anyone afraid of technology, I mean, it's just that the internet sucks and will keep sucking and it doesn't matter, it feels gross and is only a tool anyway, but I am not saying that we are entering an un-technology phase, but more like, we are going to fracture again, and it will be good, but my point is, I mean, I am not working for YouTube or something, like, I wish, what if they paid me $300 bucks a day to promote them? That would be cool, but all the other things are going to just become less, a thing of modern times that will not be as relevant as they seem to be at this moment. I mean, remember Texts From Last Night? Those dudes shut down. It's all advertising. And if you just pay for the subscription, I mean, what else are you going to pay for? I mean, aside from movies? But then what? You just rent the fucking movie. I mean, am I right? It's all just vying for our attention on the Titanic. I mean, one day we will all grow bored of the sinking ship and just hop aboard the iceberg. I mean, at that point we will all just pay $11 bucks a month to cling to it. While watching Jack drown, debating whether Rose could have helped him onto the floating door. I mean, am I right?