[87] Screed City

[87]

01/28/2022 Friday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

It's official. The racist Albany job is back on. And guess who is in charge? Fucking hell. My worst nightmare. See, this happens to me all the time. I mean, it hasn't happened in a while because I have been so resistant, but I must have let my guard down. I mean, it happened with Wiess. I barely avoided it with Joe S. and then he accused me of gold-bricking, so, I mean. How can a guy, a guy as sketchy as me, who can barely show up to work without getting fired fall ass-backwards into being in charge? I mean, this is what I mean when I say the system is absolute bullshit. That 99% of everything is just showing up. That you should give up first and the solution will present itself. I mean, I am not bad at my job. I am actually pretty good if I focus and actually work. But still. Two months ago I was under some very strict scrutiny because I may or may not have been casing the joint while at work in some second rate art studio and now I am running a multiple hundreds of thousands of dollars job in Albany? It is all just so stupid. I mean, luckily I am in a moment of soul searching with respect to work, so I am going into this with open eyes, but still. Did someone tell them about my hot sauces? My Cubby Bubby business? The radio show? The homemade Ticklers? My t-shirt business? Just joking. I just happen to be the right idiot at the right idiotic place at the right idiotic time. I mean, instead of burning the ships when I got to the New Land I went out and bought 20 new Dishwasher merch t-shirts. Meaning, I can't turn back now. Professor Curly needs a new pair of shoes. By the way, I really hope she appreciates that the tennis bracelet I bought her for Opening Night is absolutely worthless. I mean, I did pay a lot of money for it, but when the first shots are fired and heads start rolling because of the Revolution, I mean, that thing won't buy us a single ounce of flour. Diamonds are a pure and unadulterated hoax.

Scott and I went to the sugaring store today. In New Ham. To get some pipes and plugs and stuff. The scene there is quite wild. I mean, the Maple Syrup industry is something else. I mean, at least compared to the diamond industry, it at least serves some sort of purpose other than just money. Although it is pretty close. The guy that was checking us out said:

"Do you have a file for the hose?" Meaning, are you a legit Maple Syrup provider. Scott said he did. The guy couldn't find it. "Otherwise I have to ask you less questions."

I mean, what we are doing isn't exactly illegal, it is just frowned upon. I mean, it's not like we are poaching deer. They just want to make sure that the government gets it's cut. Which would be fine if we were doing it to make money. I mean, there are millions of Maple trees in the North East. Billions? No, that seems like too many. But maybe. It doesn't matter. It's not like the government goes around and takes a census on them. And who are they to tell us that we can't tap the trees and make syrup? Not only that, but we are just buying hose. Plain old plastic hosing. There is nothing special about it. We could really get it anywhere. I mean, maybe it is "Food Grade" or whatever, but that doesn't really change anything. I mean, I just find it bizarre that they would try and regulate it on such a micro-standard. Like we are making Chrystal Meth or something. I mean, I did make the joke:

"You know what I think about this, Scott?"

"What is that, Joe?"

"Bros before hose. You know? H-O-S-E. Like a hose."

"Yeah, right."

Nobody laughed. I mean, I guess the sugaring warehouse workers don't have much of a sense of humor. After that I didn't even bother making anymore yucks. I mean, if the clientele of that place tells you anything. There were three early to middle aged women that came in wearing the same clothes that me and Scott were wearing. Meaning, that place meant business. It wasn't some Weekend Warrior playground. Even if they have shelves and shelves of maple leaf hats and shirts and candy molds. 101 books on how to make maple syrup. I mean, if anything, me and Scott were the tourists in that joint.

We packed the stuff into the car. Backed up to the hose warehouse. The guy came out and crammed a bunch of pipe into the backside. Then we drove off. Stopping for a meat puck and a soda. Then we took the back roads home. Which was very pleasant. We took VT 106 I think for a while. Which curved along a river. At one point I saw a murder of crows acting weird. When we got closer I saw what was going on. There was a deer carcass on the other side of the river. A coyote or a small wolf, I mean, I assume it was a coyote, but who knows. The coyote was chewing on the bloody carcass. The crows were trying to get in on the action. It was like something out of a nature film. We probably should have stopped and shot some video. But we didn't. We kept driving. Eventually we were spit out at Echo Lake. The place that I like to drive by when I go and pick up G from their mom. I saw a bald eagle flying by. What is it that Baby Flat Pancake calls them? Scott said it, but I always forget. A white headed turkey-pigeon? A balding air-penguin? Something like that. I mean, it was nice to see two things of "Nature" on the ride. Then we took a shortcut by Killington Mountain. Which I had never done before. I mean, I will do it next time. It doesn't take any extra time and it avoids that huge hill that I find very annoying. It is like the drive between Rutland and Manchester. Too much traffic, always. And the hill is hard on your car going up it, and hard on your car going down it. Brakes-wise. Unless you just let it ride. Which would be fine, I mean, there is no real reason to worry about how fast you are going. It is basically a highway at that point. No curves or whatever. Two lanes. But you end up going 70 mph if you just let off the accelerator. Which is also just fine, except the speed limit is 50 mph. So if there is a cop dangling around, you will get pulled over. For no real reason aside from not wanting to ruin your brakes.

I am going to Lake Shore High School Monday morning. Lake Shore is almost exactly where Niagara Falls is. Which is kind of cool. I hope I finally get to see it. But still, I need to be at the shop by 7a on Monday. We are doing a week of demo and then coming back. The ride between the shop and the job site is a five hour drive. I mean, 10 hours of travel at minimum wage. That really makes the blood boil. Considering the job is prevailing wage. I mean, it's not like they have anyone there local that can do the job. And if that was the case, they would surely have won the bid for the job. I mean, there is nothing in the bid that would suggest that the difference between BMI getting the job and not getting the job is $1,800 dollars versus $300 dollars. I mean, whatever. The travel pay is a huge issue. To me. One of these days this will bite them in the ass so bad that they reconsider the policy. But until that happens, I guess it will be what it is. I mean, if was an actual conversation and they actually wanted to figure out how to save money without nickel and diming the crew that actually does the work that makes them the money, I mean, we could have that conversation. But that will never happen. It hasn't happened once in the 25 years I have been doing this shit. Why should it start now? But still, one day, you will see. I mean, they already lost Eric because of this shit. I mean, he is the asshole that should be in charge of the racist Albany job, not me. He is WAY more qualified. But they burned him out. And it only took like four months. Because of bullshit like this. I mean, just throwing money at problems to fix them doesn't always work, but in this instance it would solve everything. I mean, when you tell your employees that you don't value their time and that makes them do math about coming to work for you? I mean, you will lose the good ones every time. Because the good ones have other shit to do. And a job like this, where we are doing demolition and maybe the job won't go the entire week and ten hours of that work is almost no pay? I would rather almost just sit at home and wait for something better to come along. I mean, I also just said I was probably not the right person to do the racist Albany job, so maybe I am now in the "System" but still. I have all this Tickler juice to worry about. I got to wait for the t-shirts to show up. I have a reading in the City on the 17th. I mean, I got shit to do!

Tomorrow morning we are going to run hose for the sugar line. Scott spotted some fresh trunk to tap. He wants to run the main-line on the other side of the draw so we can get a more reliable flow. I am going to bring my horse-shoes. Which should help. Last year was a lot of crotch-dipping. But if we do it right this year, and stay focused, we might not need to worry about it in the coming years. I mean, once those juices get flowing, we got tasty pancakes for days! I mean, I wonder if some syrup producers also connect their cows to the hoses? That way they can make butter while they are making the syrup, right? I mean, why not somehow connect the ax to the churner? Every up swing, you churn. Every down swing, you churn. I mean, there are quite a few logs to split, right? Why not make a log splitting/butter churning machine? Save some work. Or put all of your work to work. And then, you can have a griddle connected to the reducer so you can fry up the pancakes at the same time you are making the syrup. I mean, Henry Ford wasn't so smart. It's just simple math, really. Chop, chop, churn, churn, squirt, squirt, fry. Shit, you could probably even charge people to come and make their own butter/syrup/pancakes. Like those assholes with the apple picking farms. You could hand out flannel shirts that said:

"Vermonters Do It With Syrup"

The whole family could get involved. You could have little cabins that they could sleep in for the night and get drunk off of Maple Syrup Ticklers. And then in the morning, when they are hung over, you could get them to slaughter the pigs and make bacon for the pancake breakfasts they came up to Vermont to eat. I mean, it is a win/win/win.

I don't know. I might set my alarm for early. Meaning 7a. I mean, I have to get up before 5a on Monday. I should start to reset my internal clock again. I haven't had a lick of work this entire month. I mean, even before that. I mean, I think we ended the racist Albany job before Christmas, right? I haven't done shit since them. Money-wise. I have done tons of other things. But not money-related. I mean, I guess I need to come out of retirement. I should wake up early tomorrow. I just should. I mean, I haven't been sleeping very well. I had some dream last night that Joe Biden was Neal Young. I kept looking at him playing his sweet guitar, but it was Joe Biden and I just kept saying:

"Man, he doesn't look like he could do it, but back in the day, that guy could rock. I mean, he still has it! Are you seeing this?" And Joe Biden was absolutely shredding on the guitar. I couldn't believe it. I really couldn't. I mean, I don't know what that dream means, but I am okay with the idea of Neal Young and Joe Biden being burned out rockers doing the right thing. I mean, you can still be old and rock at the same time. Right?

I think I am done posting Postal Teen to this thing. It is too much. I mean, I will send it to the few people that might actually read it, but I don't think it needs to be just shoved out there into the world. The imagery is too severe. People's nerves are shot. I mean, I am writing it because of a promise that I made to myself. Nobody else made that promise. There is no reason to make it public. I mean, it is just too brutal. I mean, just so you know. If you are interested in reading it as it comes out, just send me a message. Otherwise I am going to just make a short list of people that I will do a personal electronic mail thing. I mean, I understand that this is buried in the eighth paragraph in a screed about work and making maple syrup, but that is all I can do. None of this really matters anyway. Not enough to just put hard to digest fiction out there just because. I mean, you know what I mean, right? So, if you are wondering why you aren't getting the thing. Postal Teen. This is why. You can ask me to put you on the list. Otherwise.

The house is a mess. I need to clean it up on Sunday. I put the first gallon of homemade Tickler in the fridge. I will do a gelatin cleanse tomorrow. When all the solids are cold. I mean, I transferred the stuff into the gallon jug I got from TJ Maxx. There was quite a bit of detritus on the bottom. I am a little worried that the thing is still fermenting. Although, I don't think it will explode or anything. I just worry is all. I mean, I will find out tomorrow if the pressure is too much. I mean, the second Tickler will be ready by tomorrow. The third on Sunday. I mean, I did a gravity reading. 5% alcohol. Just like predicted. The stuff smells good. I mean, I think I did a good job. No, I did a great job! I started a fourth Tickler this evening. One that will be ready by next Friday. I mean, we will see. I have to do this other thing to put the bubbles in. I mean, I need to add a little bit of sugar and then let it ferment a little bit longer. But I don't need to leave it in the fridge for that. The reason it is in the fridge right now, the first Tickler, is because the solids will solidify more when they are cold. I mean, I won't be able to do that with the third one, I won't have time, but that will be good, I will have a kind of test thing, a control of sorts. I mean, maybe it doesn't matter what the temperature is. Maybe the solids will solidify without having to be cold. I mean, also, the more time you let the things sit around the more the stuff will fall to the bottom. And since I am not bottling the Ticklers, I am just jugging them, I mean, I don't fucking know. I am talking out of my ass right now. If I really thought about it, I would probably just run the shit through a coffee filter and end up with a huge mess. I mean, the real science the only science, is that the shit needs to settle and that takes time. I mean, it is really just a question of how much time and effort I want to put into having a clear Tickler. And, I mean, I will have four gallons of the junk by next weekend. I mean, THAT IS A SHIT LOAD OF TICKLERS. I mean, like two cases. And if the stuff is junk, I mean, then what? I make four gallons of Tickler vinegar? I mean, why not? But still, I don't want that, Professor Curly doesn't want that. Nobody wants that! So, we will see. I think, I mean, I just had a thought that I would try it out on Sunday night, but if the shit is just a Hangover Hammer Blow, I don't think I will want to drink it before getting up at 430a on Monday morning. Right? I would be smart to try it out next Saturday. That way if I am sick from the Brown Bottle Flu then I will have all of Sunday to recover. I mean, you see what I mean?

Butwhatever, here is where the cover of Dishwasher has gotten so far:

[insert new Dishwasher cover]