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:
   December 8, 1996, Sunday-the starkness of winter's isolation
Sunday, December 8 1996 The sky was grey and the air grew colder throughout the day. The winter is becoming increasingly my most miserable. It is relentless and frames for me an equally bleak picture within my soul. I had been so happy until Halloween, and then something happened. I suddenly saw the bleakness which our lives float upon, and I found myself drowning, and simply left to do so by merry cruisers sailing on the ocean liner of apathy in the Carribean of youth. The only real joy left is reporting tales from the frontline of this horror.

I found myself riding my bike to the Downtown Mall, where I'd like to spend more of my time. At the Mudhouse, after gratuitous computer-propelled time expenditure, I found myself chatting with Farrell's friend blond Mark about the prospects of starting a zine. He has a photocopier and would like to put it to use. But he's also aware that lots of people TALK about starting zines without actually DOING anything. I suggested that, to successfully create a zine, he would have to act as though he would be getting no help at all from anyone, and that the only people he should involve should be people who have material ready to give him NOW. I gave as a case in point my websites, the content of which is entirely generated by me except for a few minor contributions by Jessika.

I found myself taking a bath and reading more from a novella compilation, especially a work by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, the name of which escapes me, but it's about a man renting part of a weathered old cabin from and living with an old woman in a land devoured by peat mines. The story was most interesting and even evocative, but I stopped somewhere in the midst of it to take a nap. I need to read more; sad though this might sound to you, I almost never read fiction anymore. Morman Canadians or something.
Past 11pm, I went to the Espresso Corner and had a large coffee for $1.50. It had almost no stimulating effect and served only to discomfort my stomach. The people in that place are so WHITE, even the non-whites...especially the Morman Canadians or something. And so clean. There's really no place quite like it.

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