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:
   Radio Bicycle Old Dude
Monday, September 14 1998
overpass somewhere

n the morning, Kim and I went to nearby Kensington Coffee for a breakfast of bagels and coffee. We got into a bit of a cold war when I happened to mention that normally most of my friends are female. "You're just a big flirt, that's all that means!" she said. She was mostly quiet after that, saying she didn't want me establishing a "harem" while she was around. This notion seemed ludicrous to me. I'd hate to have her dictating the gender balance of the social network I establish in this town.


hile Kim was off establishing a bank account and even attending an optional exercise class in Pacific Beach, I was catching up on web projects and then painting a picture on a piece of found plywood. It's the thing you see at the top of this entry. For some reason it just wanted to be a highway overpass with utility poles. Often when I paint I feel like I only have a weak grasp on the controls and that the painting will end up the way it wants to be, not the way I want it to be. I rely a lot on accident, though in several passes they no doubt get obscured by my intentions, wherever they are in my subconscious. I was severely crippled by a lack of adequate brushes. I had only two, and they were extremely cheap nylon things, not worth more than twenty five cents each. But, as I've said before, much of the joy of painting is the process of figuring the best path given a set of known limitations.


n the evening, while Rita prepared a salad, Kim and I walked the two Schnauzers out to the monastery by the edge of the canyon. As we walked, as the Schnauzers stopped repeatedly and deliberated about where exactly their urine must go, an old guy on a bicycle rode back and forth numerous times. Attached to the handlebars of his bike was a small battery-powered radio blaring a right wing talk show. If this guy was stalking us, he certainly wasn't being especially discrete about it. I jokingly began referring to him as "Radio Bicycle Old Dude." There was also a young man driving around in a similar aimless manner in his white car, blaring music. I decided to call him "Radio Car Young Dude." No doubt these people are familiar figures in the Adams Avenue neighborhood scene.

Kim and I augmented Rita's salad with corn chips and tortillas. We'd soon starve to death if we relied exclusively on the bunny food she eats. She's very concerned about gaining weight.


t night Kim was suffering from pain related to a bladder problem which she had surgery for some years ago. Her problem somehow involved fetal umbilical tissue invading her bladder, leaving scar tissue and fibrous tissue adhesions in its wake. There's a several-inch-long horizontal scar that would be hidden in her pubic hair if she didn't shave it off. Anyway, she was complaining about the pain, which she says comes and goes but is always there to some degree. She had me massage her lower abdomen and I could feel irregularities in there; gradually I started feeling sympathetic pains and a little nausea.

Later when we were about to have sex, I was too distracted thinking about these things to maintain necessary -er- fortitude. Kim wondered if maybe I didn't find her attractive anymore and a big bad episode ensued. But eventually we straightened everything out with the miracle of dialogue.

one year ago

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