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:
   too many happy pills
Thursday, June 30 2005
Gretchen set off today to attend a big traditional wedding being held in Los Angeles on July 4th, leaving me here by myself to do all those things I do when she's away. I usually plan my big disruptive projects for when she's out of town, and this occasion was no different. I dug a large shallow grave in a low spot in the yard and filled it with a bunch of drywall torn from the wall at the back of the linen closet. It's another one of those foundation walls that developed cracks during the period of poor drainag and I intend to repair it. Once it is repaired, I'll be leaving the wall as exposed masonry so I can monitor it in the future. There's no sense in covering these walls with drywall if that drywall ends up drenched in mold-nourishing condensation during the humid months of the year. After my linen wall project is done, the only places on this wall covered with a problematic layer of drywall will be also be tiled, making them much less susceptible to the problem of condensation.

Coming home today from Woodstock after a telephone line diagnostics housecall, I stopped for "July 4th on my own" provisions at Hurley Ridge Market. In line in front of me was a handsome elderly woman who prattled on and on in unjustified familiarity with both me and the cashier as she slowly pulled the items she was buying from her cart. She spoke with a French accent and kept referring to me as "monsieur" and chirping flirtatiously about how good looking I was. I found this amusing given my appearance, which wasn't unlike that of a homeless man. My clothes were scruffy and sweaty and I hadn't shaved in a week. The cashier kept looking at me to see what I thought of the old lady, but I didn't care. So what, so the woman's doctor had overprescribed her happy pills, so long as I didn't meet her in traffic I didn't have anything to worry about.
She was still loading her stuff in her car as I left the Hurley Ridge parking lot, and after I went through the intersection of 28 and 375 I passed an accident where an old man in a boxy old American car had been sideswiped by a young man driving a pickup truck. As I passed the scene, the old man was sitting motionless in the driver's seat with his door open and the young man was staggering away from his truck and witnesses were getting out of their cars to do whatever witnesses do in such a situation. My only real thought about the situation was to wonder what prescription medication the old man in the car might be on.

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