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:
Thursday, January 9 1997 As I slept I had a range of dreams about being caught and exposed doing bad things. One featured me stealing music CDs from a record store run by the tolerant people who own and operate the Mudhouse. Such a music store does not exist in reality, by the way. In the dream I was shamed but not apprehended for my theft; the male owner of the dreamed-up record store even pointed out that he'd been stocking the CDs I'd stolen just for me, and that he'd seen me take them. I was left with a feeling of profound guilt as I awoke.

There was an inch of slushy snow on the ground when I got up this morning. I went to the bakery for free coffee and soup. Jen was there, taking photographs of the regulars who came in, including me and a lady who always gets bran muffins. The most spectacular photo session centered around a couple and their black labrador (a dog I mentioned in a past musing). The dog was all excited and kept trying to steal from the day old rack as everyone pleaded and coaxed him to pose like a customer or a sexy counter girl at the counter. God forbid what shit would have gone down had the health inspector or Terry walked in about then.

I'm in Cocke Hall working on the musings. Bad Toast is here too, like me, an imposter, exploiting the University for its T3 and computational facilities.

I took a nice long bath once back at my house. The winter chill in my face and slushy snow underfoot had taken something out of me that only hot water could restore. Deya called and arranged to meet me later. We hadn't seen each other in a while, see.

I ran across Jenfariello on Wertland and she invited me to go to the downtown artspace to manifest my creativity. I ended up painting an enormous chicken on a door. It was quick and dirty and used Jackson Pollack techniques in some places and dubious "archival-what's-archival?" techniques in others (spray paint on wet latex paint, for example, oh horrors!). It had a lot of energy in the end, and was quite an achievement for only 45 minutes worth of labour.

I went to Theresa and Persad's place on Wertland looking for Deya; her car was outside. But all I found were T&P and Gopahl, the gothic boy who works at the Corner's smallest boutique, Coyote.

So Matthew dutifully sliced his arm open.
Deya showed up soon enough. We discussed a number of things, particularly some dreadful ginseng candies that Theresa had in a black coffin-shaped box. They became progressively worse in terms of texture and taste as they were sucked. Perhaps they could be one of the initiation sacraments for a hard core cult of some sort. Also, Matthew Hart's recent self-inflicted razor wound story was rehashed. I haven't told this story yet. seems that Matthew Hart was hanging out at T&P's the other day, feeling sorry for himself that he had no injuries to compare to those of the people present for the December 23rd wreck of Jesse's truck. So Glen, aka "Monster Boy" (who now sports a septum ring, I notice) offered Matthew a fresh razor blade and suggested he wanted to see blood. So Matthew dutifully sliced his arm open. 9 stitches later, no one can quite understand what exactly was going on in Matthew's head when he did that.

Deya and I got a twelve of Moosehead Ice at a store and then watched a teevee murder mystery with housemates John and Ches (and friend-of-the-house Will when he came by to do laundry). Like last night, I was feeling very tired and fell asleep on Deya's shoulder. They all went to the Tokyo Rose to see a band that has Deya's brother for its drummer. I was too tired and was by now suffering from intestinal distress and elected not to go despite the pleading of the others.

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