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:
   impostor on the empty sidewalks
Friday, June 9 2006

setting: Woodland Hills, California

Luc figured out how I could work remotely at his house today so we didn't need to drive down to Torrance. The downside of this arrangement was secondhand smoke, which is always a problem in that house, particularly when the wind is blowing from the south. [REDACTED]
While I was waiting for Luc to set some things up, I called Gretchen on my cellphone and wandered the neighborhood while talking to her. Cellphones are de rigor Los Angeles paraphernalia, and one would think they'd confer a certain legitimacy upon someone even doing something as subversive as being a pedestrian, but still I felt like an impostor on the empty sidewalks. I must have talked for a half hour or forty five minutes and the only other pedestrian I encountered was a Hispanic cleaning lady.
Our conversation mostly consisted of gossip, which at this point in our lives is more about pregnancy than it is about sex (though we shoul probably take comfort in the fact that it isn't mostly about disease, not yet anyway). Occasionally it also includes scandal about the flavorlessness of the food prepared by a friend. (It's amazing how often this comes up when many of your friends are vegans.) In terms of practical information, I was pleased to hear that, after some initial trouble, the solar hot water system has been working in my absence. And the TiVo hasn't malfunctioned since the that hard drive swap I'd done the night before I'd set out for Los Angeles.

In the evening I was starving to death and headed out for my usual tour that starts at Baja Fresh and ends at Starbucks. It was late by the time I left the latter, and I crossed Victory to get a six pack of Sierra Nevada at the Albertsons. I had wearied of the daily nightcap of slightly fecal-flavored rum, expensive though I knew it to be.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:

previous | next