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:
   December 9, 1996, Monday-the chore of Masturbation
Monday, December 9 1996 Stefan, one of my co-workers, came into the Server Room and immediately began dissecting what remained of a huge cigar he had been smoking. His fascination with cigars has been getting ever more intense. He's been doing research for a web page he intends to create. So now he has to do a post-mortem on each one he smokes. As he ripped into it, the Server Room was filled with its pungent fragrance. I wondered what Andria would think.

The day was another cold one, as always. But there was a period of sun, and this served only to illuminate my room with an eerie glow as I tried to sleep through the afternoon.

Masturbation has become a chore, a duty I must perform, uninspired, like watering plants. It seems that relationships of every kind get old after a time. In this case, the need is demanded at inappropriate times, when it would be so much better just to say that I'm tired. But the forces at work here are too irrational to negotiate with. They are not surprisingly uncaring that my thoughts concern other things.

For all that it lacks, this is the season that brings out the beauty in red headed girls.

especially blond blue-eyed dog-petting Arabs such as these
In the Rising Sun Bakery, I sat reading the newspaper, as I often do, a cup of black coffee in hand. One of the employees there, one of the psychotic dishwashers actually, a skinny middle-aged greasy-blond-haired man, asked in his typically cheerful way when was I going to hang my paintings again, as though I'd be doing it anytime soon. I hated being disturbed by the likes of him, and would have ignored him completely had there been any way to. When he suggested that next time I bring small paintings because that would be "nice" I said that, in the future, I would only be bringing in HUGE paintings if any at all. I always feel terribly embarrassed to be talking to him. His unctiousness is nauseating. On the other hand, a short haired blond girl, apparently the head of some University Arab students' group, seemed only too pleased to chat with him about a soon-to-appear Arab-issues newsletter. I had no idea Arabs were so common in town, especially blond blue-eyed dog-petting Arabs such as these. The psychotic dishwasher, upon being ignored by me, fell into a strange trance where he talked out loud to himself and gesticulated with his hands, rather like my psychotic brother. The interesting thing to me was the great difference between his composed, articulate conversational style and his disjointed "in his own world" style.

At Plan 9, I got another music fix. CDs last a good deal longer than alcohol. Once you drink a beer, it vanishes. Once you hear a CD, you can always hear it again. And the emotional impact of music is at least as good, if not better, than that of alcohol. And your friends, you always have to think about the quantity and quality of friends when you have alcohol. Music, on the other hand, gives your friends a chance to show how much they really want to spend time with you.

The music I bought wasn't really so great, though, mostly because it was peppy girlie punk pop, but at least it was cheap. $4 for a used Throwing Muses CD, House Tornado, recorded in 1988. I'd heard Throwing Muses over a year ago at Trax back when the place was Crossroads Live (owned at the time by a David Fisher, who was one of my friends back when we attended the same rural public school south of Staunton), and really enjoyed them. But in 1988, they sounded like somewhere in between Siouxsie and the Banshees and Concrete Blond, with a dancier style than present today. But it was the 80s, and giving slack is what I should be doing. The other CD was the latest from The Fastbacks, New Mansions In Sound, $6, used...more happy punk pop. I have a feeling Jessika would like it, though, and it would also make for good driving music.

I slept from 6pm until work. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was put into a much better mood by an e-mail from Jessika, even though she was mostly critical of me.

Best discovery of the day: scratched CDs can be resurrected by buffing their play surfaces with a polyester sweater. Yes, the 70s do still have things to offer the 90s.

That is marijuana in the background. Kind buds, I believe. They weren't mine, but I thought they'd make a nice little background. IN YOUR FACE, DRUG COPS ENFORCING LAWS ROOTED IN RACISM!!

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