Tag Archives: hammer mill

Usual Rubbish

Practice makes … practice.

One…. two…. One-two-three-four! *SMASH* Wait, hold it. Tubey, you okay? Was that your last planter? Christmas. We’ve got to go to the garden store, damn it.

Oh, hiya. Geezus, you’d think being idle and ensconced in an abandoned hammer mill would offer endless opportunities to rehearse, jam, arrange, etc. Seems like every time we try to do it, something comes up. For instance, this week I’ve got custody of the mansized tuber. (Matt had him last week. Hey – that’s the terms of the adoption agreement, what do you want from me?) I guess I never realized what a handful he can be. He’s at a difficult age for tubers; you know, that time when they either become a full-fledged plant or get mashed up into some kind of traditional dish. I have to think that, for tubey, it’s going to be the former outcome, but he doesn’t seem convinced. Now he jumps at every noise. And as you might expect, rehearsal generates a lot of noises.

Okay, so when he jerks to one side at the sound of a crash cymbal, falls off his pedestal, and cracks his planter into a thousand pieces, is that my bad? Do I bear responsibility not only for the damages but for the psychological trauma, the pain and suffering, the fibrous bruising Tubey endures as a result of his own nervousness? I think not. And yet, having custody of him does imply a level of accountability. Man god damn, this will be the THIRD king-size pottery planter I’ve had to buy on my meager income in the last five days. How much is enough? I’d just like the president and some of those congressional leaders to walk a mile in my shoes – they think THEY have it tough….

Granted, we don’t have any jobs booked for Big Green’s [INSERT NAME HERE] Interstellar Tour 2011, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t start working up some numbers. Matt’s polishing up his tiny guitar (it’s about the size of a badminton racket, perhaps smaller), John’s pounding away on some soup kettles. I’ve replaced a few broken tines in the Fender Rhodes 73. The plan is to play whatever we know as many times as we can stand it. That’s called rehearsal. If no one interrupts us, life is good. Only now…

Well, now I’m going to the plant store. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) will tag along to do the carrying. Then it’s back to work… I hope.

Usual Rubbish

Planageddon.

I’m not sure about that, Matt. I don’t know if I want to play that song. How about “Dinos”? No? Are you sure? Okay… you suggest one. “World of Satisfaction”? Naaaah.

Oh, hello. Didn’t notice you peering through that LCD screen. As you can see, we’re working on a set list for our first engagement on Big Green’s [INSERT NAME HERE] Interstellar Tour 2011. No, that’s not a place keeper – that’s the name Tiny Montgomery suggested last week, and none of us has come up with anything better (let alone tried to, you know, insert the name). It’s always kind of a back and forth on the set lists – that’s only natural when you have hundreds of songs. Yes, literally hundreds… all wrapped up in a little box. We take turns, reaching a hand into the box. I’ll read one song title and Matt will knock it down. Then he grabs one and reads it. I’ll say he’s an asshole. Then he throws the box at me. And I’ll yell, “MOM! HE’S DOIN’ IT AGAIN!” And then we’re BOTH in trouble.

Okay, so that’s freaking childish, I know. But not to worry – we always come up with set lists in the end. Then we freaking ignore then, nine times out of ten. No, we’re not affecting an artistic temperament. It’s just that, frankly, it gets kind of dark on the stages we play on, and those lists are just plain hard to read. So we start calling tunes. If we call the same tune twice in a single night, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) issues a loud beeping sound. Chances are we will remember what that’s supposed to mean and withdraw the selection. Hey…. everybody has their process. Ours is surely no less sound than the one used by, say, My Morning Jacket.  (I can’t say, because I don’t know what they do. I’m just picking examples at random – don’t listen to me.)

I’m just noticing how often I use the epithet “freaking”. You all know what I mean. In any case, preparing for an arduous interstellar tour is no picnic, as many of you know. There are songs to rehearse, air tanks to compress, space suits to air out, missiles to hire, maps to download – no end to the punch list. (It’s actually more like a punch and kick list.) Not getting a lot of help, either. Both Lincolns are dead to the world after a night of carousing. The mansized tuber is out in the garden, communing with his little herb-garden cousins. Mitch Macaphee has taken the next two weeks off to attend a mad science conference in Brazil. I feel like the prisoner of freaking Zenda. (There’s that epithet again!)

Not to worry. We’ve been down this bumpy road before, and it’s always come out…. well … bumpy. So be it.

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.