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:
   VOTE TRUMP dumptruck
Sunday, September 29 2019
I had a landlording task this afternoon that took me to the brick mansion on Downs Street (where the stop-work order is still in effect with regard to the front porch). While Ramona stiffed around the back yard, I set up a step ladder and then used a pole saw to cut down a small branch from the big catalpa tree back there. The neighbors behind the mansion had complained to the Kingston Fire Department about the branch brushing against one of the wires leading to their house. The wire in question was the house's power line, but it was all insulated and the poles on my pole saw were all insulated, so I felt perfectly safe in doing job. I have a feeling that most landlords wouldn't feel confident ascertaining the safety of this sort of work and would contract it out to a professional. That I can routinely do such tasks myself is one of factors in the amazing profitability of our real estate empire.
While in Kingston, I swung by the Home Depot to get some PVC screw caps to help me with the brownhouse cistern replacement project. While there, I bought yet another large plastic container for possible use as a cistern. This one was a bit less than 20 gallons and would represent a substantial decrease in capacity. But the only reason I have such capacity down there is to moderate the temperature. All these containers will ultimately be used for something, though it might only be for conventional storage of things that are not water molecules.
Since I was driving around in a car and had not visited the Tibetan Center thrift store on Friday, I did so on my "way" back home. On US 209 and part of Route 28, I was following a dumptruck with huge lettering stenciled on the side reading "VOTE TRUMP." It was stacked a little too full of firewood that one pothole could've sent smashing into a windshield.
There wasn't anything I wanted to buy at the Tibetan Center, though I noticed some guy working there whom I hadn't seen before. He gave me the impression that he was now doing Rob's old job. Also, someone had put a lot of work into straightening up the electronics area, and I suspected this was a reflection of the new guy's just-hired zeal (though he may be a volunteer).
Before Gretchen and Neville returned from the bookstore, I made a big pot of chili. I made the mistake of putting bacon-flavored tempeh in the mix, and it made it all taste a little like hotdogs, and not necessarily in a good way.

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