[229] Screed City
[229]
02/13/2022 Monday. Kitchen Microwave. Queens House. Brooklyn, New York.
Down in the City again. Took the train down. Which was nice. In a way. Slow as molasses. Plus I had to pack everything I needed into a single duffel bag. Which meant arriving in Times Square basically, technically it is Madison Square Park, but to go from Butthole, Vermont to riding on a train for seven hours and then having to navigate three blocks of tourist throngs of self absorbed fools while lugging 50 lbs of duffel and a bag with two 2 liter Ticklers and nine burritos, it reminded me what it was like commuting in the City. Which is a pain in the ass. And then to be on the subway for an hour, hitting all the hot spots in Manhattan and then the cool Brooklyn crowd all while trying to stay out of peoples way while being a giant lug. Not only that, but for some reason I put on Levi's 501 jeans on today, my Don't Stop Believing shirt with Santy Claus on it, my Australian boots and a Wrangler's snap button brush popper, my beat up Wyoming bucking horse cowboy ball cap, I mean, not only was I giant lug, but I was also a huge hick. I mean, I suppose it was funny, but it was more like, the more things change kind of thing. The less money you have the harder everything is. I am not saying that paying for a $70 dollar train ticket to Manhattan and then taking the subway for an hour so I can fly to Berlin to go to a film festival makes me a poor, but the PSTD of being poor so many decades in the City, how many countless hours on the train with a giant bag of tools, making shit wages for doing work I really didn't care for, and if this was my triumphant return? I mean, no offense Society, but you need to throw better parties.
I don't know, I need to be less negative, as Gandy Gavin used to say: "Stop being so negative, man." And this from a guy that would die at the ripe old age of 39. Shit, his birthday is in a few days. Happy birthday you uncouth German genius weirdo! Miss you down here, or over hear, or up here, wherever the hell it is people go when they die.
But life in Vermont, man. You want to know how much my muffler cost me? $1,301. For fuck's sake. It wasn't just the muffler, sure, but that was the impetus, and I don't even know if I needed to replace the thing. I was just afraid I would get pulled over, and, I mean, as much as I hate cops, they are pretty fucking awful. I feel like that is a Left leaning version of their very dumb; "My pronouns are kiss my ass!" joke. It's not funny and it is merely an expression of anger towards something I don't understand, the cops, I mean, but you make a joke where the punchline is the same as the set up. At that point it is just a statement. Anyway, we bought the car for $3,000. Spending half of that buying a new muffler and some ball joint thing and an oil change and getting new emergency brake brake pads and an inspection sticker, I mean, it is like the rental car all over again. I would be better off just buying a new used car and then leaving it in the airport parking lot when I am done with it. Or joining a crash-up derby and maybe winning the prize. Do you think you have to take your car home with you after those things? Or is there like a pit in the back that they dump your car in for you afterwards? I mean, of all of the entertainment in Wyoming, those were my favorite. The rodeos were boring as hell, the bull riding stuff just seemed like watching somebody get knocked around for a while, the pig wrestling was traumatizing, the tractor pulls and mud bogs were just stupid, but the crash-up derby? A bunch of cars just driving around and hitting each other? Pure gold! Because no matter what happens, it does not end well. In the end it is just two limp heaps kind of slapping each other until only one of them can kind of move. It's like watching inertia until completion. And the money shot is just a flat fart in the wind. I mean, who the hell invented the thing? They ought to write a book about it.
I mean, speaking of writing. I finally did it! I started writing in the day time! And oh boy, what a fucking trip! Well, I don't know how to describe this, so I need to give some context. I have been writing this book called; The Tickler [Italics,] but it was first called; Tickler, which doesn't need italics because it was never finished, but that didn't work, because the story was too boring for words, literally, and then it turned into; Ticklers, no italics needed because it was equally too boring for words, literally, but then I did this hybrid thing where I told the story while juxtaposing it with my actual life and developing the characters in the story instead of the plot, which, the plot was the problem, it was about this guy, Tickler, that was going to figure out how to make booze cheap for the poor people in Vermont and his plan was to make a yeasty sugar water concoction that he sold to people as a soft drink that would eventually turn into something with booze in it, but right? Snooze fest. Like, how is that even a short story? Especially in this day and age as the bridesmaids say. The plot sucked. But then; The Tickler [Italics,] was about these five weirdos in some towns in New England that had overlapping lives while being told from the perspective of the least likeable of the five and blah, blah, blah, meta-narrative. But as I am writing this, I decide to write this screenplay, and you know, the first thing about writing you learn is to write what the bridesmaids know, which is your learned experience, hold on, don't get discouraged, I do have a point I am going to make, this isn't a writing lesson, but the way I forced myself to finally write in the daytime was to go for a hike uphill for about 30 minutes in very crusty snow and it was exhausting and sweaty and hard, and when I came back down from the hill I told myself I had one hour of writing to do, then I could fuck around and passively exist. Well, the writing I started doing was the screenplay for The Tickler. But because I had written the very boring book three times by now, I used the third version's meta narrative as my starting point. So, basically, I was writing the book again for the fourth time, except now I am using stage directions or whatever you want to call it, however you want to call screenplay writing, I mean, it's like writing a cookbook, but with emotions.
The writing went fantastic. I wrote for two hours, and then I took a break, but not because I wanted to, but because I decided that was what I should do. But then, later in the afternoon, I started writing the screenplay again. Stone cold sober and unadorned, unblemished, clean, straight, I mean, the writing was no different than what I am writing now, but the actions were, and my biggest problem with writing is my hyper-focus, depending, I guess, I would say my bigger problem with my writing is my insistence on minutiae, but that is a style issue, but when I write it is impossible for me to do anything else, and why should I? But it's not like I am getting paid for this, well, there is a few dollars here and there, but nobody is like; Write this shit now, or your ass is heading to the work house, fucker. It's a hobby. Sure, a hobby that has gotten out of control, but it is still just a hobby. So taking it as seriously as I take it, for my own benefit, I get hyper-focused when I am doing it, and time disappears and when I am writing at night, I usually have a relief valve that kind of spends me and I physically have to stop, otherwise I will just pass out in front of the computer and wake up in a pool of my own urine.
Imagine my surprise when I realized that I could do this without having that governor? I mean, I wrote for three hours without stopping, then, then! Because the time came when I was able to stop doing my daytime work, read; Waiting around to write, because my money work right now is so very specific that I have a whole hell of a lot of free time, followed by weeks at a time of nothing but physical work, I mean, to go from writing this thing that is basically a minute to minute journal of my personal minutiae, and then switching over to write a fictional thing that is also a meta narrative, I mean, my brain exploded. I couldn't tell what was real and what was me just writing about the thing that I was doing. It was very weird. Like I needed to drink some water? I felt like I needed to write the words; Tickler took a glass down from the shelf and poured himself a glass of water, standing over the sink. He thought about what the next line in the screenplay should be. A little bit of water dripped down his chin. He looked out the window, thinking about the squirrels he had bought the pellet gun to shoot were up to. Do squirrels hibernate?
I mean, it gave me a panic attack for the ages. ATBMS. I thought I had broken my mind. Or transcended or something. It wasn't exactly out of body type of shit, but I will say, I drank a few extra glasses of Ticklers that night. Meaning, I am not sure it is the healthiest thing for me to do, to write in the day, or more specifically, if you don't hear from me for a few weeks, it is because I started writing something in the daytime. I mean, it's a fucking trip. Like finally fucking someone you like when you are in your 20's. Who you stop only hooking up with after you're done for the night. Like, not being hungover or drunk. Just, fuck-fuck-fuck. Like, who knew there was that option? And I am not saying that I write this shit two sheets to the wind after playing music for hours and then stumbling home side-eyed, I mean, this is a controlled burn. A very regimented thing that took decades to produce, a working class schedule that could only happen once the money got made, but, my lord, if things continue they way that have been proceeding, I may just stop working altogether and be done with it until my bank account is empty and the New Landlord staples an eviction to my door.
Crack. My point is that writing in the the daytime is crack. For me. If the whole idea of writing is to share my brain with your brain, to share an understanding of what life looks like from my perspective so you can compare it to what your life looks like from your perspective, I mean, remember that dream I had about Stephen King? The horror writer. Not the fascist border Nazi, who looks like a right wing wet dream of what a Jewish Holocaust denier looks like. I mean, of course you don't remember the dream. But in the dream, Stephen King was standing on top of a ladder, he had a huge dick, I could see it in the imprint of his pants, and he was painting the world, and I said; "Holy shit! You have painted 85% of the world!" And he had. There were a few places that were still blank, but he had done a pretty good job of it.
Anyway, it was insane. I don't know exactly how I will proceed, but when I told the Publisher about this, at Grit's ski race, she just shook her head at me. I mean, I am sure that is all she needs, a writer working at full capacity. I mean, we are narcissistic to begin with, and now, having new special skills of having a greater, more efficient output? I mean, sure, if I was Stephen King, keep em' coming! Ca-ching! But I would imagine she would prefer I used my spare time using social media and maybe trying just the tiniest bit to sell the actual books that were out there in the actual world, instead of seeing how crazy I can make myself grabbing every single wild idea I have and putting down into text. But, you know, you don't publish the writers you want, you publish the writers you have.
See! That is how you set up a joke and deliver a punchline. It only takes three breathless paragraphs and a wild side-thing combined with a self-obsessed narcissitic take on what it means to make art, and then self-deprecating right at the last minute just to cover your ass.
See! That is a double-punchline. Okay, I am getting out of this meta-narrative ASAP, otherwise I am going to have another attack.
Lastly, I have to tell you, I put the pressure valve releases on the new Ticklers, and boy am I going to win the Cormac MacArthur for it. The BrewGenius award of the year. I did it! I successfully put bubbles in beer. And it is so simple. When they reach 60 lbs psi, they off-gas. And that's it. No vapor locks. No burping. As the bridesmaids say. A term that Professor Curly can't stand. For good reason. I mean, I am thisclose to finishing my own Manhattan Project. And by the way, I mean, I was going to end this with Yahoo Serious putting bubbles in beer from Young Einstein, but I will also put this Richard Feynman thing that you should listen to. I don't know; Surely You Are Joking, Mr. Feynman [Italics,] is one of the best books you should ever read. The guy is a prick, like a horrible asshole, but he is very smart and very entertaining, he reminds me of Gandalf from before, Gandy Gavin, he is the impetus for all of the MOTH things and the TED things. You know? Like punk rock before Nirvana.
[Insert Bubbles In Beer]
[Insert Feynman Talking About Los Alamos]