Tag Archives: Cheney Hammer Mill

Usual Rubbish

There’s this baby, see?

2000 Years to Christmas

So what the what? And is that really the way it ends? God damn it. Six bucks down the drain. And in THESE hard times! All right … time for Planet of the Apes.

Oh, hi. We’re just endeavoring to entertain ourselves here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our COVID-19 quarantine site in this time of pestilence and putrid infection. What better way than to make use of Netflix or some other streaming service, eh? Except … well, we don’t have anything like that, as we are as poor as church mice … except that even THEY have the run of the donation basket and the leftover sandwiches from the parish volunteer society luncheons. In other words, we’re poorer than church mice. Just think of us as Mill Rats, scrounging for crusts and little fragments of entertainment. (Call me crazy, but when the mouth sits idle, the eyes need to work overtime.)

Well, fortunately, we have our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin (my personal robot assistant). I asked him this week if he could engineer some kind of hack that would allow us to watch Netflix movies for free. He retreated to his laboratory, then came up with a kind of solution. Actually, it was like those old rabbit ear antennae they used to put on old-school television sets … except much, much bigger. Fifteen feet tall, actually. A little intimidating, to tell the God’s honest truth. Anyway, Mitch planted it on top of our borrowed walnut console TV and hooked it up to the coax. He messed around with the array a little bit, squinting at the static-choked screen as he worked. Suddenly, a stable image appeared. It was the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. We hooted a bit, congratulating Mitch, but he quickly explained that this was not, in fact, Netflix, but actually the reverberations of ancient transmissions of movies that have been bouncing around the solar system for the past fifty years. Hey … potato, po-tah-to, right? What the hell difference does it make, so long as there’s something to occupy our down time.

Still kinda fuzzy. Try the vertical hold, Marvin.

So, we’re watching 2001, and it brings back memories of when it ran in theaters locally during my childhood. I went to see it with my dad, as I recall, who provided a running commentary about features of the moon and astronomical facts (many of which a father in the seats next to us repeated to his offspring). My sister, I believe, talked about seeing it and some dude was explaining the strange end to the movie to his companion, starting with the phrase, “There’s this baby, see? And that baby … is God, see?” Why am I thinking of this while watching this antiquated and quite strange movie? Well …. because it’s kind of freaking boring, and besides, the reception of television signals bounced off the Kuiper Belt is a little fuzzy to say the least. Yeah, I’m letting my wits wander. As long as they don’t get lost, it’s okay.

Well, that took care of Friday. What do we do with ourselves next week? Suggestions? Send them our way. (Play music, perhaps?)

Usual Rubbish

Chain of contact.

2000 Years to Christmas

Well, that’s a start. So, where did you go yesterday evening? Oh, okay. I didn’t know there was a pinball alley in this burg. News to me. Do they have any old Bally machines? Seriously? Got a quarter?

Oh, hi. Well, we were just starting to get back on our feet this week here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, Big Green’s adopted home, in the wake of last week’s medical debacle. Then fate moved its mighty hand, as Bill Conrad used to say in the opening sequence of The Fugitive. Now we’re all at sixes and sevens. In fact, some of us are at eights and nines, and that can’t be good. Pretty soon we’ll be fresh out of numbers.

So what’s the beef? Well, it turns out that Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was at some point exposed to the COVID-19 virus. We don’t know how or when, but apparently it was someone at the pinball palace down the street … could be the quartermaster (you know, the guy who doles out the quarters to the punters) or the barmaid, or maybe a fellow patron. They can’t say, apparently, because of Hippa … Hippa McGillicutty, the owner of the joint, who apparently takes a dim view of such disclosures. Damnation.

Marvin's last known contacts.

You know what this means, right? We have to trace all of Marvin’s contacts over the past month or so. Even more problematic – some of those contacts are, well, us. Well, that shortens the list. To simplify matters a bit, I asked Mitch Macaphee to do a level-four diagnostic on his proud invention (Marvin) so that we can have a readout of his activities over that time. He told me that there was no such thing as a level-four diagnostic, even though I distinctly remember hearing it on a television program. After that little back and forth, he plugged what looked like a table lamp into Marvin’s USB port. The light bulb started flashing a semaphore-like code, and Mitch rendered it into this list:

  • Tumble dryer, corner laundromat
  • Stamp dispenser, post office
  • Gas pump, filling station, fourth and main
  • Air compressor, mechanic’s shop next door to filling station
  • Computer terminal, public library

Okay, so … those are all machines. Should we be concerned that Marvin’s only friends are inanimate objects? Or should we be thankful that he’s not rolling around town like Typhoid Mary on gimbals? Troubled times, indeed!

Usual Rubbish

Digi green.

2000 Years to Christmas

Hmmm. Try shift-F7. No good? Okay, wait. Isn’t there a big red button somewhere that gets you out of this shit? No? Huh. I must be thinking of the clothes washer.

Oh, yeah … hi. Well, as you might have guessed, your friends in Big Green are struggling to make ends meet, like most bands these days. It’s not easy. Frankly, it’s downright discouraging sometimes. This week, we spent at least three days trying to get the ends to meet, only to discover that the metaphor apparently doesn’t involve bringing ends together into a kind of loop, but, well … something quite different, it seems. There goes another three days! We spend time like company scrip at a Massey coal mine. (Which reminds me …. sixteen tons!)

Okay, so, a lot of bands are now doing digital performances in order to comply with social distancing guidelines related to the COVID-19 pandemic. Some are passing the digital hat, and that’s all good … very much like the sound of that. This whole thing has prompted a brisk discussion here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill – should we start doing live performances via YouTube, Facebook, etc.? Should we record performances and just toss them up there? Or should we run around in circles, waving our arms above our heads and yelling “Catastrophe! Catastrophe!”? If we do that, maybe Marvin (my personal robot assistant) can hold up my smart phone and send it out on YouTube, Facebook, etc. Yes, a brisk conversation … brisk as Lipton Tea.

Okay, Marvin. Now hold the camera high.

Trouble is, nearly all of us are technically challenged when it comes to the internets. I’m not even sure how this blog works. I type shit into, press a button, and hey-presto, there it is, on the internets. Simple enough, right? But when it comes to broadcasting something into the ether, something that requires cameras, microphones, digital input devices, modems, routers, CAT6 cables, tin foil hats, clown shoes, cardboard backdrops, etc., we start getting into areas that are less familiar to us simple country folk. Sure, our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee knows a thing or two about the internets, but every time we ask him for advice or assistance, he comes back with some claptrap about inventing an alternative to the internets. Always has to start from scratch, that Mitch. (God help us if he encounters that itch he cannot scratch.)

So, short answer, we’ll see if Shift-F7 gets us anywhere in the short run. Got better suggestions for magical key commands? Send them our way!