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
Biosphere II
dead malls
Irving housing

got that wrong

appropriate tech
Arduino μcontrollers
Backwoods Home
Fractal antenna

fun social media stuff

(nobody does!)

Like my brownhouse:
   shouted by millions
Friday, February 18 2000
Kim and I still can't decide where we want to go. There's been a flood of email from readers giving me words of support and suggesting more meaningful places to work than that last gig I did. I'm so advanced from my position of a year and a half ago, when I was sorely lacking in marketable skills and in search of a workplace reachable by bicycle. In retrospect, it's a blessing that I bumbled into that obscure Mission Valley internet startup. It's also a blessing that I've had my ass bounced out of there. I fully expect working conditions to deteriorate rapidly there over the next several months as the humorless corporate manager types wrest complete control from the forces of funkiness. Most of these are friends of mine who, even as I write, are doing their best to conceal every nuance of personal funkiness. 'Tis safer to speak of the virtues of one's Palm Pilot V than to compare and contrast the advantages of tongues versus fingers. I imagine that at the weekly morning meeting on Monday there will be a lot more participation in the chanting of the idiotic company cheer, and there will probably also be a manager with a clipboard taking note of who isn't cheering with sufficient conviction.
Back, if I may, to the notion of "funkiness," something viewed as desirable by most people in the demographic targeted by my erstwhile employer. If there is any detectable funkiness in the latest multi-million-dollar marketing campaign, please be aware that it is carefully and deliberately manufactured starting from an utterly flavorless bullet list of corporate action items. It's analogous to the fortification of white bread with vitamins after first bleaching away any inherent nutritional content from the flour.
I'm stuck with a haunting mental image of a company run on Stalinist principles taking over the world with its message of bland fraternity-president-conformity shouted by millions of radios, billboards, televisions, computers, and meaningless storefront stickers, all still containing an accidental comment left in the source.

Kim has left me unsupervised for only brief periods since I lost my job. Surprisingly, I've been fairly happy spending lots of time with her. I haven't, however, found much time or inclination to work on creative projects. I take baths, I take naps, I sip a little booze, I check my logs and read my email and that's about it. Every now and then Kim convinces me to get out of the house and walk down to Newport Avenue with Sophie. We stop someplace for a bite to eat, and then we go back home.

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