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:
   first day of many
Wednesday, October 7 1998
Work. I had to be there at 8:00am. It wasn't a bad commute by bicycle, especially with the cool of the morning still cloaking San Diego. The freeways weren't even crowded yet, though I was riding on the means by which they were best avoided.
This is a city built around the car. Traffic jams are blamed on a lack of roadway while mass transit is an overpriced afterthought. It frequently occurs to me that I recently made the journey from one pole of auto culture to the other. Southeastern Michigan, where I met Kim, is where cars are born. People there have a benevolent fondness for cars, the way people feel about kittens and babies. The cutest of automobiles are stored in sealed garages and only brought out for auto shows. There's an international border, but it cuts us off from a pleasant fluffy place where the streets are clean and people are admirably cold and reticent. Southern California, where Kim and I are now, is where cars serve, and by doing so, rule on many levels. They're regarded like bimboesque girls; the more beautiful the better. But they are most definitely used and then, ultimately, forgotten, and the driver moves on. There's also an international border, here, but it marks the the start of a very adult world where you have to look after yourself if you want to make it. Beyond that border people jockey for position and get in your face hoping you're that fraction of dumb Americans of whom P.T. Barnam spoke.
Anyway, it was a day of learning the ropes and trying to keep busy despite all manner of limits. What can I do given the few things I know and my fear of screwing things up? There's a lot to learn and I'm excited to do so, though I'm also a bit intimidated.
My co-workers are a fun group overall. The couple with whom I ate lunch were overjoyed to find that last night I'd celebrated my new job with bloody marys; they'dve seen far too many straight-laced engineering types in their day.
The shift was ten hours long, and towards the end I was eager for distraction. There was a company meeting at the end in which we discussed the inner-workings of stock options and such. I couldn't figure out what they were really talking about; they left the terms undefined and I didn't want to show my ignorance by asking questions. I was content just to learn I wasn't going to be taxed for the stock options I'd be earning.
The meeting had a sort of evangelical uplifting quality, like what I imagine meetings are like at Saturn Automotive plants. But unlike a religious revival, this was all about market dominance and the making of money. Don't get me wrong, I like money and want to have a lot of it. But as a goal in and of itself, it's unsatisfactory. I need more. To make great things has always been my life's purpose. And I can do that here as well. If I make money, so much the better.
It was dark by the time I climbed out of Mission Valley and made it home. Sophie was overjoyed to see me. There's no human in the world who has ever received me with such enthusiasm. If only for moments like that, we humans have dogs and, of course, suffer the consequences.
Kim had made me some pasta but she was gone. I fixed a vodkatea and touched bases with Rita. There's been a bit of an email fight between Kim and Mirial (the severe woman who runs the student housing program in which we're currently participating) and Rita wanted to assure me that she was cool with us and she didn't share Mirial's opinions.
It will be difficult to get used to this new life, but I think it's going to work somehow.

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