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:
   blizzard of requests
Sunday, February 2 2014
This afternoon I went on a rare excursion into Kingston. I brought Ramona and Eleanor, though I left the housesitter dogs back at the house with Gretchen. (Olive is famous for vomiting in cars, and who knows what sort of trouble Darla would get into if left alone in a car with three other dogs unsupervised.)
Driving east towards Old Hurley on Wynkoop, I passed a car that had been pulled over by the cops (there was one cruiser behind it and another hurrying in its direction). Two young white men were out of the car and being harassed by the police in the way young white men always are (that is, without a nightstick up their ass). I might have read this as a cautionary tale, but instead I stopped at the Stewarts, bought a six pack of Mountain Brew Ice, and cracked one open to drink on the drive out to 9W. In addition to liquor, cat wet food, and cat litter (a new clumping formula made from walnut husks), I needed some groceries, some art supplies (particularly white acrylic paint and tiny brushes), and a new 80 inch bandsaw blade. Some weeks ago I'd mistakenly bought an 82 inch blade, which Lowes cheerfully accepted for a full refund, though I could have just been returning my old dull blade.
On the ride back home, I switched from listening to music to listening to the local NPR station, and that was how I learned the Philip Seymour Hoffman had just died of a heroin overdose. Pete Seeger died the other day and that was a loss for humanity, but not an unexpected one. Not to make this about me, but death hits closer to home when the dead celebrity is roughly your own age. Meanwhile, Marie (aka "the Baby") lives on. I remember wondering who would die first: her or my father. The latter died over two years ago.
In the process of testing some rather Byzantine AJAX functionality on my big web project, tonight I managed to kill the web server hosting it. Or so it seemed. [Later I would learn that the blizzard of requests, particularly for web pages at very long URLs generated by some buggy code, had caused my IP address to be entered into a server blacklist, preventing the serving of future pages. The solution was as simple as rebooting my DSL router so as to receive a new dynamic IP address. [REDACTED]

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