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:
   hunting season in Hurley
Tuesday, November 18 2003
Today I could tell whether or not yesterday's dental work was successful in correcting my bite. Amazingly, it seems completely restored to the way it used to be back in the Spring of 2000. In three and a third years I'd forgotten how comfortable my bite could be.

It must be hunting season, because at the main crossroads in Hurley today I saw an SUV drive past with two dead buck deer on its roof. I've also begun to see more dead female deer on the side of the road, although it seems unlikely that a hunter would bother carrying a dead doe out of the woods if it wasn't legal to hunt them (it usually isn't, though I don't know the rules in New York). Having the sort of faith in humanity that I have, it's difficult to imagine a hunter not shooting a doe unlucky enough to stumble into his ambush, particularly after that hunter spends a fruitless day drinking Budweiser in the cold November rain. Indeed, it's doubtful any moving object is safe encountering a maniac of that description. I need to remember to do a Google search to see which month has the greatest number of missing person reports filed (in rural areas). Needless to say, I haven't been venturing far into the woods when taking the dogs on their morning run.

I was back at the Catsk!ll Animal Sanctuary working on Cathy's computer again (Cathy is the woman who runs the place). I spent three hours trying to figure out why her 1.6 GHz Pentium IV was running like a PC Jr. In the end it seemed that the problem was a single image she'd pasted into a Word document. The image hadn't been properly resized, and the resulting file size was causing all sorts of mayhem, including print files a gigabyte in size. Typical for problems involving Microsoft Word, there wasn't a single helpful error message or warning issuing forth from deep within the mass of all that bloatware; the computer just slowed to a crawl. Playing detective with unusual computer trouble like this is never a pleasant experience, especially for paying customers. If I really knew what I was doing, would I be taking so long? But CAS is strictly volunteer work, to the extent that I can keep it that way. I did my best to preserve an aura of informality around my work by accepting two glasses of wine and requesting that the radio be turned up so I could listen to Terry Gross. When I got home, Gretchen was joking about me having an affair with Cathy. I think she was a little bit serious.

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