Okay, boys – let’s dig a bit deeper. Matt, it’s your turn with the post-holer. Marvin (my personal robot assistant), you’ve got the pick axe this time. I’ll occupy myself with this dime novel. (KLANG!) Oowwww!!!

Dissent in the ranks. Happens every time you try to get some work out of this crew. Though telling Matt to dig is kind of like bossing your boss around. (He euphemistically directed me to engage in autosex with myself. I, of course, refused.) Still, you would think Marvin, at least, would do what I ask, and yet he’s worse than most of the others, tossing his tools into the drainage ditch, muttering to himself in that robotian way of his. He’s still surly over the space robot Dextre thing – another obsession that, thus far, Mitch Macaphee has been unable to program out of the poor boy. For his own part (and don’t ask which part I’m referring to), Mitch has been keeping far away from the work zone as well. Not that I would expect him to use those magnificently skilled hands of his for something as crude as digging for drinking water. (Yes, drinking water! Talk about basics.)

Okay, so why are we digging for water, here in the somewhat distressed urban paradise known as post-industrial upstate New York? Well, it’s those damnable tubers I was telling you about before. Our entertainment was not up to their high standards, apparently – not enough musicality, I’m told – so they began taking on more and more precious water. Pretty soon our well was dry, and in light of the fact that we have been cut off from municipal water supplies ever since we started squatting here (I think it’s some kind of sanction, but would have to consult with a lawyer to be certain), this was becoming a problem. I mean, no showers. No coffee, tea, etc. No water for the garden. Getting a little sticky around here, I can tell you. So, faced with the unattractive alternative of either paying our water bill or learning to drink air, we grabbed mining implements and started heading south…. way south… assuming you think of skyward as “north” (as I do).

How has our luck been thus far? Um, not so good. This is a bit like hard rock mining – first you get through the tarmac, then through the ancient cobblestones, perhaps a layer or two of loose shale, and then you get to something really impenetrable – bedrock, perhaps. Don’t know – I’m not a geologist (though I play one on T.V.), but it seems to me that the water table around here is made of freaking granite. (Three or four water-chairs and we’ve got ourselves a dining room set.) Like on every occasion when we need scientific advice of some kind, we consulted Mitch Macaphee on the matter, but he was of little value. You see, his solutions always tend towards the mad-scientist bag of tricks. You know – blow a hole in it with a high-powered neutron laser, or harness the power of Rigelian lava ants… that sort of thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but what the hell… these things take time, and I’m freaking thirsty, man!

So what are we resorting to? Something more instantaneous – magical spells. Kind of like a virtual divining rod. Powders and liquids to conjure with. Ala-kazam!

Avast, me hardies! Full astern. Hoist the mizzen-mast. Lower the, I don’t know… gang plank. Do something nautical, for chrissake. We’ve got some timbers to shiver.

Sound like Treasure Island to you? Hah – if so, you’ve got a bad memory. Here in Big Green land, we don’t know jack about literature. (We don’t even know “Jack” about Jack and Jill, quite frankly. Feverishly undereducated lot.) And still we try, oh we try… as needs must. Just attempting to entertain the natives, and they’re getting restless, my friends – restless as a slice of capicola on Super Bowl Sunday. That’s right… the man-sized tuber’s various and assorted relatives are still amongst us – putting down roots, you might say – and they have a healthy appetite for musicals. (Especially ones that feature pirates.) In as much as they now find themselves in a cultural backwater, they must satisfy themselves with our feeble attempts at melodrama. So we’re putting on a little production I call “Pirates of the Upper Mohawk Valley”. Essentially a collection of ad-libs and made up songs that would only entertain a roomful of root vegetables. Perfect!

Why do we bother with such elaborate efforts? Well, it has to do with resource allocation. Oh, yes – we’re thinking conservation here, folks. You see, studies show that root vegetables use considerably less water when they’re being entertained. (What studies? I don’t freaking know – ask Mitch, he’s the scientist!) And we ourselves found that, after a solid ten days of these couch potatoes laying about the mill, the local water table had dropped at least 14 inches. (In as much as it’s only about two feet deep to begin with, we obviously had to do something fast.) So it was on with the pirate hats, the peg legs, the eye-patches, the shoulder parrots, and up with the Jolly Roger. (Or the “Jolly Roget,” if you want another word for it.)

I’m not certain about this, but I think Marvin (my personal robot assistant) probably makes the most ridiculous pirate I have ever seen. Sure, Lincoln looks stupid. Sure, the tri-corner hat doesn’t fit John for shit. Sure, Matt refuses to wear horizontal stripes. But Marvin? He never does anything half way. And I really think he should, sometimes. I mean, these are root vegetables, for chrissake. They can’t tell a pirate from a palindrome. (What the hell – even tubey thinks “Long John Silver” spelled backwards is still “Long John Silver”.) Why would Marvin ever think he has to put on the whole nine yards? Just a little nod in the buccaneer direction would be enough to satisfy even the most discriminating of these yams. (Come on, Marvin. You’re making a total ass of yourself, honestly.)

Anyway, that’s the good news. The bad news is, no… the album isn’t ready yet. Still in the oven, my friends. But nearly… quite nearly… All will be revealed. Arrrrrrrrrrr….

No I can’t get the phone. Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full? It’s a shovel, you idiot – what do you think? I’ve been using it all morning. And I don’t know the first thing about kneecap replacement surgery, so bugger off.

Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t know anyone was reading this blog at [INSERT CURRENT TIME HERE]. Just fending off requests from the various minions at large here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, where Big Green resides. It happens that I’m a bit indisposed at the moment, shoveling up another cubic yard of dirt to make way for the spreading tendrils of the man-sized tuber’s many relatives. They’ve become something like permanent residents here over the past week. You know the drill – shirt-tail relative drops by for a couple of days, unpacks the suitcase, and next thing you know, you’ve got a lifer. That’s right, friends – tubey’s kin are putting down roots. (In this case, literally.) So naturally, those of us who have arms and legs are press-ganged into accommodating them. Just a slave, that’s all. Crying shame.

Why do we agree to this indignity (and what may, to some, seem like the final indignity)? Well, remember – we invited all these groundlings over to cheer tubey up and out of the deep funk he’d fallen into, pining for the fields of his youth. It would hardly do to let the fellow down again, especially now, in front of all his fellow tubers. Yeah, it’s inconvenient. Yeah, I’m getting sick of hauling fertilizer over from the local ag supply store (at great personal expense, I might add) and pressing it around the roots of some oddly misshapen mega-yam. Yeah, there’s a limit – but we haven’t reached it yet. At least I haven’t. (The Lincolns reached theirs a long time ago. I think anti-Lincoln would sooner debate Hillary Clinton than raise another shovel of topsoil for tubey’s relatives.) So on with the work assignment. One hand tied behind our back. No Lincolns. No Mitch. No Marvin (my personal robot assistant).

I know what you’re thinking. Marvin’s a machine, right? Why not program him to do the digging. Well, there are machines and then there are machines. Marvin’s the latter. Not big on programming, generally. Also, he’s being press-ganged by his inventor, Mitch Macaphee, to assist in one or two little experiments the esteemed scientist has taken on during his sojourn chez Big Green. What’s he working on? Don’t ask. No really, you don’t want to know. Okay, okay, I’ll tell you about one. It’s a zombie thing. Yes, Mitch is a mad scientist, so this comes up once in a while. Turn your back for a day or two and he’s resurrecting Frankenstein’s monster. The thing with him is, he gets all the hard stuff right (giving it life, for instance) but skimps on the details. Like his latest zombie creation has been stumbling around for just a few days or so and it already needs a knee replacement. Couldn’t he see that coming? (He borrowed the body parts from a carpet installer. I mean, even I could guess the knees would be history.)

So what the hell – how is a guy supposed to turn enough soil to keep the tuber family happy when he’s got these half-baked zombies to deal with? Enough to drive you to the drink.