Tag Archives: Marvin

Usual Rubbish

Assault with Batteries.

2000 Years to Christmas

Look, I don’t have any space in my room for this goddamn thing. And no, it can’t go in the freaking studio – it’s cramped enough in there as it is. Christ, why do you think we’ve been playing all those Cramps covers? Tight as a tick.

Yeah, that’s right – we’re having a bit of a disagreement again here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, our adopted home. (When they say beloved bands have gone to a farm upstate, this is where they go, my friends.) Nothing new around here. Tempers wear thin after a Winter like this one, am I right. I said, AM I RIGHT? Damn it, this COVID shutdown is even making hermits like us feel claustrophobic. Even the mansized tuber, not exactly a social butterfly, has gotten so cagey he’s decided to resurrect his long-neglected Facebook account. And hell, if he’s just dying to do something useful, I told him he should just do all of our posts while I sit back in an abandoned easy chair and enjoy some expired cider from a bell jar glass. Life of Riley.

What are we arguing about? Here’s the beef: the international space station recently jettisoned a space pallet full of spent batteries, sending it down towards an almost certain burn-up reentry. Sounds like a bit of mundane space news, right? Well, not to Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Like the rest of us, he likes to make use of discarded bits and bobs. Come to think of it, that’s principally what Marvin is made of. And so when he heard this story, it was like he discovered the pot of gold at the end of the Van Allen belt. Marvin may be a lifeless piece of tin (don’t tell him I said so), but he’s smart enough to know that even spent batteries have a little juice in them. So he appealed to his creator, Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, and talked him into pointing his tractor beam (actually, Trevor James Constable’s abandoned orgone generating device) at the discarded space pallet so that he could drag it to earth.

Here she comes, Mitch. Steady, now ...

Okay, so Mitch cranked up the tractor beam, and the whole Mill started to shake like a leaf. Before long, we could see this bloody thing hovering over the building, emitting an unearthly glow, like an aura. Mitch somewhat expertly guided the thing into our central courtyard and landed it with a dull thud. It was hot as a toaster oven on a late-Summer Saturday morning in 1974, just after the kids had breakfast and before dad shook off his hangover enough to start hollering again. (Okay … that simile went a little sideways.) But by the end of the afternoon, Marvin was able to retrieve some of the spent nickel-hydrogen batteries and install them into his personal recharging station (which, I swear, looks like a jukebox). Now he wants me to find somewhere in the mill to stow the space pallet, but I keep telling the stupid automaton that it’s too damn big.

We need a pallet garage. One of the bigger ones. Where’s my Sharper Image catalog?

Usual Rubbish

Spring Chills.

2000 Years to Christmas

Throw another log on the fire. What’s that? No more logs? What the hell. Then break up one of those lobster traps. We haven’t caught a single lobster in twenty years of squatting in this mill – can’t understand it. Stupid trap!

Oh, hi. Yeah, you caught us looking for alternative sources of fuel again. It’s pretty much a full time job for the likes of us here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. It takes a lot of fuel to heat a big old barn of a place like this, even with the entire west wing collapsed and the north wing taken over by lunatic neighbors. In this current cold snap, we’ve resorted to burning whatever wood we can get both hands on. Brother anti-Lincoln has even started pulling up the floorboards in his personal apartment. Inasmuch as it’s on the third floor, this is making navigating around his living space more and more of a challenge. (He’s devised a system of ropes, but I believe he’s thinking of throwing those into the fire as well.)

Now, plenty of people have asked us, “Hey, Big Green …. since your name is Big Green, why don’t you install some solar panels on the roof of the Cheney Hammer Mill?” To that I respond, good question, plenty of people. We resort to something like passive solar energy – opening the blinds on sunny days and rubbing our hands together furiously. And sure, we could ask our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee, to fashion some kind of perpetual energy machine, but our Mitch is a temperamental artist – if he invents a perpetual energy machine, it’s because he saw a hole in the world shaped like such a machine, then carved something out to plug that hole. Selfish human concerns, like avoiding hypothermia, are of no interest to him. He’s looking at the BIG picture … and that picture is big enough to block his view of yours truly.

Pedal faster?

We tried to get in touch with our cousin, Rick Perry, former Energy Secretary and Governor of Texas, as well as subject of our third album, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick, but he hasn’t taken any of our calls. So much for pulling strings. (Hey …. maybe we can pull strings to generate electricity … ) There is another option besides resorting to the assistance of celebrity relatives – getting one of those energy generating recumbent bike thingies. Just hook that thing up and go. We could get Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to pedal the thing, and that would produce enough juice to power a block of space heaters as long as your arm and thick as your ass. For the record, Marvin’s not crazy about the idea, and suggested I might consider doing it myself as a way of shedding some of the COVID pounds I’ve put on over the past year. Still, it’s one way of getting through March without ending up having to be picked up with a pair of ice tongs.

This will be easy. Just set up the bike, plug it into the wall, and pedal backwards. I don’t know why everyone doesn’t do it.

Usual Rubbish

A little background.

2000 Years to Christmas

Nah, that doesn’t look all that great. Maybe move it a bit more to the left. How about a fill light or two. Is that any better? No? Right … start again.

Man, oh Manischewitz! This age of virtual meetings and electronic communications is annoying in the extreme. You freaking can’t do anything in person anymore. For the first few months we managed to keep a low profile by simply sending Marvin (my personal robot assistant) out to do our various tasks, like shopping, garbage removal, pretzel bending, molecule counting, and other odd jobs. Then last August, Marvin started reading Thomas Piketty, discovered the value of his labor and chose to withhold it from us, now that he considers us soulless capitalist exploiters. In response to Woke Marvin’s job action, we’ve had to go on Zoom, go on Google Meet, go on Skype, go on Facetime, go on, go on, go freaking on. Ever try doing your grocery shopping on Zoom? Don’t.

Hey, a lot of bands do whole concerts via these web-based video conferencing apps. That’s largely because, well, there’s no place else to freaking play – everything’s shut down and chances are good that a lot of the rickety establishments that supported plain-clothes bands will have fallen over backwards by the time people feel safe enough to venture out on a Saturday night again. Fortunately, we haven’t had to resort to such tactics. Mind you, I’m not ruling it out, but for the time being, we content ourselves with spending the pennies we make via streaming services on little bits of cheese, crumbs of bread, and a log for the fire. You may ask how we’ve managed to live so extravagantly off of what an indie band can make from web streams. The answer may surprise you. (It certainly would surprise me, because I haven’t the foggiest idea how we do it.)

Like my background?

So yeah, when we need to talk to a promoter or the people who own our squat house, we do the teleconferencing thing. The biggest challenge, from my perspective, is finding a backdrop that faithfully amplifies the kind of image you want to project to the world. For instance, authors often have their books prominently displayed behind them. Representative Lauren Boebert makes sure to have a jumble of assault weapons randomly dumped on a shelf behind her as she speaks. I myself had to think long and hard about what objects would best represent my values to anyone interacting with me over Zoom. I thought maybe a stack of sandwiches, but we don’t have anything like that lying about long enough to make it into the picture. I don’t know – maybe I should go with the Boebert approach, except a little more intimidating than just some poorly maintained long guns. Something that will make my interlocutors thinks TWICE about contradicting me.

Or maybe I should just show them dilapidated interior of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. If that doesn’t scare the hell out of them, nothing will.