Tag Archives: Mars

Usual Rubbish

Running late.

I guess my alarm clock doesn’t work. Don’t understand it. I wound it up tight as a drum sometime last year. Stupid bloody thing. Oh, well.

Yeah, maybe we WON'T fly Antares.Sometimes it actually pays to be late. I’ll give you a for instance. There was this gig on Mars we booked for next month, and we were planning to take a private rent-a-rocket up there, having lost contact with our mad science adviser Mitch Macaphee. That’s fine. Only the rocket is an Antares Orbital CRS-3. Yes, THAT Antares Orbital CRS-3. The same one that blowed up real good a couple of days ago. Oh, yes. That’s the flight you WANT to be late for.

I know what you’re going to say. It’s an orbital CRS-3, Joe, not an interplanetary CRS-3. What the hell are you doing, taking an orbital ship on an interplanetary journey of this type? Well, my friends …. I’m glad you asked that question. My answer may surprise you. In fact, the reason why we’re doing that is that, as I mentioned earlier, we no longer have our mad science adviser, so we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. As good a reason as any. Better than most, in fact.

So, probably just as well that we didn’t take the CRS-3 to Mars. Looks like it may not have made it there in one piece. That scotches the gig, though – it was the only ride in town, now that NASA isn’t lighting candles anymore. For those of you who complain that we never perform live, I offer you this rejoinder: we would have done, except that the Antares rocket blew up. How are we supposed to perform live when that rocket blew up?

All bands have some excuse for what they do and what they don’t do. Big Green is no different. I will never say never, but most of what we do now is in the studio, stitching podcasts together, recording ludicrous songs, and asking Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to do his imitation of Joseph Cotton. Our only explanation for such sloth is, well, rocket engine issues.

Usual Rubbish

Genericville.

Do we have 1.5 children? Only if you double-count the man-sized tuber. Let’s ask anti-Lincoln to do the counting – ever since the war, he sees everything twice.

Stupid comet!Oh, hello. Just working up our census form. Don’t mind me. Didn’t know there was going to be a 2014 census, but I guess that’s understandable, since we don’t get a lot of news flowing into the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our squathouse. Just yesterday some dude in a Fedora knocked on the front gate and handed me a questionnaire. He said I had to finish it by Saturday or his friend might set the mill on fire. (I think the friend’s name was Giancarlo.) How old is Mitch Macaphee? No … I mean before the youth serum?

Questions, questions. Way too much on Big Green’s plate lately, I can tell you. We’ve got the THIS IS BIG GREEN podcast, of course – always time-consuming. Our next episode of Ned Trek, for instance, will feature as many as 6 or 7 new songs, never before heard (and probably never again), all apropos of the ridiculous story line. This is part of the biggest crop of new material to come out of Big Green in, I don’t know, twenty years or so. Over the past year or so, we’ve written and began recording something like 30 new songs; that’s since we finished Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick last year.

Then there’s the pressure to get out and play in front of an audience, for chrissake. We considered doing a gig or two on Mars this month, but given the fact that the red planet is going to be buzzed by comet Siding Spring this weekend, we thought better of it. We have had run-ins with comets before; can’t say that we ever got the better of those confrontations. Chilly little hunks of ice, those comets. No pity. Who can blame them? They’re billions of years old, and only get a little sun once every million years or so, then it’s back to the Ort cloud. But I digress.

Hmmm…. Should I account for multiple personalities on this census form? Yes, I’m back on anti-Lincoln again (and his alter ego, anti-Edgar Allan Poe).

Usual Rubbish

Mars calling.

Looks good, Mitch. Can you make it move forward a little bit? You know… just roll a little towards that crater-like object. That’s a crater? No lie? Hmmm….

Oh, hello. Just watching the Curiosity rover on Mars. No, we’re not glued to the NASA web site staring at the same low rez images everyone else is poring over. God, no. When you have friends in the world of science, that gets you access, my good fellow. Big Green, of course, has an official mad science advisor in the form of Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and thrice honored diplomate of the international college of lunatic physicists. When he heard about this Mars rover at a recent loony conference, he built himself a little home made telemetry device that allows him to … well … take command of the Mars rover. (“Oh, no you didn’t!” we said. But oh, yes he did. )

This telemetry thing isn’t about science, though. Don’t say it’s about science. It’s about much more selfish pursuits. Let us face it – Big Green is hungry, friends …. hungry as a dog. We haven’t had a paying gig since… well, since last year. Our promoters at Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm, Inc., have yet to shell out the money for an interstellar tour. Plainly, Big Green has to take matters into its own hands. And whereas some bands turn to their trusted manager, agent, tour promoter, etc., we have only Mitch Macaphee. And as mentioned before, he’s freaking crazy. That’s what is called a telemetry-producing situation.

So how do we leverage this? Well, I’m trying to get Mitch to send commands to the Curiosity rover. We need it to be our arms and legs on Mars. Why? Because there’s this little venue at the foot of Mount Olympus (tallest known mountain in the solar system) that would hire us for a three-night run if we could just get their attention. Can’t afford to ride out there ourselves. (Not in this economy, damnit.) Curiosity can act as our booking agent on Mars. And before you ask, don’t sweat it. We’ll give him the standard 15%. We’re not bad people.

So, okay, Mitch … can you make the Rover say, “private dressing room, behind the stage”? How about, “pitcher of gin and tonic every half hour”? Well, try again, damn your eyes! He’s letting that owner off way too easy.