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:
   one more thing: paystub
Thursday, April 13 2000
Precisely as Kim had predicted yesterday, it turned out that the underwriter for my real estate loan does (after all) need a paystub from my employer before making funds available. I suppose it's better to find this out now than it would have been to find it out two weeks ago, when my first paycheck was still weeks away. But now it was a mere 24 hours away. Still, it was 24 hours away, and my loan broker was trying to hurry it up. She suggested I talk to payroll and get them to issue me the paystub a day early, sans paycheck, so she could have it to present to the underwriter. The only problem with this plan was that payroll, human resources and perhaps other departments just happened to be in the process of moving their offices to an entirely different building a block away. I went out in hopes of tracking the relevant parties down, but my mission proved fruitless. Indeed, even if I had found the person I was looking for, I wouldn't have recognized her anyway.

Because of Sophie's trouble with the landlord and the evident tattle-tale proclivities of Evan and Corynna's neighbors, today Kim dropped Sophie off at a kennel in the coastal Ocean Park neighborhood of Santa Monica. According to Kim, the understated kennel is a favorite temporary residence for the dogs of the rich & famous. Though she might be missing us, at least Sophie would get to do some serious hob-nobbing.
With Sophie off at the "baby sitter's," Kim and I were free to go out on the town and act like genuine adults. We decided to cruise around Los Angeles by car to see more of what our new home town is all about. Stopping on Wilshire Avenue, not too far east of our West LA neighborhood, we checked out a cluster of restaurants that included two sushi places, a fancy Paris-style French restaurant and, incidentally, a Subway.
After tooling through various fancy & hitherto-unexplored neighborhoods of Beverly Hills, especially past the clothing merchants of Rodeo Drive and the endless furniture stores of Beverly Blvd., we ended up at a small restaurant called Boxer. It featured white table cloths, pop music from the late 70s, and fancy bottled water. If customers wish to buy wine, they had to buy it from the store next door and pay a $6 "corkage." The casually-dressed & tattooed owner/chef showed us to our table beside a balding middle-aged man and a young blond woman. I'll let Kim write the review:

It is clear that Boxer, the Beverly Hills meets West Hollywood shoebox dining room, is trying to provide a euro-chic atmosophere with reasonably priced post culinary school cuisine. What boxer lacks is vitality. I suppose the food was fresh but there was a key ingredient missing, care. Perhaps the chef/owner (he was the one with the retro t-shirt and tattoos) needs to spend more time in the kitchen teaching his cooks how to properly sear ahi, and less time smoozing with his friends. Out of five stars, I rate this restaurant a 2 and a half.


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