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:
   thrift store shoes
Monday, September 28 1998
I was left to my own devices as Kim went off to her first genuine somatics lecture. Her curriculum is a strange combination of things, mostly philosophical at this point. I'm surprised to discover that I'm actually finding some of her assigned reading interesting. Last night I was reading The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas S. Kuhn and rather enjoying it, excepting of course the dull introduction. And I'd always thought that the introduction was supposed to be the most interesting part.
I rode my bike down to University Avenue and eventually found myself in the neighborhood of Hillcrest. Being in need of sensible shoes, I was on the lookout for a shoe store or thrift shop. I suddenly came upon one of the latter at 1455 University Avenue, one of several Baras Foundation stores. I went in and found it to be a relatively large establishment (though there were plenty of mirrors, so perhaps it wasn't nearly as big as it appeared). Best of all, there were plenty of shoes, even in the large sizes I wear. Everything was so cheap and of such high quality that I launched into something of a spending spree, buying a shirt, a pair of pants and two pairs of shoes. This relatively large increase in my spartan San Diego wardrobe set me back a mere $10.40.
I couldn't help but notice the long term effects of the bright San Diego sun on the Caucasian skins of the two pleasant elderly staffers who waited on me. Looking at the woman, I was astounded to see such a complex and thorough fractalization of wrinkles on her arms, never mind her face. And looking at the man, I noted that the wrinkles and splotches on his arms were interrupted in many places by shiny pink scars, perhaps where erupting cancers had been sliced away by surgeons.

An amusing thing I said today while averting my eyes during an egg advertisement on television: "I wouldn't eat eggs even if they were hallucinogenic!"

Kim and I have been eating a lot of ramen lately. Tonight we had Bush's baked beans and white flour tortillas spot-burnt on a bare electric burner. Our pathetically cheap dinner was actually cause for much amusement for both of us. We kept referring to our dinner in a nostalgic past tense, as if it had happened long ago during humble character-building financially-troubled times. But you know, I do have a job interview tomorrow.

There have been four shootings in four days by INS agents along the Mexican border south of San Diego. In most cases the story is that the INS agents were acting out of self-defense against rock-throwing illegal aliens. I can sort of understand why an alien might want to chuck rocks after getting through those two barricades and past the watch towers. But San Diego is nothing to die for, really it isn't.

Info from confidential sources: supposedly there are thousands of tons of explosives buried in the narrow isthmus connecting Coronado Island to Imperial Beach, just in case the San Diego fleet ever gets trapped in San Diego Bay by a military aggressor. One loud explosion and they can swim out the back door.
Meanwhile, inside the hard rock peninsula of Point Loma there is supposedly a secret naval base, a 1000 bed hospital, and who knows what. It was built during World War II in case the Japanese ever threatened San Diego. Later it was reserved as a massive fallout shelter for World War III. Now it's sealed up and ready for... World War IV?

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