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:
   unnecessary drive to Bearsville
Friday, August 7 2009
Gretchen got word this morning that there was a bunch of wood on the side of Cooper Lake Road near its southmost end in Bearsville, so I drove out there with the dogs thinking I'd be loading up my car. I found the piles of wood, but they all had little cardboard signs on them saying not to take the wood. I looked at the cardboard and found it was from a box that had been delivered to one of the other houses on Cooper Lake Road, so I knew that the sign hadn't been placed by the person who had sent word of the wood's existence. So I gave up on the wood and went to the dumpster area back behind WDST and the Bear Café. The dumpsters have actually been moved to a different location, but here there is still a huge pile of construction debris from which I've salvaged some good sticks of small-dimension lumber in the past. Evidently I'm not the only one coming here to salvage stuff because there was very little of any value remaining, and my standards were low. I found a few useful boards, a small rectangular piece of cut bluestone, and a rustic weathered plank with nails in it. That was pretty much it.
Since I was in Woodstock anyway, I treated the dogs to a walk on the Comeau Property. If I take the dogs there and there's a problem, it always seems to happen in the parking lot. Today as we were getting ready to leave, Sally heard a dog barking from inside a truck, so of course she did what she always does in these situations. She ran at the truck and leapt up on her hind legs so as to launch her barks from as point-blank a range as possible. I knew she was going to do this, and whenever she does, bad things always happen to vehicular paint jobs. So I ran at her and yelled for her to stop, which she did. But not before she'd left a bad impression. The guy whose truck it was, suffice it to say that he looked like one of those screamers you see in video clips of health care townhalls, the kind holding poorly-drawn signs accusing Obama of being a Nazi Socialist illegal alien. He didn't say anything to me, but gave me a very nasty look, which I ignored. I wanted to get out of there before he noticed what Sally's talons had done to his door.

Later in the afternoon I added a lower shelf to a night stand Gretchen had bought when she was recently in Maryland. The shelf was just a carefully-measure-and-cut plank with corners cut out to accommodate the four legs. I fired four screws into the plank through the legs, and that was that. Jobs like this have become a lot easier ever since I got a bandsaw.

Gretchen wants me to tell my readers that she is going on something called Walk for Farm Animals. It's a walk-a-thon thing where she walks a certain number of miles and people sign up to give her money for her effort in support of, you know, rescued farm animals. I don't think it's one of those things were you pay a certain amount per mile, a potentially-confusing framework of benevolence that provided comedic fodder for an early episode of the American version of The Office.

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