[250] Screed City
[250]
05/17/2023 Wednesday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.
Say what you will about Hunter S Thompson, as a man, and as a writer, he was obnoxious and his writing did not get better as he aged, but his early writing was quite exciting, especially The Rum Diaries [Italics] and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas [Italics,] specifically that one, and specifically how it ended. How he was trying to get out of Las Vegas and then came back for some reason and then some stuff happened that I don't remember, but the story kind of peters out, and he is sitting at a bar in, for some reason I want to Denver, but that doesn't make sense, but maybe it does, I guess I could look it up or read the book again, but that is not important, what is important with regard to this, is that he is sitting in a bar, hungover, trying to make sense of what had just happened and he says something like, "There's nothing much you can do, but sit in a bar drinking beer and chain smoking cigarettes and let it all wash over you." Roughly. The point being, when you go through something, sometimes it's best to just do nothing and let your body adjust. Maybe reflect a little. That there will be more adventures in the future, but now is not the time to get into that. It was a clever way to end that book, because the last part of the thing, from what I remember, when he gets back to Las Vegas, his lawyer is gone, nothing really happens, and he kind of exposes himself for the jack ass he is, even though he would never admit it. I don't know, I kind of feel a little like that today. Tonight. Right now.
It has been a wild ride since, what? Monday? Professor Curly and I picking up Paddington at a bus stop on 42nd street in Manhattan, driving her back to Brooklyn/Queens and then whatever for the rest of the day, that night, Chinese food, then hitting the sack, Paddington on the couch, and then the next morning, some more things, then early afternoon PC leaving to get her hair and makeup done, me and Paddington hanging around, dangling around, as Rich Maxwell would say, having four hours to get ready to get in a car and go to the premiere at MOMA, but the complicated mind of an 80 year old who lives alone and enjoys nothing more than to make a fuss out of things. At one point I had to text PC to call her and explain how time works because I couldn't make her understand we needed to leave 45 minutes before we needed to be there. In Paddington's defense, it was a little complicated, timing-wise, and there were computers involved and car services and Professor Curly was going to be coming from somewhere else. But she refused to just let it go, she needed to understand, and she wasn't going to stop until she completely understood, like an 80 year old wombat butting into a naked Jack Warren passed out next to it's hole. She wasn't ever going to go around, she was simply going to butt into him until he woke up and got out of the way. It was a little surreal is all I am saying. I had to take a walk with the excuse that I needed to find a shoe horn, which I did, indeed, need, but that opened a very new, and very hard to explain can of worms, as the bridesmaids would say.
But we did it. We pulled it off. We managed to get dressed, Paddington in her cute Paddington-style outfit, me in my new black suit. Shoe-horned into my new black dress shoes. We stood on the sidewalk waiting for the car. I tried to explain what was happening, how the car was coming, that PC had sent in a request, that the side of the street we were standing on didn't have cars parked on it because it was a bus route and that after 6p it was okay to park there, that the other side of the street you could park because it wasn't a bus route. The ride into the City wasn't any less explainerous. What bridge is that? Is that the Williamsburg bridge? Every bridge was the Williamsburg bridge. And, oh, what a wonderful apartment Professor Curly had down by the Williamsburg bridge. But then she would start talking about the shows that PC had put on in the past, how she would come down to help move the sets, and they would be driving back to her apartment at one in the morning, her car filled with set pieces, and the car was so full that Jess was sitting under a chair or maybe it was Becca and is that the Williamsburg bridge? What neighborhood are we in? And I would say, I don't know, East Williamsburg maybe? No, that is the Pulaski bridge, or no, the Kosciusko bridge. And she would say, Look at that stone wall. They don't make those like that anymore. Look how tall it is. And I would say, Yeah, they got to be tall to keep all the dead people in. Because we were next to a cemetery. And she would say, I guess they wriggle around. And then she would put her hood up because the wind was blowing on the hairdo she had spent two hours coifing and I would say, You should have worn your shower cap. And she would say, I have such a good shower cap at home. I should have brought it. Then she and the driver would have a very confused conversation where she couldn't understand him and his English wasn't very good, but since understanding something was not a thing belonging to any reality of what was actually happening, he would keep talking about one thing and she would answer his questions with statements of facts relating to something entirely different, but because he didn't speak good English and she didn't know what he asked anyway, it was all just a meandering word salad of good faith confusion.
We made it to the MOMA. Right on time. Like the computers told us. There was mayhem. It was a special event. There were old friends, new friends, PC's dad and step mom, her best friend from high school, producers and producers and producers. A couple of other producers, producers from Off-Broadway, producers from Broadway, producers from the movie, from HBO, from tertiary producing produciaries, and there was also that other producer from that one producing thing.
We went inside and stood around at the red carpet for an hour. Taking pictures. Paddington asking me who everyone was. At first I genuinely tried to explain who people were, but it wasn't getting through, so I just started telling her whoever it was that she was asking about was a producer. And if that didn't fool her, I would say they were an actor. And then she became obsessed about which one was Sydney, and everyone was Sydney, especially the one blonde woman holding a microphone with a great big E on it. That one with the yellow dress, that has to be Sydney, right? No, she seems to be a news person. Are you sure? Isn't Sydney blonde? Oh, I want to get a picture. Then she would amble onto the red carpet, literally, no body stopping her, taking pictures of Professor Curly, and then wandering off further into the throng, coming back, unharmed, looking for Sydney again. Then wandering off again to some other place she wasn't supposed to be in, but explaining that she was PC's mom, and whoever was trying to stop her suddenly taking pictures for her. With her phone. And then, when Sydney finally arrived I told her that was Sydney and she said, Which one? I said, The blonde one with the black dress. She said, That's Sydney? Then I said, Yeah, see? Pointing to the very large picture of Sydney, that Sydney was standing next to. And she said, Really? That dress is a little racy, don't you think?
When it was all over I told her we should go get our seats. She said she had to use the bathroom first. I could see her ticket tucked into her purse and pushing up against her tiny little body. I don't know why I didn't ask her for it. So I could hold it for her, while she used the bathroom. Instead I winced, thinking there was going to be quite the issue shortly when she returned without her ticket. But luck prevailed and she came back with the ticket in the same place as when she had left. We took the escalator down to the theater and found our seats. When she was settled I left to use the bathroom myself. My ticket nearly getting destroyed when I washed my hands. The water from the sink and the hand dryer fighting me about it. But I managed to make it out without ruining the thing.
The show started and Professor Curly went up to the stage and gave a wonderful introduction.
[Insert Photo of PC Doing the Intro]
The film was fantastic. The new sound mix and visual adjustments really helped. It was different than Berlin, good different. Then there was a talk back. A Q&A as they say in the biz. PC and Josh did great. Sydney was kind of odd and Marshant was kind of a yuckster. And nobody was allowed to ask questions at the Q&A, I don't know how that works, but Hollywood, man. Right? And then Paddington cut Sydney off at the pass when she was walking out of the theater. To tell her she did a great job. And Sydney was very nice and it was all very cute.
After that was a mass confusion about getting to the after party. How to get all the oldsters there. There, being three blocks up 5th avenue. Luckily there were dozens of HBO funded cars waiting out front of the MOMA. Paddington and PC's Dad and step mom took a car. All the while PC was accosted by well wishers and fans. It took us forever to finally start walking the three blocks to the Armani Exchange building where the after party was. Which was a little intense. Wearing what we were wearing. Walking by un-homed people sleeping on the steps of buildings, crouched on the sidewalk. Paper bag covered cans of beer. Going to where we were going. Coming from what we had just come from. And for some reason the main security guy following us. Ushering us out. Nobody noticed but me. I was walking next to Muff. When we got to 55th street he stopped following us and turned around. I mentioned this to her. She said, Really? I said, I guess once we crossed the street we weren't his problem anymore? She laughed about this. I still don't know what he was doing. Or why he was doing what he was doing. But it really did seem like he was protecting Professor Curly from something. The unhoused? It was very odd.
Even when we got to the building where the after party was they treated PC like a celebrity. This way, Mrs. Professor Curly. And then we were in an elevator. Then we were in a fancy room. There was a man holding champagne glasses full of champagne. People mingling. Music playing. Horderves. I learned later that there was even a guy with a big chunk of meat that he would slice for you if you wanted. I didn't want that. I drank some champagne and then ordered a beer from the bar and went around doing the great big yuck up of how you been? What did you do on this? Who the hell are you? Why don't you go fuck off? Oh, you're PC's fiancé? Let me get you a golden line of cocain and a chrystal blowjob. I mean, I did look like if Brad Pitt was slightly bloated and was working security for some strange Hollywood pyramid scheme movie project. Just fancy enough to fool the idiots, but anyone that had a clue knew better.
The party was fun. At some point Paddington went missing. 20 minutes later she showed up carrying a Cosmopolitan, talking about all the great people she had met. I mean, she was kind of a party animal.
[Insert Paddington Cosmo Photo]
I drank beer and talked to people. The party partied on. Jess and Michela showed up to take Paddington home. All the people from the making of the film went to a second party. At a tiki bar on 44th. Where the beer flowed like spicy margaritas and there was some weird plank that you took shots off of. I didn't. But I won't say who did. And it was loud. And people were doing coke in the bathroom. And it was actually quite fun. And around 2a me and PC were in a car heading back to Brooklyn/Queens. We got home and woke Paddington up. Sleeping on the couch. I heated up some Chinese food for PC. She hadn't eaten at the parties and was lamenting the fact that tomorrow was going to be rough. But we were in bed by 3a and morning came pretty quick, but it was a great night out. A weird night out. I mean, aside from walking by the unhoused people while heading to the after party, I have no notes. It was strangeness to the maximum. If PC wasn't a genius and if everyone that had worked on the movie weren't such good people, I would have some thoughts. But I don't. If Hollywood and the art structure of America were these kind of people, I think we would be doing a whole hell of a lot better than we are. But things are things. And kudos to Professor Curly! She really did a great thing! Here's to much more of that!
Morning was a little intense. Packing and getting ready to head back to Vermont. New Hampshire. I made some burritos for the road. Got an unexpected phone call from James O. Which was fantastic. We talked about food and Mexico City and the state of American society. I was on the road by 11a. PC and Paddington left not long after me. The ride back was uneventful. I stopped for a quick piss and a diet Mountain Dew in New Lebanon, New York. Got back to Lower Granville where it was 40F. Supposed to freeze tonight. The boiler, the fucking boiler, I mean, I got it running and then it bunked out again. I spent two hours trying to get it running again. I figured it out though. The thing needs to lose a gallon of water and then needs to be reset before it works again. It is not a circuit board problem, it is a triggering problem. Which is very frustrating. That means that not only do you need to reset it every three days, it is not only that you need to run the pipes until the low water error gets re-triggered, you have to do it twice and you have to know how to do it, which includes emptying the cycle pipe completely and then running the thing twice. Which, sure, I can barely explain that to you right now, but what? I need to give a tutorial to anyone who I hope can make sure the heat keeps running when it freezes around here? Frost warning on May 17th? Vermont can suck it. The New Landlord can suck it.
Anyway. I made Professor Curly some risotto and butter shrimp with peas for dinner. I started running heaters in the bedroom when I got here so at least that room would be warm to sleep in. She was tired when she showed up. Having driven all the way to New Ham and then over to Vermont, hungover with an amalgam drinks. Getting Paddington back to her car. And then a cold ass house to come home to. And me, like a vanilla Hunter S Thompson, standing at the microwave, drinking a Tickler and worrying about the boiler. I don't know what is coming next, but I am looking forward to it. This has been a very wild project. A wild ride. A very unique thing to be witness to. It is very impressive. She works so very hard and it is impressive that everything seems to be paying off. I mean, I have blisters on my hands from holding on so hard to the coat tails, my knuckles are bleeding from dragging on the ground, but this is just the beginning.