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:
   work me until I drop
Thursday, January 28 1999
One thing that gave me courage as I slept last night was that my dreams no longer had that disturbing quality which comes from fever and pain. Instead of scaling buildings made of razor blades and index cards, I was dreaming about my brother, Don. Don wasn't acting as he normally would act in these dreams, but more like how I would act. In one dream, Don had borrowed a pickup truck from my Dad's indulgent Canadian colleague Ralf Kretz, and then gone on a bike stealing expedition far and wide. Then he and I took the cargo of stolen bikes far into the mountains to hide them away until they cooled down. But wouldn't you know, we ended up at the dead end of a dirt road in a wide, arid valley populated with busy-body rednecks, one of whom threw a B-B gun at us out of spite.
In another dream, I was driving a very small semi-stolen car. That's when the alarm went off.

My work environment, or more particularly my taskmaster boss, gave me not even the slightest consideration for my sickness. I worked solidly for 12 hours on one of the big projects still overdue for January 18th, a 6-Degrees-of-Separation-type community of connections. The only break came at noon when Sherms the graphic designer took me out to Pasta Bravo. Up until that moment, most of my calories had been coming from Breyers Icecream; everything else solid I'd put into my mouth had tasted like sawdust.

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