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:
   best Broccoli Rabe
Sunday, June 8 2014
Gretchen and I had eaten too much Indian food last night and woke up at around 3:30am and couldn't get back to sleep. "I feel like a highland coo," Gretchen said, disgusted by her overeating. We both ended up taking Ambien, and it was under its influence that I made the following Facebook post as my troll Suzy:

The science of so many things have changed since Medieval times. We now know the moon is not made of cheese and that the sun is powered by fusion energy. I'm curious about what advances Science has made in understanding Heaven. It's where we'll be spending the rest of all time, so you would think research about it would be well-funded and producing papers and advancing knowledge. Surely the old idea of harps and robes has been supplanted by something else. But what? And is there good broadband in Heaven? And if so, why do the dead fail to send us emails? I wouldn't be happy in a Heaven with no broadband, so surely it must be there.

Late this morning we had our Sunday morning coffee out on the east deck beneath the picnic table umbrella. Later Gretchen went for a big bike ride on the south side of Ashokan Reservoir with Deborah and had an amazing experience (though the dogs had to all stay back at Deborah's house). The day was kind of hot, so I went shirtless to gather firewood in the Chamomile Valley upstream from the Stick Trail, easily hauling home about 90 pounds of seasoned oak heartwood. Amazingly, mosquitoes and biting flies have been almost a non-issue this spring, perhaps because of the coldness and length of the preceding winter.
Later this evening, I replanted a good many seedlings in the garden, expanding into previously-ungardened sections of lawn. After last night's Indian food debacle, Gretchen had sworn off all fattening foods. But when I suggested that our crop of Broccoli Rabe was ready for harvest, she immediately did so, cooking it up with garlic and oil. It was the best Broccoli Rabe either of us had ever had. It was so fresh and tender that it lacked the strong bitterness we'd come to associate with this particular Brassica.

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