[226] Screed City
[226]
01/27/2023 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Granville, Vermont.
Well, I drove five and half hours, from NYC to Granville, Vermont only to get stuck in my driveway! Hahahah. Fucking Vermont. The snow sure looked powdery, it was not, in fact, powdery. It was an inch of crust and a foot of powder underneath. And because I drive a sedan I got high centered. And because Junior Mint's ass was hanging out in the street I couldn't just leave it there and deal with it in the morning. I mean, you know what I mean, Joe? I mean, it was kind of the last thing I wanted to be dealing with at the moment, I had to piss and I had a bunch of shit to bring into the house and it was getting dark and I had just driven five and half hours, butwhatever, being an adult means dealing with shitty things when they have to be dealt with, so I popped the trunk and started shoveling. NPR blasting from the speakers, that was kind of the worst part, I didn't mean to be listening to it, it just happened to be playing as I was pulling in, I don't know, I guess I got distracted when I was approaching the house, and for some reason my addled and duressed brain couldn't figure out how to make the very loud and very unwelcome both sides are the problem bullshit, stop. I mean, I appreciate NPR sometimes, less and less with each passing day, but when there is ACTUAL news, I can stomach it, but those days are few and far between as the bridesmaids say. So I shoveled and shoveled, nothing doing. I trudged through the snow to the Garbage Room to get a shovel-shovel, you know, the one with the metal spade? A digger. But that didn't help. I couldn't get far enough under the car to un-stuck it. I tried pushing from the front, with reverse engaged, nothing doing. Eventually I remembered I had bought a 50 lb bag of sand last Winter, not understanding how useless it would be, not understanding how much fucking snow Vermont gets, even after spending a Winter up here the year before as well. So it never got used. But it was there, right next to the front door, doing nothing but mocking me. So that is good. Good that it was there, because aside from that bag of sand, there was nothing I could put under the front tires to gain traction. Everything was covered in snow. I suppose I could have maybe found something in the Tertiary part of the house, maybe some wood or something, but I had that bag of sand. So I dragged the thing through the snow and dumped half of it behind one front tire, and half of it behind the other front tire, and I won't lie, it worked, I had to rock back and forth for a while, eventually understanding that I could turn the fucking radio off, so that was nice, and then I was out. Unstuck. I parked the car in the parking lot of the DogHouse, hoping I hadn't broken my flexpipe again. I mean, if that happened, I don't know what I would do. Start packing things into boxes and planning my exodus from this shithole, but from what I could tell, things were fine. Are fine. I gathered all my shit, walked awkwardly to the mailbox, removed a week's worth of mail. Looked at the shovel-shovel, stabbed into the snow, put my things down. The mail. Trudged the shovel-shovel to the front porch. Trudged back to gather my shit. The mail. Awkwardly trudged back to the front door. Well, the only door, but it is in the front of the house. Had to plunge my hand through a foot of crusty snow to get the house key. Meaning I had to put all my shit down again. The mail. Then I had to pick it up again and awkwardly bring it into the house. But I made it, and it was fine and everything was fine and Vermont is just fine, but my god, can't you just give me one fucking break you maniac of a state! You muddy, snowy, wet, freezing, grouchy, culture-less, beautiful chaos-machine of a state!
But to address the "I means," there has been some criticism of my handling of the I-mean-gate. Just joking, a little bird named Joe told me I used the phrase too much and it forced him to stop reading my diatribes, I mean, it's true I over-use the phrase, but in my defense, talk to people, actually listen to the words coming out of their mouths, and you would be surprised at how many "I means," you hear. IT IS A LOT. Like way more than you think, and as much as I understand that a hiccup like that can be distracting, and I am not defending myself with regard to this little bird named Joe, because it is more personal than that, even in a global sense, I mean, the whole point of all of this diahhrea that I spew it is to eventually, one day, create a way of writing that is so fluid, so free of meaning that you don't even know you are even reading it, like listening to the radio as you day dream about hot dog you had for lunch or something, and sometimes, don't get me wrong, but I mean, I should make a list of interjectors that I can pull from, because just using "I mean," is getting a little out of hand, and "don't get me wrong," should come back, and "just saying," and "if you catch my drift," and "if you know what I'm saying," I mean, there are lots of them, so my point is, which is a good one too "my point is," my point is that maybe I agree with the little bird named Joe, and he is a big bird, I don't mean to imply that he is a little bird, but the saying, the euphemism, the colloquialism, the phrase, the aphorism, the adage, the proverb, I mean, the idea is that there is a bird on one's shoulder telling you something in a small voice, right? Like a angel shoulder versus devil shoulder sort of thing, yeah? But my point is, I agree with Joe that I need to spice things up, and I don't think he was criticizing me being lazy, but that is what has been happening, I have been lazy, and he is right, and I am wrong, and I am foolish and I am sorry.
But he socked this gut-punch to me at my fucking book launch! Can you believe it? Talk about kicking a man when he is down! Just joking. I mean, it's true he brought it up at the book launch, but I was neither kicked, nor down, because the launch went fantastic!
I don't know what to say, that is another good one, it couldn't have gone better, literally, it could not have gone better. Tom was extremely awesome, his studio was smoking hot, Kristin's desserts were a hit, coffee pudding and candy cigarettes, the bands fucking rocked, I mean, it was like the olden days, working class punk rock that blew your ears off and made you feel something for once in your fucking life, the Publisher was great, the Ticklers were a hit, people got drunk, kind of, I mean, one dude passed out in a chair for most of the evening, and then stumbled off into the night, a million people came, even youngsters, books sold, t-shirts sold, it was a truly fantastic party. And not only that, that's a good one too, it was all done by around midnight and because there was enough forethought, enough perspicacity on my part, and the part of luck and chance, I had nothing to drag home after the night was done, which, usually I find myself carrying 40 lbs of shit on the subway at one in the morning, wishing I wasn't such a punk rock loser that I couldn't afford a cab or didn't want to take cab because I hate cabs like the wind, or however it is the bridesmaids say it, I mean, Tom bought me an Uber or whatever, so, even if I had had stuff to lug home, I could have easily taken it with me, but I had nothing! Nothing! Just me and myself, and I hate to say it, but the poor driver's car, I mean, on the BQE, because I have had such a wild time with brakes and calipers and rotors over the past couple years, that guys back left tire was acting like he was about to have a seized caliper, and I would have warned him about it, but for some reason he was wearing a parka and he couldn't hear me when I talked, and also, I was kind of holding on for dear life ATBMS on the BQE because the guy was a wild one. I mean, I put my seatbelt on, which I should always do anyway, but for some reason I don't, because it is nice sometimes to not put your seatbelt on, even when it is stupid that you don't, like, I don't know, being in the back of a car on the BQE, but I was nervous enough about his caliper seizing that I put my seat belt on, and then I fantasized about being stuck on the side of the BQE with no way to get home, no way to get a lift or whatever, after back right tired seized, and he skidded out, causing a near pile-up, dragging the thing to the shoulder and getting out of the car, wearing his parka, looking at the tire, the probably blown tire now, I mean, considering he had let the brake problem go on for so long, you can only assume he didn't take care of his tires either, and then what? I don't wait for the tow truck, right? Do I? Do I just walk to the next exit and walk home? I mean, twice during the week I walked from Ridgewood to Gowanus. It was a two hour walk. I know Brooklyn quite well, I suppose, that's a good one, that I have lived there for nearly two decades, I should know the streets, and I do love walking, and it wasn't raining, but still, what a nightmare. But it didn't happen. I got home just fine. And that guy would figure it out anyway, soon enough, but still, it is a moral dilemma, not that he would have done anything about it had I told him what was going to happen. He knew damn well that something was wrong, if he didn't it was because he was deaf from that damn parka he was wearing. I mean, who the hell wears a parka with the hood up when they are driving their car? Someone that is shooting from the hip ATBMS I will tell you that much. And had I told him what was going to happen, I am certain he would not have taken my advice. But that is the moral dilemma; Is saying something more important than the known outcome? Do I change anything just by saying something? Telling someone they are an asshole doesn't mean they won't be an asshole anymore, it just means that they know that you think they are an asshole, and assholes are the kind of person that take that sort of information and say; You know? You are right! I am an asshole, allow me to change my behavior! I am sorry. No, they scream at you, accuse you of being the asshole for making them behave like an asshole and then it becomes a whole big thing. How do I know? I know quite a few assholes, that is how.
Anyway, here are some photos from the Launch:
[Insert Launch Photos]
Rambona was there, Teresa was there, the Editor, Noble was there, Andy, Marianna, Jackie was there, Z came, Professor Curly came, I mean, it was a real who's whom of a party. Moses was there, he played drums when I read, which was fantastic, Jack came, I mean, I am missing people, but I couldn't believe the turn-out, it was a throngs. And it makes me believe in live performance again. About doing something like that. I mean, Kristin pushed a cart around with her desserts, like a cigarette-girl, there was something about that that really gave my heart good feelings, it was unexpected and perfect, the vibe alone was something ineffable, I don't know, icing, I guess, on a big tasty cake of a thing, the party started early, went late, the first band, High & Tight set up real quick and then just went into it. I ran the sound board because I had spent the week setting up the PA. Which included me hot wiring some stereo speakers to a 1/4 inch cable that I ran through a Fender Twin, combined with a JBL powered speaker that had lost it's horn sometime back in the St Ann's days, which is why I even had it in the first place, so basically I was riding the high end the whole time and was getting brown noise if I pushed it to hard, so I had to stand at the mixing board with my fingers on the sliders anticipating the vocals, a cup of Ticklers soaking in ice on one side, my best gal, curly and red on my other side, I mean, I know I talked a whole lot of shit about nostalgia the other day, but it was nice to get back on the sound board again, to have control over the sonic mayhem that was blasting out into infinity, I mean, I was wearing Future Abe’s, my poor ears, I mean, they are very sensitive these days, they have always been sensitive, but even more so now, and all the fucking damage I have done to them, it's like pulling around a Radio Flyer wagon with a rusty wheel casing, if I'm not careful the sounds will go straight to my soul and I will spend a good week wondering if it is just tinnitus or my blood pressure and if it's my blood pressure, does that mean I have only a week left before my heart explodes and I have a great big oh my god what have I done with my life flash back before I drop dead?
All I am saying is; Stay young. I love sound, and have had a very complicated relationship with it since I was a teenager, and I have abused my ears for so many years that I am surprised that I still have something left in the old sound holes, but I would have loved to just rawdog the bands as I was mixing the vocals, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. I mean, it was like showing up to a swinger's party with a pack of condoms, I would have just loved to fuck and suck my way to oblivion, but I had work on Monday, and I can't be spending my time at the doctor with a drippy dick, you know what I mean? I mean, that's another thing about the "I mean," thing, if you end a sentence with; "You know what I mean?" But you start it with "I mean," I mean, I like it! And part of the problem is this; I am writing shit that I want to read, I make the music that I want to listen to, I make the visual art that I want to see, and nobody likes the weirdo until everyone likes the weirdo, so it is a funny thing to have to defend an approach to making art from the perspective of fuck you, but because I do all of this shit on the edges of society, there isn't much push back, because it is all push back, like throwing shit at the Louvre, not the inside of the building, but the the building itself, and none of it really matters, but still, you have to be good at it, or at least capable and earthly, otherwise non-typical art becomes outsider art, and as much as I love a good Daniel Johnston song, I think, or at least, I believe, that I am doing something on purpose, like I do have a vision, whether that vision collides with society in a conversational way, I don't really know, I mean, I am not writing this to balance my daily life with the insanity in my head, it is more the opposite, I am simply and very pragmatically trying to understand how the world works from my own perspective and maybe, just maybe, entering the conversation with society from a viewpoint that hasn't been corrupted by money and fame and success and everything that art should not be, or, for every Banksy and Jeff Koons in the world there is a Johnny Ryan and who is that Philadelphia guy? Fuck, I can't remember. Johnny B would know, I think he ended up writing for the Village Voice, but it doesn't matter, this has gone for too long and I should get the hell out before I start ranting about the things that I keep behind the pay-wall. Just joking, I'm not garbage, I don't have a; Girls Gone Wild: Hottest Sunburned Tits! troll machine for mysoginists, but still, there is some good writing out there that is worth looking into. And it is just scratching at the palace, but we are all alive and sometimes not paying attention to the bullshit is worth doing, even if it comes at you from a place where you actually have to think about things.
But still! That is what I keep fighting for, for myself, a way of spewing nonsense in a way that you don't even know you are reading it! And then when you are least expecting it, I slip a slippery raw finger into your asshole and give you the old whirly-gig! And you can hoot-hoot-hoot your way to unexpected bliss, not knowing it was Ol' Santy Claus that piped your chimney.
[Insert Launch Video]