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:
   Morgan rides the Amtrack
Wednesday, December 10 1997

hings are weird and getting weirder. All will be revealed soon enough. Sorry about the mystery, but there is only so much I can say at this time. So, after my bike ride home through a cold and miserable rain, I was giddy with a feeling of changing times.1 It would all be so much better if only I wasn't still encumbered by a need to find a renter for Matthew Hart's abandoned room. Matthew's security deposit is going to taste delicious when June comes around and I finally get to eat it. Who knows how hungry I'll be by that time?

Deya was up already. As I was talking to her, who should appear at the door but Morgan Anarchy. He'd come in on the train this morning from New Orleans. I mentioned that he looked remarkably dry for having just ridden a freight in the rain. "No, I was riding in style, on Amtrack," he replied. Evidently Morgan's mother had paid to ship her long lost gutter punk son up here for Christmas.

But Morgan will only be in town for two weeks or so. He has to stay out of public since he's a wanted man in Charlottesville. He's missed a slough of court dates, all related to charges of public intoxication.

And some things never change. Morgan waved a $50 bill in the air and promised it would be gone by sundown, and that tonight the booze would be on him. Then, using crude directions from Deya, he set out to find his old buddy Ray, who, as I mentioned recently, has moved into a place nearby. One talent Ray has that Morgan can really appreciate these days is that he's 21 and can buy beer. It may have been only 9:30 am, but Morgan wanted a beer and he wanted one bad.


n the afternoon, I sort of volunteered myself to work on a project to depict one of Scott Anderson's dreams. This involved digging around through Gabby's site trying to track down an image of her face. She used to have several in there, but nothing is certain or permanent in the mazes and tangles of the appropriately named Fragment. I challenge someone to navigate that site from beginning to end. It's strung together in such a way that you have to keep resorting to the index. I don't understand what motivates her and other talented writers (N. Spaceman, for example) to make things so difficult for readers. It's like a logistical version of what JEL does with his word choice and syntax. It must be nearly impossible to win new readers when you're forever pulling these stunts. I also don't understand why Gabby and Spaceman are always throwing away huge chunks of their creations. What with my Taurus Rising, I can't relate to that mindset at all.


he arrival of a substantial contingent of Malvernians was expected in Charlottesville today, but perhaps due to bad weather ("wintery mixes" and such), they never turned up. If they do make it down here, it could make for an interesting weekend.

For the last two days I've been beginning my pre-work nap very early, around 6pm. For this reason, I've had very little social life to relate. Coupled with my new vow of chastity, let me warn you, these musings could get very dull.

1In such times, when physical places, logical domains, and locations of employment are in a state of flux, the one real certainty is my mailing list. hint hint

one year ago

For linking purposes this article's URL is:

previous | next