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:
   before the widespread discovery of non-instant coffee
Sunday, May 24 2009

I spent much of the day doing some crunch work on a web development project with an especially ridiculous timeline (in a profession where timelines are always absurd). But I broke up the mental grind numerous times with stints down at the greenhouse, where I've been piling dirt againt the outside of the west wall. The pile is about 20 feet from where the dirt needs to go, and at first I thought I'd be moving it with the new wheelbarrow I bought a couple weeks ago (it's a big two wheeler with a plastic eight gallon bed). But it's proved relatively easy to just shovel it into a five gallon bucket and carry it over one bucket at a time, which is also how that pile of dirt was originally made. It has over a hundred buckets' worth of dirt in it, so I expect to be totally ripped by the time the last of it is moved.

This evening Gretchen and I went to the Reservoir Inn for fries and beer and to meet up with Penny and David, a bunch of their friends, and Chris (the male half of the photogenic vegan Buddhist couple who recently built a house off Zena Road and whose cat died during our last visit). Chris was spending the weekend alone by himself at his place, so Gretchen was serving as a surrogate social coordinator, a role normally filled by Chris' wife Kirsty, who is in Los Angeles recording music. Our houseguest Deborah, whom Gretchen had to take to the emergency room last night for kidney-stone-related agony, was cold kickin' it back on the couch with her bottle of prescription pain killers.
Not much of note happened during our meal except for the somewhat unfamiliar sight of seeing someone at the other end of my table eating a sirloin steak. It's 2009 and people still eat food like that and waitresses still need to know whether it should be cooked rare, medium-rare, medium well-done, or well done. For some reason it seems like a food from the 1970s, back before the widespread discovery of non-instant coffee, the bagel, provolone, tofu, and the notion that ingredients can be combined together to make dishes that are greater than the sums of their parts.

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