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



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   BRAWL in Rosendale
Friday, July 17 2009
Since deciding not to put it in my greenhouse, I've been mulling over in my mind where to put my prototype composting toilet. A plan that actually predates the greenhouse had me putting a composting outhouse off the side of the east deck, and I thought about that more today, wondering how that might affect views from the house and the winter sun.
While that was still churning semi-unproductively in my head, I resumed the sort of mindless greenhouse work that is possible whenever the water table falls below the bottom of the greenhouse well (as it can do quickly in the summer, even with all the precipitation we've been having, because of the demanding tree roots). The well went dry either yesterday or the day before, and I've resumed my off-again/on-again well deepening program, a program that has made little progress since late February. That was when I reached a particularly tough layer of bluestone, and I've only managed to chip down two or three inches deeper since then. Yesterday I started using a 7 inch diamond dry saw to slice deep cuts into this tough basement rock, but even with these artificial faults the rock could only be broken off a tablespoon at a time. I had more luck with the shallower south part of the the well hole, where I finally managed to break off some large chunks of bluestone to make it nearly as deep as the rest of the well. Interestingly, when this bluestone broke, it did so in a plane that included pea-sized brachiopod fossils. (It's rare that I find fossils in bedrock, and when I do I always take note.) I calculated that the well is now roughly large enough to hold 80 gallons of water.

This evening Gretchen dragged me to a women's arm wrestling competition being held by a group called BRAWL to benefit Planned Parenthood at the Rosendale Café. She'd heard about it through our friend Deborah. My expectations were low, and I was only going because Gretchen seemed insistent (in a way I just never am). But we weren't in the Rosendale Café long before there was a palpable festive feeling in the air. People, well, women, were showing up in various anachronistic outfits, many from the 1950s and 1960s that are easy to assemble easily from thrift stores. There was also a crew of women with a 1980s theme going on, as well as some who just wanted to look sexy. There was a large lesbian presence, but most of the men there were boyfriends and husbands.
Gretchen and I had come early so we could eat a meal before the show. Dining is always a risky adventure at the Rosendale Café whenever one strays from the known good stuff. I ordered a tempeh reuben with soy cheese which turned out pretty good, but the bowl of black bean chili was little more than a heated can of Goya garnished with a few slices of jalapeño pepper. Beans are one of the easiest foods to fashion into deliciousness, and yet the Rosendale Café often fails when attempting bean dishes. (Whatever you do, don't order their burrito. I've made that mistake before.)
Eventually Deborah arrived and soon was trying to figure out what beer to order. I was trying the only IPA on tap, Harpoon, and finding it deeply unsatisfying. I've been on an IPA-only kick since the visit to the Pacific Northwest, and I'd venture to say that Harpoon is the worst I've had. It has a bitter flavor while providing almost no body, though riding atop that is a slightly-unpleasant perfumy essence. Strangely, the Rosendale Café has two of the three Keegan Ales beers on tap (Keegan is the local Kingston brewery), but they don't have Hurricane Kitty, Keegan's almost-unsurpassed IPA. I ended up wandering from one of the on-tap beers to the next, trying to find something I enjoyed drinking, but it seems that the Rosendale Café knows about as much about beers as it does about beans.
After we'd finished our meal, the arm wrestling event began. Our table (and the others nearest the arm wrestling table) were cleared away, and then the rapidly-densifying crowd pushed itself in.
The only special equipment for the competition was a special arm wresting table with pads for the elbows, pads for where the hands go when one opponent defeats another, and two stout handles for the contestants to grab for support with their non-wrestling hands. There were four officials presiding over the events: a mistress of ceremonies, two "celebrity judges" (one lived in Rosendale and had self-released a CD), and an official (a gentleman dressed in umpire stripes). The key tp how unexpectedly fun the event proved to be was the mistress of ceremonies, who was very charismatic and managed to make the competition seem important and worthwhile (which it was; it was benefitting a group that goes to head-to-head with the mythologically-motivated annexers of uteri).
With each competition, the two contestants would be introduced by their stage names (examples: "Jackie O'Nasty" and "Betty Blowtorch") and they would march up leading a posse of similarly-dressed supporters. Making this work as a fundraiser, the supporters would hold out little containers to collect money from the crowd as they went past. The referee would start the wrestle and it would usually be over in seconds, although sometimes it would rage for awhile as the weaker of the two gradually succombed. In none of the competitions did a woman who initially looked to be losing suddenly rally and defeat her opponent. But there were a great many competitions that didn't end the way I expected. A woman who happened to be a New York City fire fighter ("Five Alarm Fitz") had huge biceps and other muscles rippling and bulging beneath her skin, but was nevertheless dispatched by a contestant with no visible muscle tone whatsoever. Every defeat/victory was met with wild whooping from the audience, gleeful celebration by the winner, and feigned shame by the loser. The only loser who seemed to take the loss personally was Hush, whose persona forbid any form of communication. But the sulk that commenced when she was defeated by the diminutive Mighty Mouse was like icewater poured down the collective shirt of the crowd. This chill was perhaps furthered by the fact that Hush's contingent included several people with extreme facial tattoos.
In the end Jackie O'Nasty was the champion, earning a commemorative wall plaque that looked as if it had been assembled in a 3rd Grade art class. But the fun wasn't over yet. At this point various random people in the audience were matched against each other, and one of these (a white girl with prominent arm tattoos) actually defeated Jackie the champion.
Well, that was a lot of fun! But why, exactly? It certainly helped that the officials did their jobs well and that the crowd was big and into it. And the persona-based competitions definitely added to the quirky drama. But part of it was the raw egalitarianism of the event. Anyone can arm wrestle; it's not something you need to learn how to do. And any woman could participate if she wanted to.
We went outside for some air (with so many people, it had been hot in the Café). We let the dogs out just as a downpour was about to begin, sending us retreating beneath a tent set up for what was seemingly like an increasingly rained-out Rosendale Street Festival. When we finally found her, Sally was drenched but pleased with her bad self.


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http://asecular.com/blog.php?090717

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