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:
   some sort of Hurricane Eleanor
Friday, March 31 2006
I continued my jackhammering in spurts throughout the morning, making sure every piece of bedrock that absolutely had to go had been smashed to smithereens by the time I had to return the jackhammer at 1:30pm. The trench only needed to be six inches deep, and despite the fact that most of the driveway is laid atop bedrock, it is chiefly of the crumbly variety. Not only did I clear out the trench to the necessary depth, but I extended it several feet further uphill than I had originally planned. Later in the afternoon I was able to run the new drain pipe all the way back to an existing drainage line that catches water from a low spot in the yard, a line I'd installed last summer that had been contributing its drainage to this past winter's driveway ice sheet problem.

I had to go to the radio station again today partly because I suspected their bandwidth problems were the result of a spam zombie in their offices (according to Ethereal, though, this wasn't the case). I brought the dogs with me and this time they had the run of the offices. As expected, this angered no one. Generally speaking, unless the dogs and I find ourselves in a tight-ass corporate mega-store, employees in the local businesses tend to be cutthroat in their greed to be the first to provide the dogs with treats and bowls of water. Nothing brightens a dreary day at the office quite like having a happy dog full of energy tearing through the cables and stacks of TPS reports like some sort of Hurricane Eleanor.

Gretchen had figured out a way to come home a few days early, and she landed in New York tonight at about 10:30pm. I set the alarm for 1:15am and went to bed, but it's a Sony clock radio and its controls aren't exactly intuitive. So it never went off and I found myself startled awake by the phone, with Gretchen calling to wonder where the hell I was. The Kingston bus station isn't the best place for a woman to wait by herself at two in the morning, but Gretchen took the opportunity to compose a critique of a bumpersticker that looked like this:

Gretchen's critique regarded the nature of Jesus, and that it was unlikely that Jesus would have approved of such moronic bigotry. She left her critique under a windshield wiper blade of the car to which this sticker had been affixed. Whoever had posted this opinion had evidently felt strongly about it; the bumpersticker really was a sticker and not a magnet, the substance used to post the less strongly-felt opinions of today.

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