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:
   jambalaya preparations
Saturday, December 12 1998
Something about the strip bar last night left my libido in exceptionally rare form, judging by what happened this morning.
Kim was the force behind today's preparations for tomorrow's party. Without her constant chiding, bitching and coaxing, I would have been content to lie around on the couch basking in the failing thought processes of a purely mental hangover. But no, I was taking out the trash, tracking down spare folding tables, and accompanying Kim and Rory on several shopping expeditions. Rory and I had a running joke all day about the need to "look busy" and about how slacking was something best done in pairs.
For some unknown reason, Kim decided to do most of our party-related shopping at a Pick and Save. I'd never been inside a Pick and Save before, and I was in for a bit of a shock. The store was dirty and disorganized, with merchandise piled up in the aisles in several stages between wholesale and retail. It reminded me of a Salvation Army thrift mart more than, say, a prim and proper Walmart. The selection was rather limited and we had difficulty finding things we actually needed. As Rory and I stood in line discussing why the British don't refer to "chocolate chip cookies" as "chocolate french fry biscuits," I saw a rat run from one cashier booth to the other. I don't think the ladies standing behind us in line saw it, but they definitely heard me talking about it. Rory was terrified in that unpredictable way to which I have now grown accustomed.
We bought all the food items we'd be needing at an "Apple" store. For the jambalaya (which was to be our featured food dish), it would be safe to say we cut a few corners, but we did do at least one original thing, though Kim kept us from getting too original or otherwise jiggy wid it.
In the evening Kim went off to work and Rory and I sat around having a marvelous conversation that went on for hours. We talked at length about what we value in life, about the differences in American and British culture, and about writing, particularly the keeping of an online journal. I always enjoy hearing Rory talk about how his chums from Yorkshire would act in this unguarded naïve never-never-land of America, where people leave their stereos in their cars and sell newspapers in honour-system vending machines. We went on to discuss what it is about our respective childhoods that make us act as we do. We're both resourceful, forver keen to find that perfect scam to milk something useful out of "the system" and get a little from the back pocket of "the Man." Rory and I both grew up poor (but, unlike me, almost all of Rory's friends were also poor). We came of age in a reality where, if we didn't steal things or make things, we couldn't have those things. When we were kids, if we spent our money, the money was gone. It's extremely hard to change habits that develop in such an environment. So it's no surprise that, despite my good income, I'm always looking for the cheapest lunch, transportation, and alcohol that money will buy. My behaviour in this regard is completely different from Kim, who (I suspect) never had to work hard for anything she's ever wanted.
I told Rory that I'm currently taking the time to build sufficient financial reserves so I can, on some future day of renewed freedom, re-encounter the world the way I like best, at $2 a day with my home on my back and no obligations to anyone. The only thing that matters in life is what I create, and what I own is only important insofar as how it helps (and doesn't hinder) my creative process.
I encouraged Rory to do some writing, but he snorted the ground-up substance of one of Kim's little blue pills (the kind doctors prescribe to complaining hypochondriac rich ladies like Kim's mom, from whom the pills were originally stolen) and he quickly fell into a deep useless sleep.
Fargo was on cable teevee tonight. It was great movie. It has been a long time since a movie left me as disturbed as I was during the woodchipper scene.

Kim and I did some fun stuff on our own.

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