Okay, just leave it over there. Yeah, there – on top of the steamer trunk. The larger steamer trunk… the one with all the chains and locks wrapped ’round it. That’s it. Thanks, buddy….
Sheesh, these mad scientists don’t exactly travel light. I’ve never seen so much bloody luggage… not since that one time Imelda Marcos stopped by our lean-to in Sri Lanka to say hi on her way back from Italy. (I’ve still got a pair of espadrilles to serve as a memento. Could never bring myself to wear them – hot pink doesn’t suit me, generally speaking.) Every time Mitch Macaphee goes on one of these quasi-scientific junkets, he comes back with a boat load of stuff. W.T.F., even when he comes back in a plane, he’s got a boat load. Usually it’s a random amalgamation of electronic equipment, volatile chemicals, exotic materials of every color and description. Just freaky, frankly…. but that’s our Mitch, and he’s back (with a vengeance).
No, that’s not a figure of speech. Let me tell you something (young lady)… I have been around musicians most of my life, and they are, by and large, a touchy lot, usually liable to hold a grudge if you give them ample cause. But they don’t hold a candle to scientists. (And if I were you, I wouldn’t either… because their clothes may be covered in some kind of explosive residue from a recent experiment – don’t take the chance!) When scientists step on each other’s toes, steal each other’s sandwiches, put their fingers in each other’s soup, etc., there is truly hell to pay. And from what I understand, our own Mitch Macaphee experienced some kind of unpleasantness whilst in Buenos Aires… the kind of unpleasantness that makes you grind your teeth at night… and dream about the invention of deadly vapors, untraceable by forensic instruments.
Now I can see where Marvin (my personal robot assistant) gets it from. He is, after all, a creation of Mitch Macaphee – Mitch’s eighth experiment, as it happens – and he has proven himself capable of some pretty remarkably nasty vendettas, especially just lately. This thing about the Canadian Space Robot Known as Dextre (or “CanSpRoKAD” as the tabloids might one day call him) is some of the most over-the-top behavior I have ever seen from our metallic friend. (And lest you forget, this is the robot who, several years ago, danced with Morlocks somewhere near the center of the earth – look it up.) His father/inventor Mitch, however, has 
got him beat. I mean, I walked away from my mastering console to prepare a welcome home feast for the guy, and what did he do but brood his way through the whole first course (mashed potatoes), dreaming of revenge. But why? And against whom? And why is he wearing my espadrilles? (Frankly, they make him look short.)
Well, I don’t expect you to answer all of these questions for me sitting in front of your computer monitor. Just print the blog off, take it into the next room, and work on these important questions over the next week. I’ll look forward to hearing your responses….
sotto voce definition of that term on NPR, I’m going to toss my fucking radio right out the window. Enough! I know what they are, already. Enough with the profiles and interviews of superdelegates that invariably devolve into questions about whom they secretly support and whether or not they will change their minds. Knock it off, for chrissake, and report on something that’s actually happening in the world. Not so long ago, primary seasons routinely ran into the early summer months, but this year’s heavily front-loaded process put the news media into an early feeding frenzy. Now, with an insufferable three whole weeks left before the next primary, they’re behaving like a five-year-old in the back seat on a cross-country trip… or heroin addicts groping for a fix. Let’s face it, friends – you’re not going to call this one ahead of time. You’ll just have to wait for people to vote… like the rest of us. (And if I have to come back there again….!)
Clinton’s asinine 3:00a.m. phone call commercial – that tries to position McCain as someone who will save our economy through free-market principles… like the ones we’ve been pursuing lo these past 20 years or more. This from a man who admits to knowing little about economic matters (objectively verifiable). Here’s a little free advice, admiral: if you’re going to hit them with something, don’t reach for “more of the same”, because that may not do the trick. Your good friend Dubya has very seriously bungled the economy (as he has every other aspect of his constitutional responsibility), so you might want to make sure that manly embrace is an exceedingly brisk one. Of course, the admiral is free to troll these waters undisturbed, because the press is really only interested in his biographical bus tour. Let’s hear his life story, one more time…. from the beginning. Jesus – they are just fundamentally incapable of focusing on the hard questions. It’s like PBS Frontline’s recent review of the Iraq war, talking about how Cheney was ordering shoot-downs on 9/11. Do you have to be Jim Ridgeway to ask why Cheney was giving orders in the first place when he had no constitutional authority to do so? 
I think we need more compression on the mids. No, more than that – I can still hear my voice. What do you mean I’m paranoid? Does everybody think that??
not talking about the album. That sounds more like a bottling plant. The machine shop-type sound is coming from that nasty piece of work I call Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Oh, yes… he has taken his paranoia up to a whole new level. I told you about his obsession with the Canadian space robot “Dextre”, currently being deployed from the international space station. Well, it’s getting worse. It started out with some off-hand comments, a derisive “squx” here and there, that sort of thing. Then it got uglier. How ugly? Well…. he found himself some second-hand sheet iron, not sure where. (Check your backyards… or forget that, check your cars.) He then built himself a full-sized replica of Dextre. (Pretty good one, too. Almost proud.)
build a replica of a space robot, then starts whamming away at it with a sledgehammer, then steals a welder’s torch from the auto repair shop up the road and blasts big molten holes through its frame… it’s…. not…. my …. fault…. (Don’t know how else to say it.) Matt says I should just “pull his power pack” for a week or two, but that’s the easy way out. What would anyone learn from that experience, right? The man-sized tuber, the two Lincolns, and Big Zamboola all agree… this is potentially a teachable moment. We could all come out of this having grown. (Though if Zamboola grows any bigger, he’s going to have to go back in orbit.)