[84] Screed City

[84]

01/22/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

When I woke up that fateful morning I had no idea where the day would take me. Just joking. That is how you should never start your college application. I mean, if anyone is planning on applying for college any time soon. When I woke up this morning, I had no idea where the day would take me.

I mean, last night I was doing a bunch of writing. I have been doing a bunch of writing lately. Maybe you have noticed? I mean, I got news for you, when you are stuck inside for days on end because the weather is absolutely freezing, you kind of make up for it by doing inside stuff. Which, I mean, I am not embarrassed. I mean, I figure I am at the peak of my output at this very moment. I will slow down soon enough. But until that happens, I am not going to curb myself just because I feel like it might be too much. Nobody has to read it. In fact, I don't expect anyone to read it. I have said this before. It would be impossible to keep up unless you are dedicated to reading it. Which, whatever. That is cool. But if not, you simply ignore it, right?

But last night I got some mixed messages. On one hand I got a very encouraging response that told me to keep at it. And another message that said: Why would anyone read all of this shit? The two ends of the spectrum. To the person that encouraged me I sent an kissing face emoji. To the other guy I sent a link to someone getting their butt waxed on youtube. I mean, I feel like I made my point. The video I sent had 500,000 views. Meaning, sure, it is a lot of shit, but still, there is a video on youtube that gets 500,000 views and it is of a guy that is getting his hairy butt waxed. No sound.

[insert butt waxing video]

I mean, the message I got back after sending that was UNSCRUBSCRIBE. I mean, I don't mean to Unsubscribe-shame anyone. But still, this is a newsletter. You can just unsubscribe on the bottom of this electronic mail. No skin off of my nards. It is not for everyone. But still, it got me thinking. Thinking about messaging. About how things are perceived in this world. The spectrum of acceptance and the computer. I mean, I wasn't expecting any messages. I had just sent out two different things to this list per day for like three days. I knew it was too much, but I also know that half the people like the update stuff and half the people like the fiction stuff and some people like both and some people like neither. All of it is just a learning adventure. For me, mostly. I mean, I don't read every electronic mail I get. And the ones I don't want to read, I just don't read. I mean, I get an electronic mail every day from the Segal Center. Every day. I mean, I don't feel compelled to read the mails. I just don't read them unless I want to. I mean, it is the computer. And I guess that is what really got me thinking. About the nature of a connected world where someone can be offended from too much sharing and then get mad about it when the person you are mad at responds in a way that you don't like. I mean, I was probably wrong to send that video, but I do think it made my point pretty good. And it kind of stinks that it overshadowed the good message that I received. Meaning, the world of the computer is driven more by anger than it is by love. And once I realized this, like actually realized this, I joined Twitter. I mean, I am not going to be proactive on the site, I will just have this shit posted on there every day when I finish writing it. I mean, this newsletter is love. There needs to be more love out there.

Speaking of the absence of love. When I woke up this morning I had no idea how bad things would get. Just joking. I mean, that first line of the Outsiders. When I walked out of the movie theater into the bright sunlight I had two things on my mind, Paul Newman and a ride home. I mean, that is a great book. Did you know it was written by a 15 year old? A girl nonetheless. Pretty cool. But my point is, I woke up and it was real nice upstairs. The temperature fell ten degrees as I walked down the stairs. I mean, it was 67F upstairs and 57F downstairs. I tried to ignore it. Then I couldn't ignore it. The pipes were gurgling. It was -9F below outside. The heater wasn't working. I nuked some coffee. Put a kettle on to boil. For more coffee. Then I took a screwdriver and started bleeding the heating pipes. At first water was coming out. Then air. Then water. Then nothing. I made sure all the pipes were working. The kitchen sink. The bathroom sinks. Everything was fine. I went down into the basement. I was getting two different messages from the boiler. The thing wasn't getting any water. Error 80. And it was too hot. Error 15. I think. I don't remember. It was either Error 15 or Error 16. Either one. I mean, I know they are different. But the one that meant it was getting too hot and therefore shutting down because of it. I ran the pipes until there was no water left in the system. Unplugged the boiler. Plugged it back in. Then it was just giving me the one error message. Error 80. The one about no water. I sat there looking. Defeated. It was very cold. It would only get colder. I almost went upstairs and started packing a bag. I was going to drive to Philly. Fuck this house. But then I turned this lever. It sent water to the boiler. I unplugged the boiler. Went back upstairs and did more pipe tests. I went back downstairs. Plugged the thing in. It worked for a while. Then it stopped. I turned the lever back off. Or whatever. Unplugged the boiler. Then I went upstairs and kind of did nothing for about ten minutes. Went back downstairs. Into the basement. Plugged the boiler back in. It started up. Then, like some fucking miracle, it works just fine now. Even better than fine. The best it has ever worked. The pipes don't gurgle. It is 67F upstairs and downstairs. I mean, the only thing I can think that really happened was I bled the pipes correctly. I mean, I bled them incorrectly to the point that they created a malfunction, and then I reset the entire system. I mean, it was an accident, but it worked out in the end. And I am still in Vermont. Not in Philly.

But that was a bummer of a morning. But then it got better. The Publisher and Grit picked me up. We went to Warren for a ski race. Grit did great. Z did very great. There were only a few nine year old tears. I mean, the scene was a little wild. I really do think that Vermont is the Norway of America. I mean, minus the smoking and snus consumption. Grouchy white people skiing. Lots of Koselig Culture. Cute kids doing cute kid things. Hot cocoa. Lots of participation awards. Which is fine by me. I mean, I am a parent, but not a parent here. My teenage vibes goes to school in New York. But, I mean, these kids are like nine years old. Competition is kind of meaningless. But, I mean, this is still America. The racist right would be pissed if they saw this thing go down. They would force all the kids to do more homework or something. And somehow make it about hitting each other because life is about victory. Then they would burn all your books because somebodies feelings got hurt. How dare you make me feel bad the we are losing the culture war? I mean, god bless Vermont and keep it liberal. I mean, if you want actual stoicism. Actual self-sacrifice for the greater good. I mean, whatever. Sure, the ski race was only White kids. And sure, nobody poor was there. But the general idea was very nice. These things will change over time. I mean, Vermont is very open to new people moving into the state. The problem though is that there is no reason to move here. I mean, unless you have money. I mean, nobody is moving to Vermont to work at Hannaford's. Or to start a local carpentry business. You would get tons of work, for sure, but you can only work half the year, basically. And even then, you have to be able to work in like a 100 mile radius. Which, I mean, that is a lot of work just getting to the work. And unless you have a very large slush-fund, you won't be able to bridge your business for long enough to start making money. And then the local workers are people like Stony Mike. Who deserves a punch in the gut. I mean, the whole reason the boiler wasn't working is because he hooked his bong to the wrong hose two Summers ago. Plus, it was the wrong bong, he should have used his hookah. I mean, even I know that and I know nothing about plumbing.

I mean, all my hilarious musings aside, the Publisher and Grit came over for dinner. We had pizza. From Hubbard’s. Half-pepperoni, half-mushrooms. Tasty salad. With avocados and a mild vinaigrette dressing. Not like the very obnoxious ones I make. I mean, I said this to Professor Curly. I mean, she said:

"You make a great salad dressing!" And I said:

"So you say, I don't know, because I can't stand the shit."

I mean, the Publisher's vinaigrette was fantastic. Mild. Unlike my sour bomb of overwhelming garlic and salt. I mean, I am more of a Ranch dude. But this was very good. I should take a lesson.

But back to shooting out too much shit. We did some configuring. Thought some things up. The problem with doing too much is that you have too much shit going out. The problem with not doing enough is you have too little shit going out. But in this day and age if you don't continually bombard people they forget about you the second they log onto wagonboi.com. Which is just fine by me. But when you get called out for finishing one thing and then starting another thing and it hurts someone's feelings, I mean, I don't know what to say about that. It really is the question of this age. I mean, I am not spitting this shit out for attention, I just know my time on this earth is limited and I want to cram all my working hours in while I still have a chance. I mean, in ten years when my brain dries up and I am just editing my shit from a decade ago, I can say:

"Damn! What the fuck? If I spend the next ten years on this shit, I will still have too much shit to do."

And I will be happy about that. I mean, the reason I started Postal Teen is because I put that on my list of shit to do this year. Now is the best time. Stuck inside. Abused by the weather. Getting poorer by the day. I mean, it's not like the thing is going to be a breezy Summer read. It is the third part in a tryptic of books that I started six years ago? Seven? I mean, the thing needs to be finished. I am not an idiot. I refuse to wait until the timing is right. There is no right time to write a book about a 13 year old boy getting abused by the system. I mean, maybe, just maybe, when you are stuck inside for days because it is sub-zero outside and you can't even feed the goats without your fingers getting stuck to the metal gate because you had to clear some snow from the watering bowl. I mean, I don't really mean you should strike while the iron is hot, like the bridesmaids would want you to believe, but strike while you are making metal. I mean, make bread while you are baking. I mean, don't make bread while the iron is hot. Unless your bread is getting cooked by your iron fire or whatever. I mean, I don't know. It would be one thing if everything was just the same. But it is not. There are about 10 different systems all working at the same time. It just looks like a big muddled bunch of diahhrea from the outside. From the inside it is pretty clear:

The noir stuff is for serials

The newsletter stuff is for the people

The heady book stuff is for the future

And all of it just feeds off of itself. If I can figure out how to say the exact thing I mean to say without having to go back and adjust everything I will just increase my efficiency to a degree that I won't need to spend time circling around ideas anymore. Or, maybe I do, but at that point it will be on purpose. I mean, I feel like Soft Elbows might be unreadable. IFF, if and only if, there is a moment when you want to read 216 pages of a run-on sentence. I mean, IT IS NOT FOR EVERYBODY. And so what? Don't read it. Nobody is holding a gun to your head. I mean, that just gave me a new idea. A story about a guy that has to read a book because someone is holding a gun to his head. I mean, that would be part of the Serial thing. I mean, do you see what I am saying? Do I even need to parse this idea out. This UNSCRUBSCIBE? But that is also the point. When I finally break through that idea there won't even need to be a question about it. I will just see the reality of all of this come into stark focus and I will probably just go right back to using sentence fragments and suggestive narrative instead of long winded diatribes about the difference between someone egging you on and someone telling you to stop.

I mean, it is a weird thing to think about your feelings all day long. And then to decide that you actually don't have any feelings. Nothing changes anything. You have one life that you are living. Do you crap out all your ideas at once? Or do you parse them out in hopes that somehow you can edge your talents into one great explosion that has a great big audience? I mean, I am not writing children’s stories. I mean, Postal Teen is magical realism. But still, nobody is going to read the book to kindergarten kids because there are talking pigeons. I mean, right? But then, I guess you need to read the other books in the series. Maybe? I mean, the whole thing will only tie itself together once Postal Teen is finished. I mean, go back and read Postal Child. Read Parlay. I dare you. And then, maybe then, you can send me an electronic mail that says:

"Who is going to read all of this shit?"

And maybe then, I won't send you a video of a guy getting his butt waxed and we can have an actual conversation about writing and literature and inundative exposure. I mean, I understand it might be too much, but so what? You choose your level of involvement. Not me. I really doubt Stephen King gets a lot of fan mail that tells him to shut his pie-hole. Or, maybe he does. And my guess is that he would turn that into a novel and sell it right back to you and make a million dollars doing it. The problem is not the firehose, the problem is the fire.

And we didn't start the fire. I won't do it. I won't put that video here. It would be funny, but if you want to know what is wrong with artists putting too much shit out there that nobody wants, I would start with Billy Joel---

Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team

Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland

Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Krushchev

Princess Grace, Peyton Place, Trouble in the Suez

---Not me.