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:
   special substance
Monday, May 21 2007
While I was frittering away valuable time on another gorgeous sunny day in May, David and Penny came by this afternoon to retrieve David's leather jacket, which he'd left on one of our kitchen chairs. In its pocket was his battered Blackberry, and it had been as though he'd left his eyeballs at our house by mistake. Before Penny and David left, we ended up goofing around with a basketball under the basketball hoop, probably the first real use that hoop had gotten in over a year. At some point during our play, David actually did a no-look pass to me. It's a pretty freaky thing when you don't know to expect it.

Today was Penny and David's second wedding anniversary, and they invited Gretchen and me to have dinner with them at the Reservoir Inn (their new favorite local bar). Since our house is actually on the way there, they picked us up and we car pooled (gasoline is now $3.15/gallon). Unfortunately, though, the Reservoir Inn is apparently closed on Mondays, so we ended up at the Red Onion instead, based mostly on my endorsement (I'd enjoyed an unexpectedly-excellent curry last time I'd been there). Their usual chef wasn't in tonight, but unlike the Reservoir Inn they'd stayed open and had a backup cook come in to prepare the food. The result was consequently a little less than perfect, particularly in cases where variations were requested by the fussiest in our entourage. I never order variations from the menu, but Gretchen often does, and tonight she was burned by a heaping plate of flavorless pasta, which she ended up trading in for a lowly salad (possibly flavored with that special substance that restaurant workers reserve for their most demanding customers). Somehow our half of the bill came to $70 anyway, partly because of a glass of red wine I ordered that turned out to cost $11. Lesson to take away: never order wine directly from a waitress without the aid of a printed wine menu.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:

previous | next