News from mustyville.

Hoo-boy, it’s hot in here again. Marvin (my personal robot assistant)! Open a window. No, not with a chair. You don’t open windows by tossing metal chairs through…. HEY!

This is not good, folks. Marvin is doing the renegade robot from Mars bit again. It must be an errant line of code somewhere in his reams of programming. Every once in a while he gets ornery… I mean SUPER ornery. Starts breaking things, running things over, insulting people (including anti-Lincoln, who’s sensitive, you know) and otherwise causing mayhem. I suppose I should count myself lucky that we’re not on some interstellar tour with this happening. Living with a mechanical nutjob is one thing; sharing a cramped spacecraft with one is quite another. I don’t have to tell you that…. HEY! PUT THAT DOWN! THAT’S THE ONLY ONE OF THOSE WE’VE GOT LEFT, YOU DOLT!

Right … so much for our last rotating clay bust of Roy Orbison (with glasses a slightly darker shade of gray). Very discouraging. As if such vandalism isn’t bad enough, I think it was Marvin who started circulating nasty stories about me in the press. Or maybe it’s a coincidence – I have to think there’s SOMEONE else out there with the name Joe Perry. It’s a big universe, after all. In any case, yesterday, I’m sitting here minding my own freaking business. I open up the newspaper, and some dude named Tyler is trash talking my ass. I quote the Associated Press:

In an interview with Rolling Stone, Tyler says he and Joe Perry did drugs together in 2008 after years of sobriety …. Tyler says Perry was so impaired by snorting prescription pills, he couldn’t even play his instrument.

Okay, three things. One, I don’t know anybody named Tyler, so this is obviously a contrivance by a disgruntled robot (probably Marvin). Two, I resent the suggestion that drugs are making it so I can’t play my instrument. Many would say I can’t play my instrument even without the drugs. And finally…. how the hell did they know I’m sober? Are they hiding in my refrigerator? In my medicine cabinet? Is there no such thing as privacy anymore?!

Whoa, my apologies.  I need to get out of this abandoned hammer mill a bit more. (It is a little musty in here.)

What now.

Gingrich has thrown his hat into the presidential ring. That should go well. Not so long ago, he was the most hated man in America. I have to think he has moved up from there – perhaps that fact alone has encouraged him to try. Or maybe he’s pulling a Buchanan and using it as a fundraising, image-building exercise. (Great way to sell books.) Either way, I can hardly imagine a less likely or desirable prospect, and I don’t think I’m alone in this. It’s no accident – the policies he has been most closely associated with over the years are wildly unpopular. The current crop of GOP congresspeople represent an odious distillation of his most extremist positions. What’s not to hate?

Back when the Newt was Speaker, I wrote a song about his crusade against welfare – one cheerfully joined by Bill Clinton and various other Democrats, eager to throw the poor over the side for a few cheap political points. Written like a bloodthirsty hymn sung aboard a pirate ship, the lyric went, in part, like this:

Please, Newt Gingrich, save us from welfare dependent mothers
whose hungry infants threaten our fortunes with default
Please, o Speaker, drive them away from this captain’s table
Please drive them from below the salt!

Bring to us the biscuit, that humble little biscuit
Please add it to our bounty, we savor every crumb
Take it from the infant, that greedy mother’s infant
Please pluck it from his toothless gums!

Mr. Speaker – we beseech thee, for the gods of war and industry
Mr. Speaker – we beseech thee, please… Bless This Feast!

Imagine the singing pirates being all of those industrialists, corporate CEOs, and generals/admirals who benefit from budgetary largess, year after year, to the tune of billions of dollars (at the expense of all of the rest of us, including many in dire need) and you’ll get the idea.

I suppose it makes sense that Newt would think this is a good time for him, since the ethos of greed and further targeting of the poor/working class has descended upon us once again. Given today’s sensational announcement that the Social Security trust fund will be expended in 2036 (instead of 2037), after which the fund would only cover 75% of its costs (assuming we never come out of deep recession and never again experience economic growth above 1% a year), he may be right.

But I doubt it.

luv u,

jp

Air break.

All right – give it back. It’s my turn to use the gas mask. More than ten minutes counts as a “bogart”, right? Fifteen minutes? All right…

Yes, more strife here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, place of our birth, land of our fathers, and all the rest of it. What is Big Green up to this week? Gasping. Lots of gasping. As some of you may know (and many, I’m sure, don’t), May is the time of year when mad scientists tend to roll out all of their new world-destroying experiments. It’s in anticipation of the upcoming CrazyCom Mad Science Convention they hold in Madagascar every August. Everybody wants to show boat the new death ray, the improved zip gun, the killer robot, now with more sparks. Kind of a pissing match for high-tech cranks. Attend at your own risk. (The last one ended badly, I hear.)

Seriously, I hate this time of year. Mitch Macaphee always goes way over the top, trying to one-up the other mad scientists on the block (by “block”, they mean solar system… they’ve got a different name for everything). Last year it was an anti-gravity machine. I spent the better part of April sleeping on the ceiling. (And that was the better part.) The year before, some kind of trans-dimensional salad shooter, I believe – not his most ambitious endeavor, I must say. Close to ten years ago, he actually got an honorable mention for Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who Mitch built from odds and spares in his one-room lab back in old Jakarta.

It’s a bit hard to get into the spirit of this competition, especially when Mitch’s obsession is sucking all the air out of the room. That’s not a metaphor: he has invented a machine that sucks all the air out of a room. Don’t bother trying to work out the practical applications for such a device – he is a mad scientist. What part of mad scientist do you not understand? He’s cobbled together some kind of contraption that’s belching black smoke as we speak. John thought to tap our old militant neighbor, Gung-Ho, for some surplus gas masks, but he could only spare one. Hence, the ensuing competition.

Hmmmm… what do you think? Can we hold our breath until August? We shall see.

Weird ass music since 1986