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:
   defective space bag
Sunday, March 8 1998

t was another of those long grey rainy Sundays, the kind that keeps you indoors watching television and discussing the problems of the day, or, in this particular case, the problems of last night. At a certain point I hooked up my laptop and used it to work on the musings in the living room. It was a nice change to be able to sit on a couch, facing and occasionally socializing with my friends while occasionally typing as inspiration hit me. I was playing Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 on the CD player. The fidelity of the stereo has improved a lot since I figured out that the audio plug shouldn't be inserted all the way into the CD player's audio output jack.


fter dark, Morgan Anarchy drifted over. He had a nasty cut over his left eyebrow exactly like Matthew Hart's, and likewise it had been installed last night at the Tokyo Rose. The bouncer responsible for the damage had been so horrified that he'd given Morgan $7 in compensation. By the way, we received no word today on Matthew Hart's condition following last night's altercation with the tough guys.

We drank a little Sambuca over crushed ice in the semi-sophisticated manner dictated by Jessika. Morgan wanted some since it contains alcohol, but he had trouble with it since he wanted to impatiently chug it like he does all his alcohol. A guy like him really needs to stick with the cheap stuff.

Soon enough Morgan was waving some dollars around asking if someone wanted to go in with him on some beer. At a certain hour, the pull to go get alcohol becomes a force akin to gravity. We decided (after some debate) to get a box of vino. Morgan calls such boxes "space bags" since the vino is actually contained in a silvery plastic bag seemingly spun out of the space program. Morgan says that in New Orleans gutter-punk culture, these space bags are highly prized since after the vino is drunk they can be used as inflatable pillows and cushions, or even fashioned into rafts and used for crossing rivers and bayous.

Deya drove us out to Farmer Jack at Barrack's Road Shopping Center and, after much debate, we decided to get a $12 box of Almaden burgundy. Jessika hates boxed white wines and, furthermore, she likes to say, "never get Chillable Red!"


ack at the house, I moved immediately to open the vino. I place it atop the microwave and as I was pulling the nozzle out of the box, the end of it suddenly pulled out, sending a deluge of red wine all over the place. Probably a third of the space bag ended up on the floor. It was a horrible tragedy. Immediately, Jessika said, "let's take it back." That seemed like the only way to salvage the situation. So I poured a few massive cups of vino and Jessika and Deya took it back while I cleaned up the kitchen. Red drops of vino had found their way onto the window curtain, the refrigerator, the oven, everywhere. So much vino had drained into the inner workings of the microwave that it was running automatically and had to be unplugged.

Morgan thought it was a good idea to eat a little "grub" (as he called it) before drinking, so I allowed him to raid our refrigerator. He's so completely filthy though, it made me uncomfortable to see him handling, for example, a hunk of pristine white cheese. Dirt forms a patina on the backs of his hands, and he thinks nothing of it and certainly makes no attempt to wash it off. I can't imagine willfully living like that, especially with showers and hot water readily available. He's not exactly living in a New Orleans squat anymore, you know.

When Jessika and Deya returned from the store, they brought the defective box of vino back with them. They looked glum. The store had refused to replace it, citing a very new Virginia law which forbids the refunding of alcohol purchases. This was infuriating; now it's our problem if we buy certain kinds of defective products. It seemed very unjust. I wanted to launch a massive shop-lifting campaign as grass-roots guerrilla rebellion. Such a campaign may well take place. The proletariat has means at its disposal, O cruel overlords!

We made the best of the bad situation, drinking from our defective space bag. Monster Boy came over at a certain point and he and Morgan went out for beer when the vino ran out.


  noticed at a certain point that Jessika had been sitting on the couch talking on the telephone for what seemed like a long time. I was irritated because, in my opinion, she could just as easily have gone upstairs and not imposed such unnecessary quiet on my social space. It often seems to me that Jessika delights in imposing herself on social situations. We're always waiting for her to either get ready or stop chatting with some random person, or else we're always having to be quiet so she can have her endless phone conversations. After awhile, I got fed up with the situation and turned up the stereo. Jessika wound up her conversation immediately and then launched into an argument. She accused me of being drunk, being a brat, and of only wanting her to get off the phone because she was having an interaction that didn't include me. I denied all these charges, and told her that I was sick of always having to deal with her endless phone conversations while I'm trying to socialize. She was so disgusted she went off to her room. When Morgan and Monster Boy returned from their beer run, they decided to go upstairs and hang out with Jessika as she pouted in her room. Whatever, I went to bed.

one year ago

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