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:
   something of a foot emergency
Sunday, June 9 2002
My feet are curious creatures that look as though they were designed by Maurice Sendak. They feature big bulbous globes of flesh at the end of the stalk of each toe and there are tidy little tufts of blond hair before each toe's first joint. Tending to sweat profusely, my feet are happiest when allowed to breathe freely outside the confines of shoes.
Suddenly today, out of nowhere, I found my poor feet afflicted with a terrible case of athlete's foot. The fungus had infected several locations between the toes of both feet, but the most horrible place was the gap between the tiny toe and the next biggest toe on my left foot. The damage was so deep-seated and widespread that it was actually painful for me to walk. I decided I needed to start wearing sandals immediately; for me the shoe-wearing path seemed to lead unavoidably to the land of gangrene and amputation.
So Gretchen and I walked down to Seventh Avenue with an intention of getting me a pair of sandals while we were there. In anticipation of new, breathable footwear, I was barefoot at the time. This is a state of attire one rarely sees in Brooklyn.
In the first shoe store we tried, I was dismayed to see that all the sandals had price tags of about $100. I'm not exactly the cheapskate I used to be, but I haven't changed so much that I'm going to drop a Benjamin on seasonal footwear unsuitable for non-casual occasions. I can still remember the $1.60 pair of flip flops I bought at a 99 cent store in San Diego back in 1998, and I was of a mind to replicate that experience here in Park Slope. Gretchen was skeptical and clearly annoyed by my attitude, telling me that if I wanted a good pair of sandals, then $100 was a fair price. "I'm not going to pay $100 for sandals," I declared, adding, "If ever get to the point where I pay $100 for sandals, somebody please just shoot me."
At another store I managed to find a pair of relatively "cheap" flip flops for $20, though I don't think they were of much better quality than those $1.60 flip flops I wore until they disintegrated in San Diego. But I knew I was experiencing something of a foot emergency and couldn't dick around trying to find a 99 cent store in Park Slope (I don't think there are any), so that's what I got.
While we were down on 7th Avenue we also picked up a shelf for the kitchen and had a lunch of noodles at the Japanese restaurant across from La Taqueria. Gretchen's health seemed almost completely (and very suddenly) restored; she was able to finish her noodle salad completely while commenting on the breasts of most of the young women who passed our window seat.[REDACTED]

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