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:
   the rock is made of much more
Tuesday, December 19 2000

Another day closer to whatever it is life is all about. Or is it another day further away? You never really get to find that out, do you?

The UK team all piled into an airplane this evening and set off to return to England, where, I'm told, the perpetual rain and cloud-cover are especially egregious this year. Over the next several weeks I'm left here in sunny Southern California to continue working on their site more or less unsupervised. Hopefully I can keep the two contractors (a young American lady and a somewhat cynical Indonesian gentleman) busy. If only I could find more to do with my life than rolling out of bed and going to work, coming home, drinking myself into a stupor and falling asleep just to do the same futile exercise all over again, then this life thing wouldn't be such a difficult question on the final exam. I never really realized how futile existance was until I saw Bathtubgirl become a celebrity by dancing in a puddle of lukewarm colored water. I feel like I've paid my dues (to echo a sentiment also expressed today by Poorbob) and yet my life's purpose is lost in at least as deep a fog as any it's ever passed through.
I keep telling myself that a pay raise would make me happy, since it would demonstrate some sort of appreciation for the things I've done and it would also mean that I could finally wriggle out from under this rock of debt. But tonight I'm realizing that the rock is made of much more than just money owed to Bathtubgirl (and the genetic distillation that is her mother). I've managed to distance myself from everyone who could have been my friend while only allowing myself to befriend people in ways that contribute to more social problems than solutions. Thanks for not reading my journal Linda.

This afternoon my housemate flew home to his Italian family on the East Coast for the holidays. He'll be gone for more than a week. It's the first time I've had the house to myself since the period of roommate-seeking anxiety following the eviction of Bathtubgirl. I'm alone in my house rocking out to current list of all-time rock and roll favorites, in alphabetical order, since that's how they're listed in Napster.

9:53pm Pacific Standard Time. Last three songs I played on Napster: Oleander: "I Can't Love You Anymore," Outlaws: "Green Grass and High Tides" (I think that brief first guitar solo is timelessly endearing), and Paul McCartney: "Junior's Farm."

For linking purposes this article's URL is:

previous | next