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:
   Chicken of the Woods hangover
Monday, August 31 2015
I don't want to collect much of that still-moist Chestnut Oak. The stack in the woodshed is big, and wood tends flow through it in a first-in-first-out (FIFO) pattern, meaning any wood I add to it now will be burned early in the season. And I have my doubts that wood with so much moisture will have enough time to dry before I get to it in the pile. So today I resumed salvaging at the very fruitful place a third of a mile away on the Gullies Trail. There's still plenty of wood to be cut there. Today I brought back a backpack load holding 116.5 pounds of very dry skeletonized Chestnut Oak. The weather had returned to a more seasonable dog's-mouth combination of heat and humidity, and I was drenched in sweat after splitting the wood and stacking it (in today's case: between the rafters high in the second tranche).
After my yard shower, Gretchen and I drove off again to that family compound south of Palenville to attend a small pool party. This time we had to leave our dogs at home because Stacy & Keith's dog Butters would be there, and he has a history of not getting along well with largish young dogs like Ramona. I spent much of my time there actually in the pool, even doing a obligatory cannonball off the swimming board. Later I lay in a chaise lounge in the shade and came close to falling asleep. I was a little worried Gretchen would think I was being antisocial (which I sort of was) but the scene at that house is more popular-kids-in-high-school than I know what to do with. (That's just how it feels; everybody there is vegan and refreshingly decadent, but I think what I'm sensing is white people who have never lived uncomfortably on the margin of society.)
After we returned home, I went down to the greenhouse upstairs with a copy of The Martian that David (of Susan & David) had gotten me. I'd been feeling out of sorts all day from a hangover. The two Imperial IPAs I'd drunk last night evidently hadn't agreed with me, and I was suspicious that the malaise had been somehow intensified by my having eaten those Chicken of the Woods Susan had prepared. There's something in Chicken of the Woods that interacts badly with my gastrointestinal and perhaps even my nervous system. I can tell there is something bad in there because every time I thought about those mushrooms, my stomach clenched as if in testimony to their unsavoriness. It will be a long time before I attempt to eat them again.
After a long nap, I went back to my computer and soon was dealing with yet another minor crisis on that Los Angeles website for which I have become the main technical wizard. Later I watched some bad teevee and drank an Introvert Session IPA that Gretchen had bought me the other day. With their low alcohol levels and perhaps other monkeying with the why-fix-it-it-ain't-broke IPA formula, I've been suspicious of Session IPAs, but this one was actually pretty good.


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