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:
   good marijuana mix card
Saturday, September 7 2013

location: rural Hurley Township, Ulster County, New York

Gretchen made one of her rice-noodle-with-peanut-sauce meals for lunch, and we (she, Onesha, and I) ate it out on the east deck. It was a cool, sunny day, and the sun felt good even if it made us look old. Later Gretchen dropped Onesha off at the bus station and went directly to work. She had had absolutely no time to herself since getting back from the Adirondacks and wouldn't be getting any such time until late tonight.

Today was another KMOCA opening day, and after an afternoon drinking a big Trader Joe's brown ale while catching up on my gold mining shows, I drove the Subaru to Ray and Nancy's place to pick up Nancy and Sarah the Vegan. From there, I drove us to the park & ride near the Kingston traffic circle (at the entrance to the Thruway), and there we waited for Gretchen to come from Woodstock, where she'd been doing a shift at the bookstore. She rolled up, dented hood and all. I'd already told Sarah and Nancy about both the deer killing incident and my MacGyverlike "fix" of the Subaru's brakes.
We arrived at KMOCA at around 7:00pm, and the opening was still under way. Unusually, the wine had yet to run out, and there was also a good amount of beer. This reflected the increased participation of the new KMOCA owners, who will gradually be ramping up their involvement until they take over completely in March. As for the art, it was all abstract and not especially memorable, aside from the tricky work hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room that consisted of numerous arched panels arrayed in a semicircle at eye-level.
I mostly just hung out with Nancy and Sarah the whole time. For some reason I told them the story of March 21, 1987 when I had a nine-hour layover at the Washington DC Greyhound station on my way home for spring break. On that occasion, an older man came up to me and suggested that we go back to his place and, bored as I was, I said, "Sure." The guy had a nice apartment with a view of the Capitol and lots of pictures of Ronald Reagan. He claimed he was one of Reagan's official photographers. We smoked pot and he made me rum & coke (that was how primitive my drinking was in those days) and then he asked if he could suck my penis. I politely declined, even after he offered me $20. I eventually staggered back to the bus station and ended up having perhaps the first terrible hangover of my young life. I was only 19 years old. Sarah absolutely loved the story and brought it up several times througout the evening. I eventually found myself telling an abridged version of it to Deborah later when five of us went out for dinner at Mole Mole. (Deborah, by the way, has decided she doesn't much like Mole Mole. The food isn't that great, but there is something compelling about the ambience of that place.)
Back at the house, Gretchen immediately plopped down on the couch and began watching a women's basketball game. She had a lot of catching up to do, having missed a week's worth of games while we were in the Adirondacks. Figuring she could use some alone time, I went down to the greenhouse upstairs with an iPad, some marijuana, and a partial bottle of Evan Williams whiskey. I'd taken a recreational dose of pseudoephedrine in the early afternoon, so I had myself a real one-man party going on. The soundtrack was a "mix SD card" of MP3s I'd compiled but never actually played for the Charlottesville roadtrip. It was a great collection of songs, with nearly every song sending me to Google to find out more about it. Since I'd smoked pot, I was listening closely to the lyrics and paying close attention to the way the musicians played their instruments. Hearing Blue Cantrell's "Hit 'Em Up Style," I realized that Rick Perry's "oops fiasco" just marked the tail end of a decade in pop culture during which "oops" had become what "the heat" was for the 1980s. I also listened closely to Hü'sker Dü's cover of "Eight Miles High," and it's that sadly-vulnerable emotional breakdown in Bob Mould's singing at the end that really stands out. Last of all, I listened to (and thoroughly enjoyed) nearly all of Johnny Cash's performance at Fulsom Prison. In amongst all that there was "Tonight It's You" by Cheap Trick and "Hate to Say" by the Hives.
Normally I have no trouble falling asleep while still under the effects of pseudoephedrine, but tonight I lay there and could not sleep. Perhaps the problem was some ungodly synergistic incompatibility between alcohol, marijuana, pseudoephedrine, and vegan Mexican food. I'd close my eyes and hear my heart pumping a little too fast in my head. Occasionally I'd have to get up to piss or need to reach down to grab a bottle of water I'd fortuitously put near the futon. [REDACTED] Eventually I did go to sleep, but only after going up to the house at least twice and making two unpleasant stops at the brownhouse. Thanks, Mole Mole![REDACTED] Meanwhile, Gretchen was having her own problems falling asleep. When I last saw her, she had her bed lamp on and was reading a book.

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