[227]
02/01/2023 Wednesday. Cardboard Box. Hampshire House. Portland, Maine.
Back in Portland. Bitter cold. Insanely cold. Butwhatever. Nothing to do about it but freeze your nards off. I have been building a wall all week. The Brewery landed the Trump INC account! On an related note, the business is now bankrupt and they can't pay me for the work I have done, but I am legally obligated to finish, so I guess I will be here until Saturday.
When I got here, I parked and moved some of my things to the front porch of the house. I smelled gas. I ignored it, and went back and gathered the rest of my stuff. The old adage of; If you smell gas call the gas company went through my mind, but because the Temporary Landlord told me they were going to do some insulation work in the basement, I just assumed that is what I was smelling. I went inside and the place smelled like oil derricks smell in the badlands of Wyoming. It wasn't a gas smell exactly, more like raw oil. It was bad though, and I thought it might be impossible to stay. I went down into the basement to investigate and turn the hot water heater on. The basement was clean, no smell, no new insulation. Spray insulation is what is supposed to be installed, to clarify. I was confused. I went upstairs and opened all the windows. Not sure what to do. I mean, all of this took like half a minute, so I was still deciding what was wrong. Not thinking I was in any danger, just that there was a mysterious leak, and as I was about to make a phone call I looked at the oven. One of the burners had been turned on. Leaking gas. I turned it off and went outside. I texted the Temporary Landlord about it. He got back pretty quickly. I asked him if there had been a toddler around recently. Knowing full well he had been there because there were a bunch of things from the basement in the living room. Also, I knew he had a toddler. I was expecting him to tell me they had been there that afternoon. There was toilet paper in an unflushed toilet in the bathroom. And he wrote back that, yes, his toddler probably turned the thing on last Tuesday when they were there and could I remove the knobs from the stove. Oh! and he also lamented that that would be a fun gas bill. Six days! Six days the gas had been leaking out of the stove. I mean, I had to air out the fridge and freezer it was so bad. But, my god! How the place didn't explode is a huge mystery. I mean, the place was so inundated with gas that almost anything could have set it off. The fridge, ironically, the fire alarms, dust floating into an outlet, even just me showing up and the door scraping against the metal frame. I mean, it was Fight Club all over again. I suppose I may be being a little dramatic, but it was something I have never seen before. Or smelled, I suppose I knew the smell, but when you smell that smell in the oil fields you are outside, this was contained. Usually when I enter a new building I have a cigarette hanging from my lip, so it was good that I had a lip-ful of chaw instead.
In related news, one of the Ticklers that I left with Andy did a Fight Club maneuver itself. Except it happened at PS/NY. I really though the things were done fermenting, that there was nothing to worry about. I told Andy he should probably burp the things, just in case. Did he listen to me? Apparently not, because; Kaboom! I mean, I left the things in plastic containers in case they did a squirter, but this was not a squirter.
[Insert Tickler Explosion Photo]
I am now thinking of buying some relief valves for the things. Retrofitting them. Or whatever. I don't know. The blast blew the lid of the plastic container. Luckily nobody was around when it happened. I suppose it was the change in temperature. I do a slow ferment. 62F-65F. And as far as I could tell, the ones I left behind were the most finished, I mean, I was wrong, almost dead wrong, or at least deadly wrong, but Andy and crew are safe. The brewing space is now a hard hat area though.
I don't know, maybe you remember a couple months ago when somebody bought 162 Etiquettes [Italics?] Well, it wasn't an accident. I guess it must have been closer to three months ago, or 90 days, but they meant to buy them and they paid for them. Which, the mysterious fake Joey Truman book is dogshit compared to this mystery. Who the hell does that? What maniac buys that many copies of that fucking book? Not that it's not a great book, you should go out and get yourself a copy right now!https://whiskeytit.com/product/etiquette/. And if I know anything about how the New York Times bestseller lists work, that single purchase alone puts the book on that list. But still, who the fuck bought all those books? Some hilarious bastard with great taste, that is for certain, but to what end? I mean, Jess Barbagallo did the edit, maybe it is some sort of intellectual thing? Like they are teaching a course somewhere? On what though? How to get farted on while riding the subway? I find it extremely baffling. How does anyone even know to buy it? It never got launched because of Covid, and who spends $2,592 on a single book purchase? Is there some multi-millionaire CEO out there thinking it's a funny joke to give their employees a joke gift for Christmas instead of a bonus? I mean, I can't even say the book is, what is that word, literary punk rock, um, transgressive! It is just a collection of essays about how NYC sucks. I will take it though. More of that.
This morning was quite stressful. I woke up doing alright. Sleeping on the shag carpet is great for my back. And the heat turns off whenever you don't re-up the temperature during the night, so by the time you fall asleep, you sleep well until you get so cold you wake up thinking you have to piss and then it turns out you are merely freezing. I mean, I forgot to pack my pillows, so I have had to use the extra blanket I packed as a pillow. But this morning I woke up, feeling just fine, I made some coffee and did my normal usual things, looked at things on the computer, et cetera, et al. But half-way through my two hour morning routine, I mean, I got up at 5:30a, it dawned on me that I had left a twelve pack of beer in the back of Junior Mint. And because it was barely 10F, I was sure I was going to have a back seat full of exploded beer. Instant karma, I suppose. Andy, MY BAD. But as I was realizing this, I also realized that last night, when I left the Brewery, I had forgotten to put the chop saw and the table saw away. Which wouldn't matter if they were inside, because if they were inside, it would be annoying to other people, but it wouldn't be the end of the world, however, I had left them outside. Like, come and steal me please-style outside. So I cut my morning routine short and hauled ass out the door. The beer hadn't frozen. Thankfully. I drove the car from the parking spot to the temporary house and brought it inside, leaving it in the sink just in case. Then I hauled ass to the Brewery, thinking I just made a $1,000 dollar mistake. That I would have to go to the Home Depot and replace some very expensive tools. But it worked out just fine. Apparently Slim had my back. Oh, Slim, you are a prince! I mean, since Brother Luke left, the place is pure chaos. He never would have let something like that happen. He ran a tight ship. But now that I am the new Brother Luke, I mean, I'm sorry, it just slipped my mind. In my defense I had been working in PIE, the Tasting Room, Cellars and 110. I guess I just kind of forgot. I mean, you start working on something at 8a and then 10 hours later you are three buildings over, three projects later, I mean, you are bound to space out on something, but still, it is inexcusable. In my defense as well, we did have the Morning Meeting on top of the Brewery because they were doing tank work, so I was quite literally all over the place.
This morning, because I got to work an hour early, I was messing around, got a triple double, and I needed to ask Bob a question, so I dropped what I was doing, made sure I was wearing my high viz and walked through the Brewery and up into the IT Department. I thought it would be hilarious to come barreling through the door and yell; God-damn-it, Bob! If you fuck me one more time, I'm gonna...! And because I was an hour earlier than usual, I forgot that the Morning Meeting hadn't happened yet, and the room was filled with the entire engineering team. Naturally everyone had a great big lark about it, but because my timing was so horrible, I got sucked into the meeting. And 20 minutes later, after becoming privy to about 100% of new information that was none of my business, I said; This could have been an email. And everyone laughed and laughed and laughed, and then, being the opportunist that I was, I took the moment to talk to actual and literal experts on brewing techniques about my Tickler problem, about the exploding Ticklers and how to solve the problem. HAHAHA. I mean, I won't lie, I am having a pretty good go about it this week. Between that, the chop saw and the table saw not getting stolen, the good work the shag carpet is doing on my back, the Etiquette [Italics] news, I mean, I even brought 10 copies of DISHWASHER [Italics] for anyone that wanted to take one, and they went like hot cakes, I mean, sure, I was giving them away, but still, even when you give shit away, people seem suspect, especially in the arts, unless they are being raped and robbed, nobody can gauge the value of art, so it is a great sign that a bunch of random people took enough interest in a book that maybe they will read or not, but just the willingness to be open to it, I mean, at the same time, it says a lot about the character of the people that work at the Brewery, and I don't mean that tongue in cheek, ATBMS, I actually mean it, it also says a lot about the Brewery itself that it hires decent people. I mean, in my entire life, since as long as I can remember, the only way I know whether somebody is decent or not, it is how they treat me, specifically, because I am not the most easiest person to be accept at face value. However, if you treat me like a dick, it means you are a dick, if you treat me well, it means you are a decent person. It is as simple as that. And it's not some Christian rule of laws, what is the thing? The list? The golden rule? Treat others like you want to be treated bullshit. I am somehow a mirror. I don't know why, but I am. It is something ineffable, but true. Same too with Brother Luke. We both scream; TAKE ADVANTAGE OF US PLEASE, because, I mean, I specifically have spent my entire life trying to stay open and willing against the horrors that is American Society, whereas Brother Luke is a pure soul, who can only do the correct thing, no matter the situation, I mean, I do everything I possibly can to fuck things up, when I can fuck them up, I gold-brick and throw sand in the gears, but Brother Luke, he does the opposite, and still he gets treated like garbage. But not here, not at this Brewery. And I think it says quite a bit about the business and the people employed there. And, sure, I have been giving everyone DISHWASHER t-shirts for months now, and telling everyone about the book, but still, the fact that they are still curious and open and willing, I mean, maybe they will read it and one day the owner will think it is hilarious to buy 168 copies of the thing to give to the employees as a lark instead of a Christmas bonus, and then I will benefit twice from it.
I don't know. I feel like momentum is growing. Towards what, I don't know. Professor Curly has her film at the Berlin Film Festival in a couple weeks, I have a appointment at JD's on Monday to get Junior Mint new pipes, fresh emergency brake pads, an oil change if he can fit it in, there seems to be more work than I know what to do with, the Ticklers are top notch these days, even if they are exploding down in the City, I still have a bad tooth, and taxes are due, but I have money in the bank to deal with that, and I can afford to go to Berlin even with that bill coming due, G seems to be doing quite well in school and I am currently writing the most profound book that has ever been written, a book so immersive, yet easy to read, yet encompasses the entire emotions of what it means to be a working class artist that anyone that reads it will cry tears of confusion, and when they are reading it they won't even know they are reading anything at all, like listening to the radio, and a song comes on, and it hits all the notes in their heart that tears start to pour from their eye-holes, and snot starts to drip from their nose-holes, and bells start to ring in their ear-holes, and nuns will rip off their habits and go wild, flashing their tits at the Pope, Nuns Gone Wild: Tickler Edition, I mean, if I can gauge what is happening correctly, the nuns won't be able to read their bibles anymore, they will take a knife to it, whittle the the thing into a dildo and fuck their pussies with their dildo bibles while reading The Tickler [Italics] like some sort of Johnny Ryan cartoon. I mean, we can only hope, right?
[Insert Johnny Ryan Strip]
note* The internet sucks for finding Johnny Ryan cartoons.
Oh Joey, I wonder how it will feel when you get rich and famous.. . Glad it all worked out with the gas and the tools and things are really ok even if life sucks and is weird and beautiful and horrible all at once