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:
   surprisingly large volumes of mental space
Saturday, October 6 2007

My wife Gretchen is having a small collection of her poetry (a so-called "chapbook") published by Finishing Line Press, and the way their printing runs work is that the more books that are pre-ordered, the more that are ultimately published. So Gretchen has launched something of a promotional campaign to which I am hereby contributing. If you, dear reader, wish to pre-order her book The Slow Creaking of Planets, you need only click the button that will soon block your reading trajectory. The price is a modest $12 and the books ship Dec. 14th. Those who pre-order get free shipping.
Gretchen is a great poet and her concise poems unpack to fill surprisingly large volumes of mental space. It definitely won't be the least worthwhile thing you spent $12 on today. Even my mother pre-ordered a copy, and she doesn't normally spend money on anything.

This afternoon Gretchen's friend David the Rabbi (they've been friends since Oberlin) drove up from the City with his wife Lynn Harr!s (a regular contributor to Glamor and an occasional contributor to They also brought their eleven month old offsprog Bessie, who came equipped with a surprisingly communicable smile. We drank some wine and snacked on the south deck, took a long hike in the forest, and then finally ate dinner in Woodstock at (you guessed it!) the Garden Café, the known world's only vegan restaurant. They have an amazingly pleasant new outdoor area at the Garden Café these days, and our table came equipped with an umbrella that it made it possible for us to continue eating right through an unexpected cloudburst. We hadn't expected rain and back at the house a copy of The Blind Horse Sings was left out in the rain on the south deck's picnic table. Happily, though, it seemed that not a single drop of rain managed to hit any of the firewood stacked up in the new woodshed.

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