Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.


Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


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Like my brownhouse:
   an excuse me but zone
Tuesday, July 18 2000

Today everything was peaches and cream between me and Kim. In the evening she took me out to a pizza place on Wilshire near 20th Street, a restaurant with the somewhat dubious name of Earth, Wind and Flour. Inside, the lighting was a little harsh and the decorations sort of jarring (what was up with the sawdust on the floor and the playing cards stuck to the ceiling?), but at least the food was good. And a pitcher of Sierra Nevada was only nine dollars and something. By this point I've been to lots of greater-LA restaurants, and I'd say that the clientele of Earth, Wind and Flour is not exactly hip and/or trendy.
I suppose my biggest complaint about the place was the music. The restaurant obviously used one of those cable-music systems pioneered by the visionaries at Muzak. But what kind of music was it? The first song we noticed sounded something like a familiar late-80s rock and roll ballad. Usually when I hear music from a familiar rock and roll genre that don't recognize, it turns out that the song is Christian Rock. But in this case that probably wasn't true. Oddly enough, the station seemed to focus on playing obscure songs from popular adult contemporary artists. The next song was a Dave Matthews diddy I couldn't place, followed up by Lenny Kravitz doing an all-acoustic version of his singularly dreadful tune "Fly Away." (It's rare, even when I'm listening to music on random radio stations, that I hear lyrics quite this bad.)
Given the fact that Earth, Wind and Flour makes good pizza but "needs improvement" when it comes to atmosphere, Kim asked about their delivery area. Lucky for us, we're a few blocks inside their relative small 15-block delivery radius. We haven't had many food delivery challenges since moving to Los Angeles, but we've had an unexpectedly difficult time finding a shop capable of delivering pizzas that we can actually enjoy eating.

When we got home, Kim finally got around to checking the mailbox out in front and found the following anonymous letter:

As Kim later observed, within the same paragraph as a reference to Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, "I guess we're a little too wild for West LA."

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