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:
   hole in the wall at the Alamo
Sunday, August 27 2006
Kevin, one of Gretchen's old friends from Milwaukee, was down in the City visiting friends and he and Sean, one of these friends (the former boyfriend of his identical-twin brother or something like that) drove up to visit us today. I didn't really hang out with them all that much, as they spent most of their time in the living room talking about the old days in Milwaukee. Later they went for a twilight walk in the rain on the Big Loop of the Stick Trail system.
I came along when the four of us went out to dinner in Rosendale at the Alamo, which, miracle of miracles, was actually open. Sadly, though, I noticed that the sign reading "Food worth fightin' for" had been removed from above the door. Being a Sunday night, not much was going on. An interracial couple was shooting pool and later a group of middle aged women came in and sat at the bar, but that was about it. As always, the music reflected the gay owners more than it did the restaurant's Mexican theme. (A perfect compromise would be Latin American Punchis music, but that might be expecting too much from an establishment that took several weeks to figure out that free chips and salsa are de rigeur even in a hip gayboy Mexican restaurant.)
I don't really remember the conversation, just that I was participating more than had ever seemed possible back at the house. This probably had something to do with the Hurricane Kittys we boys were drinking (Gretchen was drinking sangria). Being from Milwaukee, Sean and Kevin can drink. This was probably the first time in my entire Upstate experience in which someone at my table was actually drinking faster than me: they both were. In the end we had three a piece, which is a lot when it comes to that particular beer.
My food, a mushroom & something burrito, was excellent. I always expect the food to be mediocre at the Alamo for some reason, but it always ends up being great. And I always expect the waitresses to by Manhattan bitchy, but no, ours was super nice tonight, so nice that she made me fear she might refuse a big tip.
I went to the bathroom at one point and it smelled ghastly in there, and I naturally assumed that Sean (who had been in there before me) had birthed a water buffalo at the minimum. Evidently he didn't want me to think this, because when after I returned to the table he brought up the subject of the bathroom's odor, saying he'd thought it was Gretchen. Soon we all decided that a guy with hip-hop trouser habits who had been spotted earlier was the culprit and that what he'd done had involved a bulemic act. In other Alamo-bathroom-related news, I noticed that someone had punched a hole in the drywall and then someone had written "ouch" in pen on one of the chunks of gypsum that hung loose at the center of the hole. On the opposite wall was a framed picture of the original Alamo, the Spanish fort in Texas where Davie Crockett fought to the death. Beneath it was the caption, "The Alamo, Rosendale NY, Est. 05/05/05."
After the beer had loosened me up and I had become sufficiently loquatious, Kevin suddenly asked if perhaps I was a Scorpio. I must have been reminding him of his past boyfriends, because later in the conversation, when he was trying to justify astrology to Gretchen (who detests it), he pointed out that "for some reason" all his boyfriends have been Scorpios.
After dinner we drove to the nearby Stewarts and Sean bought beer: a six pack of Yuenling and (on my recommendation) two forties of Big Bear.
The drive home down Hurley Mountain Road tonight felt almost like I was back in the carefree punk rock days of Big Fun. Sean was smoking an obnoxious Parliament cigarette and, unlike earlier today when I was working in the garage, I wasn't bothered by the second hand smoke. Then, apropos of something, Gretchen wanted a drag from it, though the satisfaction of this desire would be something she would find herself regretting in the morning.
We ended the night watching women's basketball, the only sport I know enough about to enjoy watching.

The rainy weather had persisted for too long for there to be any remaining solar-heated water in our hot water tank, so I'd had to turn on the boiler for the first time since late April. Had we not had house guests I probably wouldn't have had to do it. Another warm-weather first today was my wearing of proper shoes (as opposed to barefoot or sandals), something I hadn't done since my three week gig in Los Angeles back in late May-early June.

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