Usual Rubbish

Frightinary.

Are you sure this is the right document? Say again. Can’t make you out, Tiny – speak louder. Then move closer to the telephone poll, that might help. Tiny? Arrrggh. Bad luck.

We’ve just lost Tiny Montgomery again. His carrier just dropped the call. By “carrier,” I mean the phone line tap he rigged up outside of his six-room lean-to in Madagascar. (That’s how he makes all of his calls, apparently.) Tiny’s been helping us pull together our next interstellar tour. He sent through the itinerary by primitive fax, and man… it’s scary as hell. Perhaps it’s a communications issue. You know – hard to get ahold of the better venues, especially when you’re using the modern equivalent of soupcans and string to make your calls. I get that. Tiny has his issues, and we have ours… and mothers, this itinerary is one of ’em.

Matt and some of the other members of our crew have suggested there are more nefarious factors at work in this whole thing. Tiny, some of you will remember, played Lowery organ on our 2001 interstellar tour (see the tour log) and actually did some booking on our 2003 tour. He may be sore that we haven’t kept in touch with him over all these eight odd years (and they have been odd years). Or maybe the way we treated him back in the day. What man can say? Personally, I just think it’s the result of the garden variety entropy that affects all of us eventually. Everyone as time went on got a little bit older and a little bit slower. And now that I’ve quoted Revolution #9, I can see the ice cream man cruising by. Happens nearly every time. There’s a reason for everything.  

Anyway, the itinerary. It mostly concentrates on dry alien moons. There’s the famous “whistling” moon in orbit around Aldebaran 4. (Heard of it? There are so many holes in it, it whistles as it orbits. True story.) Then there’s that craggy little satellite circling Mars – Deimos. Not much to speak of – a slab of stone. That’s the gig. Set up, fram to the nothingness, pack up, fly off. What the hell is the point, mo-fo’s? Then there’s an abandoned neutron star. That sounds like one for the books.

I’m writing back to Tiny as we speak. Writing as you blog? That’s called multi tasking, with the help of Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Demanding some clarification, hopefully by phone.

Political Rants

Winding it down.

Obama announced his plans to reverse the Afghan “surge” over the next year and a half – news that appears to have pleased no one in the political world. I guess he shares the Alan Simpson belief that if you piss everyone – everyone – off, you must be doing something right. It just makes me wonder if the guy ever considered trying to please somebody, sometime. A very typical Obama approach, this withdrawal strategy – right down the muddle in the middle. It’s a lot like his solution to health care reform, Wall Street reform, etc. Basically half-measures where double-sized efforts are necessary. Putting a bandaid on a compound fracture. Cured!

This line kind of sums up my own personal frustration with the president:

“Thanks to our intelligence professionals and Special Forces, we killed Osama bin Laden, the only leader that al Qaeda had ever known. This was a victory for all who have served since 9/11. One soldier summed it up well. “The message,” he said, “is we don’t forget. You will be held accountable, no matter how long it takes.”

Yep, well… that memory / accountability argument is a bit flawed. When it comes to our own bona fide war criminals – people who smashed a country to pieces, killing hundreds of thousands, causing millions of refugees, many of whom will never again see home, etc., we need to “look forward” and not engage in settling scores. Theirs? They pay. Bin Laden had much, much to answer for, no question. But so do George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld, Colin Powell, Condoleeza Rice, Douglas Feith, and others in the last administration. They cooked up a case for a war that killed more Americans than Bin Laden killed on 9/11. So what if it looks politically awkward; did they do it or not? If they did the crime, they should do the time. It’s a venerable conservative position.

Of course, Obama’s got blood on his hands now, as well. In politics there’s an old saying about not breaking the other guys’ rice bowl. With someone as cautious as this president, rice bowls have never been safer.

luv u,

jp

Usual Rubbish

Long view.

Is that all he’s got? No, wait… there’s another page coming through. Slowly. Somebody got another quarter for the payphone? I don’t want to …. oh, man goddamn!

Oh, hi. Yeah, just grappling with our communications issues, once again. Everything in Big Green’s world is held together with duct tape and baling wire… but then you knew that. What you didn’t know is that we’ve got a mom and pop drugstore up the street from us that has what may be the world’s last coin operated pay phone. That’s right… and it’s bloody handy, now that Verizon has pulled the plug on us. (Damnable message unit charges!) So, yeah… we can call mom, talk to our label, harass our booking agent, order strings, all with a pocket full of change. It’s like freaking magic. Who needs the twenty first century? We’re harnessing the technology of yesteryear. (Or yestercentury.)

Well, as you may remember, our sometimes agent Tiny Montgomery has been trying to fax us from his six-room lean-to in northern Madagascar. We have no fax, ma’am … we are fax-free. But what we do have is a resident mad scientist (Mitch Macaphee) and a rolling pile of spare parts known as Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Mitch was able to fashion a primitive fax machine and dial-up modem out of Marvin’s printer module, an operation that, while painless, seems to have left a bit of a deficit in the automaton’s left flank. No matter – with the money we glean from this upcoming tour, we will gladly spring for some new robot stuffing.

That is, if we ever get this tour off the ground. Not going to happen without someone willing to do the hard work of booking the dates, threatening the club owners, and bribing the officials. (Did I say that? Well, someone sure as hell did.) So here I stand, pumping quarters into the maw of an abandoned payphone, its receiver parked on the modem of Mitch’s primitive fax machine. Trouble is, every time more than three inches of page peaks out from the printer, our time runs out and we have to find more change. My guess is that we would probably get Tiny’s tour proposal faster if he folded it into a paper airplane and sailed it across the African mainland towards the Atlantic. But I exaggerate.

I don’t know – I may be the only one of our number who’s truly anxious to get back on the road. Everyone else seems content to hang out in this drugstore, watching bicarbonate of soda fizz. But even that has to get old… eventually.

Weird ass music since 1986