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:
   I've allowed myself to become
Wednesday, August 2 2000

I broke up with my girlfriend on Monday and, before 48 hours had passed, I got emails from two long-silent Charlottesville friends. It's almost like getting out of prison after a two year sentence. The first was from Jessika, who finally wrote me yesterday after two years of silence. She told me she that she actually bought a house in Charlottesville, though she didn't say how she earned the necessary money. According to her, there's "no group anymore" in Charlottesville. The scene is gone, dispersed, evaporated. Morgan Anarchy is finally off the sauce, living in New York and making lots of money (probably working as a chef). He supposedly bought himself a $300 pair of ostrich-hide boots.
The other email came today, from Wacky Jen. She's written me occasionally ever since that fateful day when I had her leave me behind in Ann Arbor. Now she's up in Maine working as a migrant blueberry picker. It's one of those Maoist "back to the fields" sort of things.

I went out to lunch today with Evan, Goddess Corynna's erstwhile boyfriend and Goddess Temple "VP of IT." (He's the guy giving me space on his server for my Vodkatea project.) Strange as this might seem, this was the first chance I'd had since the breakup to talk about my personal situation in meatspace. That's a pretty damning indicator of how completely isolated I've allowed myself to become. Predictably enough, Evan's advice was that I join up with his "men's group." Now, if I thought hanging out with Kim was rough, the idea of attending a men's meeting is even more horrifying. What do these guys do, paint their faces, beat their chests and hold hands, ending the evening with a circle jerk? What with the secrecy such groups maintain, that's the mental image I have. I just want to be the free man I was a little over two years ago. The condo is definitely an obstacle to my ideal species of freedom, but at this point I have to work with the cards I've been dealt.

In other news, the message board system I've been building for my employer was finally released tonight, mostly without incident. Now I can make the resumé-ready claim that I am the author of message board systems for two major web-based communities (even if one of these is on its last legs).
After the release, I hung out in my cubicle listening to music and drinking beers that my boss Linda picked up. I've been obsessed with a couple CDs she has loaned me by a Swedish band called Soundtrack of Our Lives. They have a sort of retro 70s-era rock sound, somewhere between the Rolling Stones, the Kinks and that unforgettable one-hit-übersong "Driver's Seat" by Sniff'n' the Tears. Every now and again there's a dash of honky tonk slide guitar. Soundtrack of Our Lives lyrics and vocals are about as good as Bob Pollard's but the production is a hell of a lot better.

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