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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Like my brownhouse:
   bored in Tivoli
Friday, February 10 2012
This evening Gretchen and I drove down to Ray and Nancy's place to meet up with them, Sarah the Vegan, and Deborah. This was all a belated celebration of Gretchen's birthday, and things began with a bottle of champagne, which we somehow split six ways. Then Ray drove all of us (Nancy had to sit in the way back) up to Luna 61 in Tivoli for dinner. We sat at a long table at the top of the tight spiral stairway and ordered vegan food from the vegetarian menu. I'd had the Thai noodle pot before and it was great, so I ordered it again. This time, though, it was cloyingly sweet. Much better was the cup of split pea soup I ordered, which had been flavored with fake bacon. If I were to be forced to pick one food to eat exclusively for the rest of my life, that soup would be a serious contender.
It wasn't really my meal and I couldn't complain, but I found myself being unusually bored by tonight's dinner conversation, which, yet again, revolved almost exclusively around TMI (the local autobiographical story telling phenomenon). Mind you, there are actually interesting things to be said about TMI. For example: one storyteller we know recently admitted a murder (though he was probably bullshitting) and was barred from TMI for life. But that story is too sensitive for general discussion, so most of what is said about TMI bores me to tears. I can sigh and tap my toes all I like, but the conversation drones on.
At the end there, as my friends slowly donned their coats, I went over to a black board where the words "EAT" had been written in huge, thick letters and used spit to erase part of one of the horizontal bars in one of the Es to write the word "starve." When Gretchen realized I'd done this, she passed judgment: "That's mean!"
I've decided I only like going to non-ethnic restaurants when I'm only with Gretchen. When there's a chance there might be a dessert course, the meal always takes a turn for the overlong. Of course, in this case I'm being unfair. It was Gretchen's night, and I should be less of a fucking baby. If she wants to talk about TMI all night on her birthday night (even if it's three weeks late), that's her prerogative.

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