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:
   Italianesque Venice
Tuesday, April 11 2000
Kim and I did the "final walk-through" of our West LA townhouse this afternoon. This involved meeting with the two real estate agents at the real estate to confirm that we were actually getting what had been originally shown. Of course, as usual, this was hardly as perfunctory as it should have. On the way over, we had to stop at a bank so Kim could transfer a bunch of money into my account to maintain my "reserves," a condition of the loan. On the ride from there to the town house, we were all stressed out and bickering over the details of a fax I'd just sent to my loan broker.
Then there was the scene in the empty townhouse, with Kim making something of a scene about the state in which it had been left. Sure, there were some dust bunnies on the floor and the mirrors weren't spotless, but it was nothing that couldn't be set right with a half hour of dusting. I didn't think it warranted a refusal to sign documents and other things Kim was threatening. But lucky for me I didn't have to get too worked up; the seller's real estate agent (an unusually cranky woman) started freaking out on her own about the deteriorating relationship she's having with the seller. "I think [the seller] is having seller's remorse," the agent proclaimed. "I know it's not your problem, but you don't know what I've been going through." With that, it was clear that Kim wasn' the most hysterical woman present.
The best news of the day was the news concerning the parking situation. Kim and I have only one car between us, but we will have three garage parking places. This got me to thinking about perhaps buying a small trailer to park in one of the spots for use as an office.

In the evening, Kim and I got out of Evan's hair by going down to Venice for dinner. Originally we were sort of interested in a madhouse sushi place we happened upon adjacent to a traffic circle just east of the center of town. The restaurant came complete with valet double parking and hordes of trendy twenty and thirty somethings. When we ducked inside, though, we found the place had enough repulsively frantic overlit yuppy energy to counteract any force pulling Kim towards the sushi. So we ended up at a sparsely-patronized B-rated Italian restaurant down nearer to the beach, in a part of Venice that actually tries to look like the Venice in Italy. The buildings there come with Roman architecture and ornate detailing both inside and out. But they also carry that funky whimsical patina unique to bohemian places. For example, one set of unfluted Roman columns were painted over in a black and orange flame motif. This mix of classical and funky reminded Kim of New Orleans.

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