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:
   drunken DIY electric noise
Saturday, June 19 2010
Gretchen has been trying to avoid leaving the house since we returned from Oregon, and (with the exception of Eleanor's vet appointment), she's mostly succeeded. Still, Gretchen remains a social animal, far more than me, and so she's been trying to get people to come over to visit. Today we had a taker in the form of Jenny and Doug from Willow. They brought all three of their dogs with them, including their newest addition, a Pit Bull named Marty. He's a chunky-headed charmer with short white fur and large black spots, one of which surrounds one of his eyes. Like all of Jenny and Doug's dogs, he's a charity case. He'd originally been rescued after being thrown from the window of a moving car. Then he'd lived in various marginal situations down in the city. Now he's adapting to country life, learning not to chase cats, and generally charming everyone he meets. Though he freaks out about some tall men, he's developed a special fondness for Doug. Unfortunately, like many Pit Bulls, Marty has blown the cruciate ligaments in both his knees and developed arthritis in them. (Doug thinks the trauma of being thrown from a moving car is the culprit.) Surgery to repair Marty's knees is going to cost six thousand dollars, roughly three times what Eleanor's knee repairs cost us.
Jenny and Doug brought over mojitos (a drink I do not fully understand), and Gretchen had prepared vegan quesadillas and corn tamales (which, lacking corn husks, she'd wrapped in coffee filters). We talked about a number of things besides our trip to Oregon and Marty and his blown knees. At some point we got to talking about the idiots who did our recent landscaping and Doug never finished the story of how they'd managed to screw up a duck pond.

Later tonight after he got back from his waiter shift, Ray came up and visited me in the laboratory. Somehow we got to drinking from my laboratory bar (which is mostly for me to hit when I drink alone; I keep it hidden behind one of my especially disturbing paintings). I only keep cheap booze in the laboratory: two litres of Crystal Palace Gin ($13.99) and a litre of Evan Williams green label bourbon ($10.99). I was apologetic for the latter, but Ray seemed to find it delicious, declaring it better than Jack Daniels.
I was playing various MP3s and Ray and I were talking about music. At some point I found myself missing the good old days of playing thrash metal with Josh Furr, so I asked Ray if he played an instrument. He said something about a guitar, so I handed him my red Stratocaster knock off and started noodling around on my bass. We made an awful racket for probably a half hour, and Ray seemed to have a great time. "I wish I had a drum kit," I declared. A cuticle on my right middle finger was bleeding.

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