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:
   wet bike ride into Kingston
Tuesday, August 12 2014
There were brief periods of light rain in the morning and afternoon, though it was light enough for me to decide to ride a bicycle into Kingston when I was to meet Gretchen at her workplace (so we could look at a house on Wall Street we're considering as an investment property). Just before I left, though, the skies darkened and rain fell hard enough for me to think perhaps I should take the Subaru. But then it let up and resumed being just a light sprinkle, so I carried through on my plan to take the bike. As a lark, I brought a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer (somewhat concealed in an orange cozy) to drink along the way. It lasted nearly the entire four miles I traveled on Hurley Mountain Road; I don't know that I'd ever drunk an entire beer while pedaling a bicycle before. Soon thereafter, the rain came down noticeably harder than it had in the early part of my ride. I was forced to look out over the tops of my eyeglasses, which were too wet to see coherent images through. By the time I got to Gretchen's workplace, I was pretty much soaked. Gretchen introduced me as her zany husband to her boss, and I went off to the bathroom to "dry off," though mostly what I did in there was wash my shirt in the sink; it now had a skunk stripe of grime down the back.
There were no surprises at our second visit to the small house on Wall Street. This time our realtor was Elliott, Larry the Realtor's understudy. The house is small and the parking is cramped, but it's move-in-ready and 4/10ths of a mile from the Stockade Tavern, the heart of what appears to be a nascent gentrification of at least parts of Kingston.
We went to the Stockade after our real estate appointment, and there I had a Galactica Clown Shoes IPA. It was exactly the way I like my IPAs to taste: like grapefruit juice. Somewhat unexpectedly, Gretchen (who had been drinking an Elizabeth Amargo cocktail) ordered another round after we'd finished our first. I was probably too drunk to drive by the end there, though I don't know that Gretchen (who got us home) was much better off than me.

The rain continued to come in fits and starts as night descended, falling with greater strength with every new wave. Gretchen's boss had said that "torrential rains" had been predicted, but I wouldn't say these ever met that criterion.

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