[252] Screed City

[252]

06/01/2023 Thursday. Kitchen Microwave. Queens Palace. Brooklyn/Queens, NYC.

Uno de Juno. Man, like ugh, what a day. The price of being poor. So, months ago I got a ticket for speeding on the Taconic Parkway. 84 mph in a 55 mph zone. Not good. Bottom of a hill speed trap. I was driving Professor Curly's Real Estate Wagon, I thought the speed limit was 65 mph. Which, still, I would have been speeding, but it wouldn't have been egregiously so. And her car has way more muscle than Junior Mint. Plus I wasn't using cruise control. But the ticket I got was going to be a huge fine and like 3 points or 6 points on my license. Which is the kind of thing that makes your insurance rate sky rocket. So I pled not guilty and today was the court date.

Pleasant Valley, New York is two hours outside the City. I mean, Joe, my entire day was dedicated to this thing. I had to be there at 5:30p. Night court so the working class work all day and then at night pay their fines for bothering to be foolish enough to live in Society. You know, Big Society strikes again. So I did what I normally do, I put the address in my phone's map app, and kept an eye on it as I went about my day. I wanted to get there by 5p so I have plenty of time to go through security and use the bathroom and whatever else I needed to do. Which meant leaving at approximately 3p. But around 2:30p the thing went red. The hours indicator, the time thing. Suddenly 15 minutes were add on. Which, if you have ever been stuck in city traffic, that number only goes up because entropy only increases, it is like the third rule of thermo dynamics or something. Haha, I was being a wise-ass with that last comment, and it turns out I remembered right. The second law, I guess. I mean, Joe, “as one goes forward in time, the net entropy (degree of disorder) of any isolated or closed system will always increase (or at least stay the same).” So instead of waiting until 3p I hauled ass. Having spent an hour getting my outfit ready. Ironing my money, my pants, and my shirt. So I was ready to go.

[Insert Court Bro Photo]

But like predicted, things went from bad to worse pretty quick. I mean, Joe, it was 230p on a Thursday and I was heading north, how bad should I have expected traffic to be? And had I left earlier, like before the time thing went red, I would have been so damn early that would have felt like a boob. Waiting around to get shit on by the man, you know? But because I left when I did, the next three and half hours was a nightmare. I was planning to take the Taconic to get there. The scene of the crime, the hair of the dog, but my stupid app found a faster route, and when it did, I had been sitting in traffic for 30 minutes already. Feeling nervous that I was already running late, even though I had an extra hour to kill. But because I panicked, didn't think about what I was doing, I accepted the new route. Whereas, had I just stuck with my initial route, there would never in a million years, I mean, Joe, hyperbole, but everyone knows that when you get on the Taconic going north, the traffic dies down once you leave the City. So instead of waiting an extra 10 minutes in Bronks traffic or wherever the hell I was, the Hutch, and then getting past it and smoothed sailing, I was launched off into some other dumb interstate hot wet baloney nonsense that took my right into the lion's mouth or whatever, the dragon's den, the belly of the beast? Because, you know, the more opportunity for traffic, the more likely you going to get stuck in traffic. Changing interstates, connecting interstates, et cetera, et al. I mean, Joe, I hit four more traffic jams. All at four different pivot points that I could have avoided if I had just stuck to the original plan. I mean, Joe, this is why I am not that concerned about this dreaded moral panic surrounding AI that seems to have everyone’s panties in a bunch. If I would have used my huge, human brain cells, I would have told the app to GFI, as the bridesmaids say. Go fuck itself, Joe, I mean. Now some of you may be wondering why I keep referencing Joe, like I am talking to myself, I am not. I just know a guy named Joe that can't stand the phrase, "I mean," which, I do respect his feelings on the matter, the spirit of all good screeds needs to have a sense of urgency, and a breathless manner, and an almost seamless flow of diatribistic word play that should put the reader inside of the mind and verbal ticks of the screeder, which, if you came to a reading, you would understand, but on paper, as the bridesmaids say, or in print, as Big Modern would say, maybe it doesn't come off that way, and just seems like an annoying thing I do too much, right? I mean, Joe, you know what I mean, right?

So instead of being super early and annoyed that I was super early, I suddenly was running an hour late with no end in sight. The red time thing was now saying I would get to the court house at 5:28p. 5:28! That gave me two minutes to park, to change my shoes and change out of my t-shirt, put my good shirt on. There would be no time for going to the bathroom, or checking my texts, or I don't know, anything, really. I would have to show up harried and stay harried until I was safely inside the court house waiting to get fined for doing something that was only natural. I mean, Joe, I wasn't even speeding. I was going with traffic, what little traffic there was, going downhill for miles and miles, trying not to use my brakes. And the one thing I did, the real mistake I made, the actual crime I committed, was that I just didn't see the fucking Police State patrol car hiding in the bushes like everyone else. We were all smoking by the fence during recess, I just didn't happen to notice the teacher sneaking around the corner of the building intent on busting us. I mean, Joe, don't get me wrong, I was speeding, it is true, I accept that, I am not saying I shouldn't have been busted, and, you know, I don't make rules, I just train them, but I have a couple of ideas about the Taconic Parkway that could make the thing safer and less of an extra tax on people who just want to get from one place to another. Like, the mountains, make the speed limit in the mountains 50 mph. That shit is sketchy as hell. There are curves there that shouldn't be full speed. The lanes are skinny and the traffic coming from the other direction is dealing with the same shit. But after that, going north? Or even coming south, it is all straight as shit. There is no reason the speed limit needs to be 55 mph. I doesn't make sense. It is a Parkway. Big rigs aren't even allowed on it. You know? It's like the current state of American government classification, if you classify everything, then everything is classified. What is it the bridesmaids say? If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will carry guns? I mean, Joe, if all roads are speed traps, only speed traps can whistle blow.

Speaking of product placement, "Reality," Professor Curly's fantastic movie has dropped. Go to HBO dot com and give it a good watch.

So I don't know where I ended up. Stuck in traffic somewhere else. For a minute I was in Connecticut, maybe? Then back in New York. At one point the scenery was amazing. And I was having some weird enlightenment moment about driving on the interstate and being alive and what the hell was everyone else doing and who are these Christians, kind of thing, and I was digging it, but then traffic stopped and I got so frustrated I punched the dashboard. Then I thought about the very true bridesmaids saying about driving on the interstate, which goes, "Everyone that is slower than me on the highway is an idiot, and everyone going faster than me is a maniac." I mean, Joe, it is true. Such is life. Society, man.

But I did end up back on the fucking Taconic. After being stuck in traffic for an hour or so at different points. I was hot, sweaty, the music sucked, I was hungry, dehydrated. I kept going through my excuses of being late. In my mind, you know? "Your appointment is at 5:30? Cutting it pretty close, eh?" Then I say, "I gave myself an hour! I can't help traffic!" I mean, Joe, who the hell was I talking to, exactly? I mean, Joe, in my mind I was running up the court house steps, carrying a briefcase, late for my meeting with the judge, and she was going to be pissed! I know that I have watched too many shows on the computer, but I was literally late. I was 100% going to be rushing in. I needed to have a thing to say. Because people are stupid and need excuses for some reason. All of life, all of Big Society is excuses. Why were you late? I don't know, the trains were slow. Explain yourself! My bad! I left late! Bad explaining! Now we dock you money! I hope you are happy with yourself! Loser. Pull yourself up by your boot straps harder!

I mean, Joe, I still remember Iver, who was the Technical Director at the Wooster Group, my roommate at the time, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, on Norfolk street and Rivington, a 20 minute walk to the Garage, which, there was no train I could take to get there, he had me wait for him to get ready to go to work, I was ready to go with plenty of time to spare, but he had a whole bunch of shit to do before leaving the apartment, which is fine or whatever, but because he was the boss, for the job we were doing, at the Garage, I waited for him to get his shit together, and time went by, I was like a dog, waiting by the door, ready to go out to. But get this. 10 minutes turned into 20 minutes. He needed to do all sorts of shit that was not connected to the job. If I remember right, he had to shit and then shower and then et cetera and et al. And we were supposed to be there by 10a. And 9:20a became 9:30a, became 9:40a, and I am waiting and waiting. I could have left alone, with plenty of time to be early. It was an easy walk down Delancey street. Shit, I even had time to get an egg and cheese if I wanted. But instead I am waiting for his punk ass. The boss. Where work couldn't even begin until he got there. And all the sudden it is 9:50a and he realizes how late it is, the he can't walk with me to the Garage because he is going to be late, so he needs to ride his bike. And here I am, 30 minutes later than when I was going to leave, and Iver, now he is taking his bike to work and, "Hey, my bag of tools is too heavy to ride on my bike with, do you mind?" I didn't mind, I was annoyed, but he had a good point because the bag of tools was heavy, too heavy to take on your bike with you. And he leaves, out the door, pushing his bike out of the apartment, a five story walk-up, carrying it down the stairs. And I follow him out, because I have been ready to go for nearly an hour. The bag is filled with so many heavy tools that it slows me down. I lug it down Delancey street. A putt-putt because I can't walk my normal speed. Instead of it taking me the normal 20 minutes to get to the Garage, it takes me twice as much time. I get there, everyone is already hard at work. Making the magic happen. Liz LeCompte snorting lines of cocaine off of Willem Defoe's huge dick. Iver barking orders. Wondering why I showed up so late. I ignore his idiotic denigration because I think he knows exactly why I am late. But then! BUT THEN! The entire work day goes by. I know damn well I have been working for the Wooster Group since 9:50a. Since I walked out of the apartment on Norfolk street with the bag of tools that Iver couldn't take to the Garage on his bike because they were too heavy, a thing that made me late, even though I was ready to leave 40 minutes earlier than I left, and that fucker, when I was filling out the time sheet for the day, he says, "Joe, you didn't get here until 10:20, make a note of that on your time sheet."

I mean, Joe, I will never get over that. I don't care what world you think you live in, that is some brutal shit. It is not even cause and effect, it is pure blindness, and I know I have told this story time and time again, but it has defined my ideas of justice so profoundly that I don't think I will ever stop talking about it. Things like this change things.

I mean, Joe, I walked into the town hall, the place in Pleasant Valley, I mean, Joe, go back a little bit, I finally got to the turn off on the Taconic to get to the Pleasant Valley town hall. There was no court house. Parking sucked. I had to park next to the ball field that was down and below. Thinking I might get a ticket for parking wrong. Due to irony. I switched out my t-shirt for the black long sleeve. My hair was looking good. I had washed it today. My shoes were cheap, and black. The same ones I wore to the DC party thing, that I bought for $20 from a second hand shop on Myrtle Avenue. I ran to the front door of the town hall. The security guards told me that I couldn't take my phone in. I said, "Well what can I do? My appointment is at 5:30." And he said: "Take it back to your car, all appointments are at 5:30. You are going to be here for a while."

I mean, Joe, it was at this moment that it sunk in that I had spent the last three hours freaking out over nothing. I mean, Joe, I was glad that I had to go back to my car because I had left the passenger side window open, because I had spent so much time going so slowly that I was enjoying a nice warm breeze, and I threw everything I didn't need onto the seat and went back through the medal detectors and the fucking son of a bitch said, "I think it is time for a new wallet." And I said, "Yeah, I have needed a new wallet for a long time." And the wallet was fine. There was a Cushions sticker on it. And go fuck yourself, if you don't mind. But then I waited and waited and waited. The whole system being kinked. An hour of the lead prosecutor talking to lawyers that didn't need to be there. This one guy calling people's names like he was the executioner. He had a gun on his hip. The lead prosecutor making jokes. Having a big yuck about things. She had to use the bathroom, which was whatever, but then at one point she said, "Yeah, alright, I am going to take a lunch," When nobody laughed, she said, "Just joking." There were 75 people sitting there. Most of us having minor infractions like me, and she would spend a few minutes making you feel guilty and then send you to another room to deal with the judge. And all the while the guy with the gun calling people's names out to come sit in the front. And then, when there was a few free seats he would call other peoples names. It was a horrible lottery. All of us, waiting around to die. But because we showed up, there was leniency. And I don't know, I ended up in the middle. And when my name was called I went to the front and awaited my sentence. And because I can count, and could read a clock, I knew I would be out of the room, at the very most, by 7:40p, and then I would have to spend another 30 minutes in the chambers, where I would have to commit to my crimes and then pay my bill for living in Society.

Which! I don't know. The judge in the next room. I mean, Joe, I kind of loved him. He had a 5 o-clock shadow. But he also flirted with anyone female. And he was charismatic, and I think he will be in politics soon, if he isn't already, but he was no-nonsense with me. Because there was no flirting worth doing. And, whatever, anyway. The dude told me I was going to have to pay $400 for a parking ticket. Which the prosecutor had told me that I was going to have to do. And that was everything. I paid my fine. I had been drinking water from a tiny cup, when I left the chambers I remembered I had left it behind and went back to get it. I drank some water and took a piss before I left.

Driving back home was easy. There was no traffic. I stopped to get gas and something to eat. The only thing to eat was a jalapeño flavored Slender James and some Hot chips. The dude at the gas station was like, "What are you looking for?" And I said, "Oh, nothing, just something to eat." And he said, "Oh, okay, I can't help you with that." And I made a mistake going there. But there was nowhere else to go. And the sun was setting when I left, and I thought for sure I would get pulled over on the way home because the mountain pass is too fast to drive through at the speed that they suggested, but there were no cops and I was able to find parking when I got to the neighborhood, and Professor Curly is in England doing press and also, if you want to help me out, or something, I don't know what even matters anymore, but this publication in Vermont, the inertial, second rule of thermodynamics, Seven Days, has somehow, just joking, because, I mean, Joe, the Village Voice of Vermont, has, well, vote for me, to be the best moose leg that trips the light fantastic:

[Insert Best Published Auther In Vermont Link]

Oh, never mind. Some other jerk already won it.

"You can do something regardless or irrespective, Joe, but you can't do something irregardless." I mean, Joe, I don't dis-regardley speaking mis-agree with Scott, but language is pretty juicy, roink? Right about meow?

[Insert Hummina, Hummina, Meme]