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:
   my new territory
Sunday, October 8 2000
In the morning I cruised around the neighborhood on my bicycle looking for free stuff. It wasn't a successful mission in its stated goal, but it was interesting and instructive anyway. In my travels, I discovered what might be the most expensive real estate in all of Santa Monica not more than a half mile to the northwest of my condo. There's a steeply-sloping area just a little ways north of Wilshire on Berkeley where the houses, fertilized with the sudden presence of scenic views, swell into plush mansions with big windows and sizable lots. The alleys in this region have more of the agricultural feel of Brentwood, and though there was plenty of domestic rubbish awaiting the next visit of the garbage man, I found nothing of value.
I've decided that the worst thing about my West LA neighborhood is how thoroughly generic it is. There are very few shops that are not part of evil global franchises. Lately I've been wondering how well a funky non-franchise record store would do in my neighborhood. That's one thing that's absent in my part of West LA: a convenient music store. (Not that I don't have Napster when I need it.)

The last time I left Los Angeles County was in April, six months ago. This is probably the longest time in my entire life that I've spent in a single county.

As I cruised the alleys just south of Wilshire later today, I noticed the KFC had one of those pigeon-scaring owls on its roof. "How ironic," I thought, "as if the pigeons don't have enough to fear at a Kentucky Fried 'Chicken'."

On two occasions this afternoon I cruised around the neighborhoods to the north of Wilshire and to the east of Bundy. It's a fairly unfamiliar neighborhood. Officially it's part of Brentwood, but it's not very different from West LA. Population densities are high and housing consists mostly of condominiums. As I was tooling slowly down an alley, I came upon a large plastic bag of large men's dress shoes and a tie. They looked to be in good condition and not in gross conflict with my personal style (such as it is). So I took them all. I have big feet (you know what they say about big feet), and it's hard finding shoes of the proper size and shape even in shoe stores. These looked like they might just do.
The shoes were a little small, but they're made of leather and maybe they'll stretch. I wore a pair of the most tightly-fitting shoes (a sort of sandals, actually) on my second trip into adjacent Brentwood.

I've been sort of lacking in serotonin and testosterone boosting events of late, so I've decided to follow a different route to personal masculine affirmation. I've decided to declare myself some territory here in Los Angeles. For my particular ecological niche (whatever it is), I will be the only individual in my territory, which I will jealously defend. As I ventured up all the way to Sunset Blvd. on Barrington, I decided that this intersection is the northmost corner of my territory. From there, the northern frontier runs west to Bundy, heads south to Montana, continues west to Berkeley, goes south to Wilshire, and continues west to the Pacific. From here the frontier turns south, though my water rights extends 12 miles into the ocean. The beach claim for my territory ends at my southern frontier, Washington Blvd., whereupon the southern frontier marches inland as far as Centinela. Here it heads north to Pico, east to Sawtelle, north to Santa Monica, west to Barrington, and then north to Sunset Blvd again. If you find yourself residing within this territory, you are hereby my subject. If you don't like this new state of affairs, well, tough. After all, the Native Americans were never consulted prior to the occasion when Christopher Columbus declared the New World for Spain.

Discuss my territorial ambitions.

Back when I used to live with Sophie the Miniature Schnauzer, I'd occasionally rub her nipples hoping to provide a measure of sexual pleasure in her life. She never seemed to care one way or the other about it, except that it was attention and thus it was good. For various reasons (many of them rooted in irrational Western tabboo) I could never bring myself to take my interspecial relationship "to the next level". I wonder how much sexuality a spayed dog craves?

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