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:
   a little more injured
Sunday, February 17 2008
Let's see. For my birthday Gretchen's parents wrote me a check so I could buy myself a brand new digital camera. Gretchen went on eBay and won me an electric bass and amplifier. Penny and David bought me a bottle of tequila with huge turd-sized peppers floating around in it. And our friend Susan purchased a painting for Gretchen and me that I later learned cost her $600.
Today my parents sent their gift, which was an email asking that I alter my website in the places where I'd described as "redneck" the name of the people from whom they'd bought their redneck (and still slightly cigarette tainted) double wide trailer. That's hubris, thinking your son is going to make little changes here and there to his publications because they don't comport perfectly with whatever it is you're trying to project into the world. I ended up having a nasty exchange with both of them in which I railed against the bland fakeness my mother tries to project as her image in the world. I hate having conflicts with my parents, and it kind of ruined my day.
Eventually I decided to keep my parents from accessing much of my archives by redirecting certain requests from their IP range to (don't follow that link or you'll be sorry). Now they're banned from accessing anything further back than January 14th, 2008 (my mother's 71st birthday). At some point I'll make it so that this site will go static for hits from their IP range, and hopefully they'll get bored with it and find something else to do on those internets.

Sunday nights, as always, are reserved for the watching of The Wire. I usually grab a beer and, under one of my many personally-enforced television watching rules, cannot take a sip until after the intro segment and the playing of the theme song ("Way Down in a Hole," in this case unhelpfully sung by Steve Earle). My favorite scenes are the ones containing either Marlo, Omar, or one, the other, or both of Chris and Snoop. In this season I'm not so interested in the scenes in the newsroom, except to the extent that they remind me of Office Space, though the complexities and possibilities of the fake serial killer red ball are starting to intrigue me. Still, on some level I don't really so much feel entertained by The Wire as I am moved by it. I watch it for the same reason I follow politics; it's so well done it actually seems to matter. And, as with watching politics, watching an episode seems to leave me just a little more injured and disillusioned than I had been before.

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