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:
   so we could BOOB
Saturday, April 19 2003
Our friends from Park Slope, Ray and Nancy (along with their dog Suzy) came up to visit us today. The weather was beautiful and warm, so we all went on a walk on the uphill neighbor's property, first going to the site of the abandoned go-cart raceway and then unexpectedly breaking through to Reichel Road. With us at the time was "Goldie" (that's what we called her), one of the dogs of our house's former owners, currently being dog-sat by their parents, our downhill neighbors. We stopped to talk to Georges, the owner of the property we'd mostly been walking on, and when we told him whose dog Goldie was, he chuckled and said "It must not be the one that was killed." Then he told us a horrible story about an unfortunate dog owned by the guy who'd sold us our house. Several years this dog had been left in a car with the windows rolled up in the hot weather and it had died as a result. Gretchen's reaction was horror, but mine was more the sort of reaction one has when one receives additional evidence to support a theory. That theory, as I first heard it articulated by our realtor, is as follows, "Mike ______ is not the sharpest knife in the drawer."
Later all of us except Gretchen started drinking Molson Ices and I gave Ray and Nancy a tour of my laboratory, which they hadn't seen since I installed the disco ball and painted the floor. They really seemed to dig it. Then Ray started playing my cheap Yamaha PSS-170 keyboard while I twiddled dials and controls on a digital effects processor I had it running through. Molson Ice is a powerful intoxicant, and this went on for a rather long time. By now we were out of beer and I was drinking straight gin.
Soon thereafter we drove across the Hudson to the loathsome town of Rhinebeck to watch a movie at Upstate Films, but the weather was too nice and the place was sold out. So, after first buying some things (for some reason I went crazy and bought three nature field guides), we drove south of town to Mughal Raj, our last hope for a good Indian Restaurant in the region. The place had recently remodeled and perhaps experienced a change ownership, because they didn't have a liquor license. I had to go on an emergency beer run so we could BOOB in response to a sign suggesting BYOB. Rhinebeck is so lame that I had to drive all the way through it to its northern suburbs before I found a place that sold beer. This - in a college town!
The first problem we noted at Mughal Raj was their excruciating slowness. By the time our food arrived, we were already so empty-stomach drunk and famished that they could have given us rhinoceros shit and we would have liked it. But then, let us not forget, there was the issue of quality. There seemed to be an unfortunate tendency at Mughal Raj to incorporate excessive grease and insufficient flavor. This was particularly evident in a bowl of tomato soup Gretchen ordered. She tried unsuccessfully to decant-off the floating oil layer before sending it back. After adjustments were made with salt and pepper, its replacement was nearly acceptable. Finally the entrees appeared, and it would be unfair to say they weren't good. The problem was with the basmati rice, which wasn't the light and fluffy stuff we were familiar with from other Indian restaurants. This stuff was oily and had the hallmarks of fried food. What a mistake!

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