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:
   wine under the table
Sunday, January 26 2014
In this brutally cold weather, the two hydronic radiators in the laboratory are insufficient to warm that space to a comfortable climate in a reasonable amount of time. So today I augmented the oil-fired system with an electric radiator (which itself contains oil, though this serves only as a thermal mass). After Sunday coffee, Gretchen left to volunteer at the theatre in Rosendale and I struggled with that fourth tiny painting, progress on which was not going well. Paintings either have or they don't, and it's hard for one conceived with a basic flaw (call it an original sin) to be fixed. All of these little paintings were based on the sculpture I made, and it seems I'd tapped out that well of inspiration before I'd finished even one painting. [REDACTED]
Later this evening, I met Gretchen at Ray and Nancy's place and the four of us went out to dinner at the new Indian place [REDACTED] in Kingston. That place doesn't have a liquor license, so Ray asked if it was okay if he went and got a bottle of wine. The maître d' did us one better, producing a cheap 1.5 litre bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio which he sold us "under the table" for $19. (That was more than enough even for lushes like Nancy and me.) This was the first time I'd eaten non-buffet food at this restaurant and it was great, perhaps even a little better than the Indian restaurant Uptown. (Gretchen expressed a little guilt about our newly-polyamorous status with regard to that other local Indian restaurant.) [REDACTED]


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