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:
   girls with butt tattoos
Friday, November 8 2002

This morning I figured out a way to eliminate one of the Romex wires running down to the switch box I'd installed in the second oak pillar. Instead of having power lines running directly to this switch, I ran a bypass through the floor and attic wall and supplied it to the light itself and then reconnected the switch wire to accommodate the change. The elimination of that one set of Romex also eliminated both wire nut connections in the tiny pillar-mounted switch box. By carefully sizing and routing the individual conductors in the switch box, I managed to cram a double-switch mechanism into a box of only seven cubic inches (one by 3.5 by two). This may not seem like a big deal, but it felt like a major accomplishment. For a few days there I'd actually contemplated using panel-mount toggle switches.
Gretchen needed another bookshelf for her office, so I made another run to Lowes. A dark little cashier girl at the lumber checkout was unusually flirtatious. The tag on her red uniform had the name "Lara." While scanning my items, Lara accidentally knocked a electrical junction box off my cart and it bounced beneath it. She shrugged, said "Oops!" and then joked that she couldn't bend down to get it because if she did that, the guys watching the security cameras would see her butt crack. I wasn't in much of a flirting mood, but I nodded sympathetically. I also bent down and got the box so she wouldn't have to show the security guys her ass. Then Lara told me she has a tattoo on her ass and she asked me if I wanted to see it. "Okay," I said. So then, security cameras be damned, she bent over and pulled up her uniform a bit. But all I saw of the tattoo was a little black smudge. What really caught my eye was the bright yellow triangular tail patch of her thong, which rode a couple inches above her belt line. "You know, it's not really true what they say about girls who have tattoos on their butts," Lara assured me. I myself had never heard any generalizations made about girls with butt tattoos, but that's probably because I don't listen to the morning personalities on Clear Channel rock radio. "Do you know what they say about girls with butt tattoos?" she asked. I didn't want her to explain, and by now I'd figured out that it had something to do with taking it up the ass, so I said, "No, but I can sort of figure it out from the context," I said. "Yeah, she said. It's even worse when guys get tattoos on their butts."
This evening Ron finished up the last of the hardwood floors. They're a huge improvement over the semi-shag green carpet that had been there.
In a barter exchange for a massage, Gretchen baked a birthday cake for a massage therapist she met a week ago at the Katie and Louis housewarming. The therapist is named Cornelia, and most descriptions of her begin or end with the words "totally hot."
Cornelia's birthday party took place tonight at a Yoga center in Woodstock. Since we were bringing the cake, Gretchen and I showed up promptly at eight and were the first people there. When we arrived, a couple of spirited young boys (one being Cornelia's son) were romping around in excited anticipation of the party. Being too young to know the pleasures of life, they happily sipped apple juice and ignored the many alcoholic libations.
The people coming to this party were drawn largely from the nu-hippie demographic, not an altogether uncommon presence in Woodstock. Mind you, these weren't your stereotypical flowers and rainbow hippies; they tended to have a more urban, sophisticated style, perhaps a reflection of the proximity of New York City. Cornelia, for example, looks like a hip city chick. She'd hired a DJ for the night and he played exclusively dance music. Aside from the odd white boy rasta wanna-be, the party wasn't especially rich in poseur energy.
Drinking mostly red wine, I managed to get drunk enough for Gretchen to start being embarrassed, though I didn't do anything worthy of regret.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:

previous | next