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").


decay & ruin
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(nobody does!)

Like my brownhouse:
   drunken brownhouse overshares
Saturday, November 21 2009
This morning Gretchen went all out and made breakfast for seven. It consisted mostly of berry-filled crepes and pieces of vegan sausage (which I ate with Sriracha (which I, like many others, refer to as "rooster sauce"). I'd been put in charge of coffee manufacturing, and ended up producing four standard Bodum French presses of delicious Zanzibar (my favorite Catskill Mountain Coffee product).
At some point Akima and Kevin hit the road (he had a break dancing exhibition down in Philadelphia) and the others went on a walk in the forest (wearing lots of orange, since it was the first day of deer season). For my part, I drove out to Home Depot to get a bunch of boiler supplies. Our boiler has been needing a reset every day, so I bought everything that Home Depot sells that might be at issue, including a fuel filter and a nozzle. The great thing about the new nozzle was that it was for a lower fuel burning rate than the existing seven year old nozzle. With a lower burning rate, the fuel burns will tend to be longer and less frequent, which should introduce some energy efficiencies.

This evening, Gretchen would be taking all of us to a party in Rhinecliff at a friend she knows both through Bard College and the good old days of walking Sally in Prospect Park. Indeed, Ray also knew the host of tonight's party. First, though, we went to China Rose and had an absolutely wonderful (and completely vegan) meal whose deliciousness almost certainly owed something to the presence of monosodium glutamate.
So then we all went to the party, which was in a modest upstairs apartment a few blocks away. It was a small affair when we arrived, and most of us (except Gretchen) retreated to the kitchen. We found ourselves accosting strangers as they came through, asking each how he or she knew the party host. At some point I began to tell the lie that we all worked for Bαrd Prιson Inιtiative. Later, when I was more drunk, I began talking freely about my brownhouse. It turned out that someone there actually had been using a composting toilet for years up in Tivoli. Still, it's a minefield to talk about something so personal when one is drunk, and I fear I might have overshared a bit, particularly when I began talking about the specifics of brownhouse-related personal hygiene. Mind you, I didn't even know the names of the people to whom I was revealing this information.
Good thing Gretchen didn't get as loaded as the rest of us (well, I don't think Sarah got all that loaded). It's always good to have a designated driver.
Back at the house, Ray and I couldn't stop drinking. At some point we stumbled out into the dark with the telescope in hopes of seeing the moons of Jupiter, but then it turned out that my tripod had broken, so that became impossible.

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