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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   cramps and a sticker
Thursday, January 9 2020
Late this morning I began feeling cramps under my ribs, and unfortunately this discomfort continued all the way through the end of the day. I considered going home early, as the pain was too distracting to get much work done. But somehow I powered through it and did actually get work done, though I took a number of breaks, including a walk in the patch of woods behind the complex. Even with the sun, the day was a bit too cold for being outdoors (temperatures were probably in the high 20s Fahrenheit).
Meanwhile, Gretchen had driven the Prius to Boston to give a visiting lecture at a college on the subject of ghostwriting (remember, she wrote the memoir of our friend Jenny who used to run an animal sanctuary in Willow). She had me call her this afternoon to warn me about some unfinished business she'd left for me in the bathroom, and while on the phone related to me what had happened today at lunch in the college's dining hall. She'd heard that one of the soups was vegan and so had misidentified which one it was (they must not have been labeled). She saw cubed white chunks and thought they were tofu, but no, they were comprised of chunks of dead chickens. This was the first time since she was thirteen she definitively knew that something she'd seen outside her mouth and then eaten was actual meat from a formerly-alive animal.

I made it trough the whole day and then drove directly from Red Hook to Woodstock (via US 209 and Sawkill Road) to re-attempt an inspection for the Subaru. Yesterday Gretchen had taken it to Woodstock Automotive the "Mobil station without gas" in Woodstock (the one that used to have a tattered, fading US flag in commemoration of someone the owners knew who had died in 9Eleven) and it had passed everything except for the OBD II scan. Evidently I'd reset the errors too recently (in terms of mileage) and this had caused the inspection to fail. The guy had told Gretchen that if it was driven for several dozen miles, then the issue in the computer would clear and it would likely pass, since that was the only thing wrong with the car. The plan, then, was to drive it to Woodstock and if the check engine light came on, I would abandon the mission. But if it stayed off, I would have it inspected. The light didn't come on, the guy at the station did whatever he did (since he'd looked at it the day before, all the other parts of the inspection were already "done"), and I got my sticker. Today's visit only cost $11. I think I'll be leaving a nice review on Yelp.
Getting one of our cars to pass inspection is always something of a milestone. At least for me, it's been that way ever since the days of the Punch Buggy Green, back when I had no discretionary money to spend on anything. I love the fact that we're still driving such marginal cars even with a six-figure household income. With that yearly chore out of the way, even my gut cramps seemed to dissipate. So I stopped at the Hurley Ridge Hannaford and bought a sixer of Super Cluster Ale. I then wen to the Tibetan Center, but it was nearly 5:00pm and I saw on the door that their winter hours has then closing then, so I aborted that mission and drove home. The dogs were happy to see me and bouncing off the walls, so I took them on a walk down the Farm Road and back despite the cold and darkness.


It's always a sense of relief to get this. It being January, there are very few blue inspection stickers yet visible on windshields.


For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?200109

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