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").



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welcome to the collapse
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got that wrong
Paleofuture.com

appropriate tech
Arduino μcontrollers
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Like my brownhouse:
   some kind of season
Monday, October 21 2013
On Mondays, Gretchen goes off to the other side of the Hudson to do some work for a wealthy old poet who is having his effects put in order prior to his not-especially-imminent demise (though he's already older than my father ever lived to be). Though the poet loves Gretchen, Gretchen absolutely hates working for him. But, unlike the Woodstock bookstore gig, the money is good, though that alone can't explain Gretchen still working for the guy. The funny thing about all of this is that the wealthy old poet is finicky about his employees and fires them at the slightest provocation. But something about Gretchen's "I don't give a fuck" attitude seems to make her boss want her more. She could work with him every day of the week, but she's managed to keep it down to just Mondays.
Gretchen had to go off to that job early, so it fell to me to walk the dogs. This morning I was more paranoid about hunters than I was about bears; Gretchen had encountered a hunter the other day at Onteora Lake. It's not yet deer season, but it's some kind of season, meaning unpleasant guys (and it's always guys) are in the woods with weapons and perhaps alcohol, and that combination is worse than hormonal mother bears with cubs. That said, in eleven years of living here, I've come upon hunters fewer times than I've come upon bears, and they've always been meek and unthreatening.


For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?131021

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