Smallhouse Log

Sunday

So I was roadtripping with some other old Scav Hunt judges, and we were going through Las Vegas when our car broke down. While it was in the shop, we sort of wandedered around until we came to a convention centre, where we crashed a folkways convention. But these were not established, traditional folkways, they were new ones, still in need of promotion, so there was a lot of energy and music and even more free food, most of it pretty decent. It was winding down as we were there, though, and in the end most of us ended up playing poker off in a corner. Looking out the window, there was a gigantic, lit-up restaurant (/ casino?) called "PIE to the RIBS", where, it was agreed by all present, one should be able to get pie made of ribs; sadly, this did not seem to be the case. Apparently, not even pies made of ribbed-like things (eg. pulled pork) were available. And then I woke up and was terrified I was late for something.

But no. I had, in fact, slept through the alarm to go to the Marauders run tonight, which had sounded so promising - though I'm sure the information is available somewhere online, it's not my place to spread it; I am content to say that both the origin and the terminus are two of my very favorite places in Chicago. But I had woken up at three am already, been chagrined, turned off the alarm, mourned the missed opportunity, and gone back to sleep. And since my sleep schedule is being phased to end at three in the morning, I wake up a few hours later, thinking about meat pies and good times with Scavjudges.

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