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:
   sober bar experience
Wednesday, October 21 1998
After a fairly satisfying though industrious day of work, the guy responsible for hiring me invited me to join him and the boys at TGI-Fridays to watch the fourth game of the World Series, which was happening in the stadium near the other end of Mission Valley. I'm not much into going to a bar to watch a ball game, but this was a big game of considerable local interest, and it seemed like a valid social adventure, so I said sure I'd come along.
When I went to order a beer, however, I couldn't find my ID in my wallet; I must have left it at the bank when I opened my account yesterday. The waitress was apologetic but hard-nosed, telling me all the fines and job instablity she'd suffer if her manager found out she was getting me beers with no ID. To protest that I was thirty years old did absolutely no good. So I had to settle on Sprite, that clear carbonated sugar water beverage. It was difficult to have a good time after that, especially as co-workers Al and Sherwin slurped down their brewskis with obvious satisfaction.
The game didn't go well for the Padres, but throughout we all held out the hope that a miracle was going to happen in the 8th inning. There was one guy nearby in the bar wearing a New York Yankees cap, and his solitary clapping broke the stunned silence that came with every slight Padre failing. I was mostly disappointed by the complete absence of dramatic plays: homeruns and such.
Al drove me back to the workplace, I picked up my bike and rode home in the dark. I was a little concerned that an irate Padres fan would steer some road rage my way, but the ride home was no more eventful than usual.
Kim was off at classes when I got home, but that didn't mean I could just kick back with a vodkatea and relax. It seems that Rita the crazy French Canadian landlord was trying to pirate software CDs but was having trouble with her CD-Writer, so I devoted a small fraction of my considerable technical expertise to the cause.

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