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:
   results of 2020 election, day three
Friday, November 6 2020
Today was another warm and sunny November day spent waiting for the presidential race to be called for Joe Biden. Biden had pulled ahead in Pennsylvania and even Georgia, and it seemed like the networks would call the race any minute. So I all I could do was move in a tight circle through all my usual news sites, often just to hit refresh. It was impossible to get any actual work done.
At some point this afternoon, it seemed healthy to get away from my damn computer. So Gretchen and I went on a fairly long walk in the forest, taking the Stick Trail to its end (a mile and a half away) and then coming home on the Farm Road (a walk of a little over two miles). The weather was so nice that I was wearing shorts and a teeshirt. I hadn't been on that final stretch of the Stick Trail in years, and in places it was a little unclear where it went. As we walked, Gretchen talked about how the endless accessibility of the internet had rewired her brain, making it so she couldn't focus sufficiently on a good book to really absorb it. She even recounted a case of accidentally re-reading a book, but only having a vague sense of the plot. The problem wasn't just that she always had her phone nearby should some passage of a book prove insufficiently engaging. It was deeper than that. She said something was now missing that used to be there.
At some point this afternoon, I moved on from kratom tea to alcohol. And when I'd had enough of that, I went on a firewood salvaging mission along the Farm Road, where a smallish skeletonized oak had blown down in the wind over the summer.
This evening Powerful made ziti pasta with red sauce, and it was pretty good (as all pasta with red sauce ends up being). Powerful puts olives in almost everything, though, and I find them to be little landmines of flavor-dissonance.

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