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:
   Rory Miller in San Diego
Monday, December 7 1998
There was frost on the grass this morning. I had no idea San Diego had such unpleasantness within her. I'm told that the mornings will never get any colder than this.
At work today there was a war fought with intestinal gas. The combatants didn't know they were engaged, but to civilians caught in the crossfire (me) this made very little difference.
Further on during the day, I got an email from a long lost friend/enemy, Rory Miller. Last I'd heard, he'd been tossed off a freight and deported from Montana to Heathrow Airport in London, but now he was saying he was in San Diego. He went on to ask if we could let bygones be bygones and do coffee together sometime. I wasted no time in giving him my phone number and address and encouraging him to drop by. While it's been clearly demonstrated that you can't trust Rory with either your cars or your girlfriends, he's one hell of a writer and I was sure he had some stories to tell, so I was throwing caution decidedly to the wind.
I called Kim at the end of work and suggested she come pick me up and take me shopping for a new monitor (two days ago my old monitor, which I bought used at the same place where I got my CD-Writer, sent up a cloud of smoke and died). She announced that Rory was already at my house. I told her to bring him along, what the hell.
So there we were, heading north up the 163, Rory sitting in the back of the Volvo telling how he'd come down from Vancouver, this time equipped with all the necessary legal paperwork. He looked the same as ever and still spoke with that familiar extra-mild Yorkshire gravy poured over all his words.
We went out and bought a bottle of Carlo Rossi Paisano. Rory, who never liked the stuff back when we lived in Charlottesville, got himself a deep discount (not that deep, though) six pack. A little party commenced; Al, one of my web-content-writing co-workers, who'd evidently been sold (by my workplace chit-chat) on the validity of Rory's weirdness, eventually showed up as well. Al just moved to Ocean Beach himself, so for him, we didn't represent a major excursion. Rory, who was on his best behaviour, probably didn't live up to his billing.
Rory crashed on the couch, our first slacker houseguest. Hmmm... Kim and I had bought the couch with Matt Rogers on our mind.

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