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….

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??

Whoops – didn’t think anyone was listening. (See… I’m not paranoid!) That’s right, I’m here at my lonely console, cloth-eared, putting the finishing touches on Big Green’s new album. (Not so new anymore, actually, but…. don’t say that to the vultures at our corporate label.) Just twiddling a knob here and there, virtually speaking. Pressing the “good” button, as it were. Then it’s just a question of running order, album art, and…. oh yeah, a name. What the hell should we call the freaking thing, anyway? That’s usually the easy part. I mean, Matt can think of album names all day long. (I just follow him around with a bucket.) Trouble is, around this place, you can’t even hear yourself think.

Vas is loss? The place sounds like a bloody machine shop, that’s vas… I mean, what. No, I’m 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.)

Yeah, well… I do feel a kind of pride about Marvin. He is, after all, the only personal robot assistant I’ve ever worked with, and if I do say so myself, I’ve brought him along rather well. Except for the “being insane” part. And hey, that’s a sickness – just ask my doctor. The upshot is, he can’t help it. So when he does something like 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.)

Anyway, what I was trying to convey over the last three paragraphs is that, yes, we are working on the album, albeit slowly. Distractions, distractions… when will they ever cease? Wait a minute…. excuse me… Marvin! Marvin! PUT THAT FLAMETHROWER BACK WHERE IT BELONGS!!

All right, all right, I’m coming. Keep your shirt on. Not wearing a shirt? Fine – keep your pants on. Wait, wait…. don’t tell me… don’t leave me with that image…

Oh, yeah… Hello, friends. Back at the mill again. We survived our little rumble at the rustic local tavern. Hate to tell you how. Suffice to say that it took guile and skill… and a willingness to give in, just a little. Okay… more than a little. Some might call it a total climb-down. We handed back to the bartender the overalls, straw hat, and flannel shirt we’d stolen off of his scarecrow to make Marvin (my personal robot assistant) more presentable. It was a humbling moment, to be sure, but w.t.f., friends, they had pitch forks and broken bottles! We had to think of something, and while ordinarily I’d be the last one to raise the white flag in a fight (reason: I’m usually the first one out the door), I had to think of our fans, our mastering project (still underway!), our corporate overlords, expecting product. Hey – they can’t get it from a corpse, right?

So, back to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill we went. Back to our comfortable… well, meanly comfortable retreat from a brutish world. Back to the serial responsibilities of a virtual pop group, first amongst which is getting down to some serious virtual work. How much time did we lose on distractions? Too much, damnit. And while we were out carousing, we missed a somewhat important message from Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin, creator of the holographic siege pump (among other things). Seems like he’s had enough of Buenos Aires, had his fill of Rio by the sea-o, and he’s ready to come back and lend us a hand. Lord know we could use it, what with this daunting mastering project looming down upon us. Hour after hour of grueling work. (And that’s just the part when we’re making the gruel. Making the record is even harder!)

Yeah, well… between you and me, Mitch isn’t coming back a moment too soon. As you know, Marvin has been acting a bit strangely, on and off. (I think Matt noticed it first, when he saw Marvin using the man-sized tuber as a coffee table…. I mean… he doesn’t even like coffee!) I just may be possible that, in the midst of that rumble, Marvin might have had a diode or a circuit board knocked loose. No, he’s not doing the same weird stuff as before. He’s actually developed a morbid obsession about that new Canadian robot they’ve hung out on a pole from the International Space Station. Marvin keeps watching YouTube videos of the “Dextre” critter, trying to figure out how fitting him out with “hands” would bring him power. (Perhaps those hands might give him the power to manipulate the space station, then use its power to, dare I say it? Rule…. the world!) This is the kind of thinking that’s going down here at the hammer mill. And frankly, it worries me.

So Mitch, god damn it, get your sorry Ph.D. back here and start working on this wacked-out invention of yours before he rips YouTube a new one. We’ve got an album to finish here… still….