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:
   the Baby shit management
Thursday, May 20 2010
Finally the sun came out, but my health seemed to have deteriorated somewhat overnight. It's unusual to have a head cold and body weakness in such nice sunny weather, so I took advantage of it by sitting out in the sun for awhile or puttering in my gardens. At some point I felt good enough to scale the ladder to my brownhouse ventilation stack in the nearby hickory tree, and once there I swapped out the copper wire supports with plastic-covered steel wires. A reader had warned me of the toxicity of copper to trees, and I didn't want it on me if the damn tree died.

I some point I realized Marie (aka "the Baby") had resumed her warm weather behavior of crapping in random places in the laboratory. The Baby is an elderly cat and she rarely produces a poop of a consistency thicker than pea soup. Cleaning it up is a bitch, and it stinks to high heavens. So I decided to quit feeding the cats in the laboratory effective immediately. (Stripey, the Baby, and Sylvia had all exclusively ate in the laboratory.) If I need to be away for a weekend (and this has been coming up often), I want to be able to close the laboratory door for the duration. This means the cats who eat upstairs will need to become familiar with eating somewhere else. That somewhere else is the upstairs bathroom. There's an ancient cabinet from the 19th Century up there, and it is too tall for the Baby to leap up onto, so I had to put a chair next to it. I should mention that when the Baby defecates, it's almost always on the floor. This winter, though, the floor in question was always the tiled floor of the upstairs bathroom. There's a litterbox right there, and we keep it pretty clean, but she only uses it for number one, not number two. There's obviously some thought going into this pattern, but I have no idea what it is. I can't get inside the Baby's mind. Thankfully, she's our only cat with high-maintenance bodily functions. The worst things the other cats do is vomit and leave the entrails of dead rodents in random places. Most of these problems, though, including all of those issuing from the Baby, are if allowed to fester, automatically corrected by the dogs.

The thing I most wanted to do today was watch teevee. I picked up the remote and parked myself on the couch next to the Baby, who thankfully considered it too hot to sit in my lap as she cleaned her messy asshole. Most of the television I watched today was Disk II of Season 2.5 of Battlestar Galactica. Some weeks ago I'd made the mistake of going directly from Season 2 to Season 3, only to find I'd missed a bunch of key events in this seemingly-sluggish space soap opera cum the Wire. But how am I supposed to account for fractional seasons? Might there also be a Season 2.8? There is also the Caprica prequel, which is basically a set of negative-numbered seasons.
I actually enjoyed the first disk of Season 2.5. But this second disk is a real dog, all watered down with constant annoying flash backs (shown multiple times in a single episode) and very little overall plot development. I like the show, but it has a lot more faults than, say, the Wire or Breaking Bad.

The day had started with no hot water reserves, but after a full day of brilliant sunshine, these had been completely replenished. There's nothing better than a nice hot bath when you're feeling sick (or hungover, or stoned on pot).

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