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

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Arduino μcontrollers
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(nobody does!)

Like my brownhouse:
   hot and acidic as I gave birth
Sunday, March 11 2001
I sort of wondered today whether or not I should call that Blond Gretchen from last night. But eventually I decided it would be easiest for all concerned if I just let things remain in the marvelously incomplete state they were in.
Julian and Linda came by this evening to hang out for awhile. Linda had made me one of her "chicks with dicks" collages for my birthday, and today she presented the final version, framed and everything.
We sat before a flickering gas-jet fire, eating take away food that Linda and Julian had brought, and then smoking pot and listening to drum and bass music on the stereo. We talked about lots of interesting social issues, some of which were so compelling I felt the need to draw diagrams, which I labeled in fake Greek lest they fall into the hands of the enemy. After the drum and bass music was done, Linda put on an early album by the lead singer for the Swedish band The Soundtrack of Our Lives from back when he was in an ancestral band. It had a strong Rolling Stones sound, but it was better in many important little ways. Also, I can't get over the fact that the guy from The Soundtrack of Our Lives must have been heavily influenced by the one-hit-wonder song "Driver's Seat" by Sniff 'N' The Tears (popular on American radio in the late 70s). Of Swedes and their pop music, Linda said, "They don't have any inferiority complex about it; they know they're good. They only have eight million people and look at all the music they make!" I, of course, attributed this immediately to the strong Swedish social welfare system. As for why the Swedes appreciate straight up rock and roll (and "black metal") so much, I figured it had something to do with their willingness to embrace the dark side. "They're probably awfully proud that the Vikings kicked so much ass back in the day!" I declared.
At a certain point I made a demonstration of penny heating and melting in the fireplace. The grand finalé came when I melted a late-model zinc-cored penny onto the top surface of an old-school solid copper one.
The whole time I was plagued by the most horrendously uncomfortable gas problem, which I certainly didn't want to inflict on my friends. I kept holding it back, waiting to turn it loose in the bathroom every now and then. But I just couldn't keep getting up and going in there, so I started farting into the crevasses of the couch and also adding to the natural gas in the fireplace. I was relieved to discover that, though they felt hot and acidic as I gave birth to them, the farts had almost no fragrance to them at all.
I must be getting sick; this morning I woke up with a distractingly sore throat.

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