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").


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Like my brownhouse:
   Green Beer and Bushmills
Wednesday, March 17 1999
It was St. Patrick's Day, a celebration of the Hitler for Ireland's snake population. During lunch, I rode with Kevin the DBA and Dave the Developer up to the Frazee food court. We were astounded by the sheer number of nubile maidens out and about; Kevin's head was in constant scan mode. It's always a big deal when my horny male co-workers see a hot chick. Conversations change abruptly or are replaced by animal grunts. This isn't really very surprising considering there's a 2:1 ratio of men to women in San Diego. Even the fat chicks with halitosis and malignant acne have boyfriends in this town. Speaking of malignant, we saw a very strange sight as we tooled through the food court. A jogger in tight jogging pants had an enormous cylindrical object going down along one of his thighs, though I doubt it was his penis (despite how much he'd want us to think so).
After work, a good fraction of my co-workers headed off to the San Diego Brewing Company, a sort of Schtevish bar a couple miles to the east up Mission Valley. I wanted to join them, and this morning I'd told Kim that I'd call her and arrange to have her come along. But she was hard to reach and for a half hour there I felt terribly confined by my relationship. It was depressing; bitterly I thought about calling it a night and just going home, a pathetic cop-out to the reality of a girlfriend who gets angry every time she discovers I've been having fun in her absence.
Eventually, though, I made it through to Kim and had her come to get me. She showed up in a long green velour dress with Sophie the Schnauzer gasping in Magellanic enthusiasm at the end of a taught leash.
The San Diego Brewing Company wasn't easy to find in the Schteveish commercial district at the foot of a hill crested by La Mirage (the upscale condo development in which lives Kevin the DBA). We continued obliviously past it and all the way to the foot of the eastern mountains. The city lights dwindled away and the black frozen waves of rock lifted up toward the crystalline heavens before us. We were saddened by our realization that we'd gone too far.
Journey was on the radio when discovered we'd gone too far back the other way, westward. (Journey were one of the only 80s bands that could play those hard rock love ballads without sounding cheesy.) By successive approximation, we finally homed in on the San Diego Brewing Company.
More of my colleagues were there than I'd expected. Sherms the graphics designer appeared to be drunk already, which made him even more self-effacingly charming than usual. Kim really likes him; how could she not? Al was there with a hometown lady friend from Indiana, a tall blond girl whose name escapes me. She looked exactly like Cameron Diaz (from There's Something About Mary), so that's what we guys called her in retrospect. She was dressed in a perky little green skirt and had absolutely perfect calves. She was clean, wholesome, warm and friendly and all my frustrated male colleagues thought they'd been blessed just to stand in her presence. She was the sensation of the evening. Later on, when Paymon and Marty the head-honcho engineer dudes arrived, we guys wickedly described for them the specifics of what they'd missed. Kim and I drank several beers each, one round of which was green. Kim was impressed with Marty; she treated him as if he was a wholesome variant on the Woody Allen theme.
In Ocean Beach, Kim and I stopped for liquor and I got a $20 bottle of Bushmills, the very thing Kim was drinking on the night of the Kim and Missy Show. We continued on to Giacomo's place at the beachside end of Saratoga Street, where we found a jovial Pete and Ludmilla (the Brazilian girl) hanging out with a brooding Giacomo. He'd just learned he was being evicted from his apartment on suspicion of being a drug dealer and he was taking it very personally. Beyond that, Juliana (the third Brazilian girl) has been dissing him of late and his heart is in shambles. Being a dramatic Italian, it affected him on a physical level. He puked up some blood and then went for a walk by himself, leaving us alone to revel in our irritating St. Patrick's Day abandon.
Kim was wearing a long dress, but she had it hiked up to her hips. She was squirming around with wanton disregard for propriety, forcing Bushmills upon everyone. Meanwhile Sophie loped about the apartment in confused excitement. Pete (who, as an aspiring actor in Los Angeles, would have to be up for a shoot at 8:00 AM) kept coming up with comic one liners.
I fell asleep for a time, but even when I was awake somehow avoided the alcohol; happily, I never became especially drunk. Indeed, I drove Kim and me home at the end of the night. Kim was a picture of drunken revelry as she stepped out to raise the manually-operated garage door (so I could drive into our garage spot). When she was through, she climbed up on the roof of the Volvo, then slipped off and fell on her ass upon the alley pavement. A couple of guys happened by at this point and I could tell they were regarding this scene with something like concerned titillation. She was a maiden in distress, mental distress that is. She'd probably be a fairly easy score is this state.

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