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:
   differences in blood glucose
Thursday, July 5 2007
This morning Ray and I walked the dogs (Libby, Suzy, but not Eleanor) to that prominent line of bluestone cliffs wrapping around the east side of the hill complex atop which my trail system runs. In various places we marveled at first the speckled orange newts and then later the diversity of fern species. Ray walks with a cane these days because of neuropathy in his extremities, a complication he developed over a year ago at a around the time he was first diagnosed with diabetes. Judging by his casual consumption of beer and fried carbohydrates, he seems to have it mostly under control.
I spent most of the day trying to scrape together the motivation necessary to work on a promised content management system, a process so exhausting and fruitless that I was delighted to hang out with Ray when he got back. This evening we actually spent some time waiting for Ray's wife Nancy to ride the bus up from Manhattan, drinking Piels out in the garage while a thunderstorm provided the entertainment. But then it turned out that Nancy would be arriving much later than expected, so we decided to go do our dinner plans without her.
I took the opportunity to introduce Ray to the Reservoir Inn, a sort of "thinking man's Hurley Mountain Inn" (in other words, customers who have discovered ways to clothe themselves with materials lacking American Flags and who drive cars devoid of NRA bumperstickers). The chief attraction of the Hurley Mountain Inn has always been its proximity, but the Reservoir Inn is nearly as close, lacks hunting trophies, and is set among the ancient timbers and stone of an authentic 19th Century inn. Gretchen always downplays the importance of the place, mostly because her discovery of it coincided with a huge uptick in her vegetarian consciousness and its menu is built on a framework of meat-heavy American standards. But from the perspective of someone like Ray (or, for that matter, Penny and David, whom I introduced to it some weeks ago), the Reservoir Inn is a perfect upstate restaurant-bar. As had happened when I took Penny and David there, Ray and I ate at the bar, ordering a large pizza and somehow managing to eat the whole thing. The entire time we were there and well after we left, Ray did as Penny and David had done, raving about the place and saying how he never needed to go to the Hurley Mountain Inn ever again.
When we picked up Nancy at the Kingston bus station, her blood glucose levels couldn't have been more different from ours. While I was practically in a pizza coma and Ray had injected his insulin, Nancy was cranky from having worked all day without taking a lunch. This was soon rectified at our next destination: a house in Lake Hill (to the west of Woodstock) which was being housesat by our friend Lin. It was the very same house where Gretchen and I had one of our two Passover meals back in April, since Gretchen is a friend of Alice, the woman who co-owns the house (who is in Gretchen's monthly poetry-reading group). I was unable to eat any of the pie that Lin had baked, but I did drink a glass of wine. The conversation was full of chuckles, although I can't recall what it was about other than that it occasionally lapsed into toilet humor.

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