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:
   14th Hurley hunting season
Saturday, November 21 2015 [REDACTED]
All the cats except Julius (aka Stripey) and both of the dogs were on the bed when I woke up this morning.
I felt pretty good before setting out with the dogs on this, the first day of hunting season. I found an orange collar for Ramona, though none of the other orange collars had retained enough of their original color to server their intended purpose. So Eleanor had to wait for me to find a piece of orange survey tape to decorate her normal collar, which is black with reflective silver details. As for me, I wore the orange hat with "NAMBLA" scrawled on the front in black acrylic paint. (The people who know what "NAMBLA" stands for always find it hilarious.) Not seeing any parked vehicles along the Farm Road, I concluded that any hunters had already departed. Our walk started near the south end of the Farm Road, heading northeast from there on no particular trail to the Stick Trail, which we followed back home.
Later I salvaged yet more firewood from the same region I've been working in for weeks, in this case about 300 feet southeast of where the Stick Trail crosses the Chamomile. Today's wood consisted of skeletonized White Pine and marginal old Chestnut Oak containing a good amount of rot. I scooped away handfuls of the stuff so as not to have to carry it home, but there was still plenty left. It was wet from recent rains and would require considerable drying before it could be burned. The weight of today's salvage was 88.4 pounds, though several of those pounds were water.


Gretchen returned from Manhattan early this evening full of stories about entitled little shits and the parents they torment. The one story I can report concerns a stranger on the street and her little boy, who was tooling around on a Razor Scooter. Gretchen was astounded when she heard the mother say, "I'm so proud of you for not insisting we take a taxi."
Before a poetry reading Gretchen had to drive to an hour and a half away, we watched the sixth episode of season two of Fargo, which (unbeknownst to Gretchen) I'd already watched yesterday. The show is that good; I enjoy watching episodes twice.

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