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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decay & ruin
Biosphere II
Chernobyl
dead malls
Detroit
Irving housing

welcome to the collapse
Clusterfuck Nation
Peak Oil

got that wrong
Paleofuture.com

appropriate tech
Arduino μcontrollers
Backwoods Home
Fractal antenna

fun social media stuff


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Like my brownhouse:
   Donnie Trumpkins in the bumkins
Monday, June 1 2020
It was a little hard to focus on work today with all the craziness of the news cycle, with a depression-spawning global pandemic being pushed out of the headlines by nationwide protests of the death of George Floyd, the black man heartlessly killed by a white police officer in Minneapolis. Protestors had pushed so close to the White House that little Donnie Trumpkins felt the need to retreat to the White House bunker (which is presumably down beneath its basement).
Despite the fact that my lifestyle isn't all that different from how it was back when I worked remotely for Mercy For Animals, I still get a little thrill out of every opportunity to get into a car and drive, no matter the reason. This afternoon, for example, I took Powerful for a brief drive to pick up some sort of SNAP-program document from the social services department on Albany Avenue, and I welcomed the relief from sitting in front of my computer.

This evening Gretchen had a scare lasting an hour or so in which she feared she might be developing a sore throat and a dry cough, that is, the symptoms of Covid-19. How could she have gotten it? She'd been careful. One of the bad things about the level of social distancing we've been practicing is that there is now practically no avenue for a conventional infectious disease to reach us, meaning that any illness must be Covid-19 itself, which is more infectious than all the normal colds and flus. Fortunately, though, the scare was apparently a case of run-away hypochondria. Eventually the "symptoms" subsided, and by dinner Gretchen was feeling better. Powerful had made a meal of spaghetti and meatballs, but the began meatballs had disintegrated, making a thick, hearty red sauce. It was delicious, but again Gretchen thought perhaps this was due to Powerful's fondness for oil.


For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?200601

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