Tag Archives: Marvin

Usual Rubbish

Weather or knot.

Hmmmm. That looks like light coming in. Not necessarily a bad thing, except that’s a wall, not a window. So, I don’t know… somewhat problematic.

Okay, it turns out that a potting shed is not the best place to hide during a hurricane or other extreme weather event. Who knew? Seemed sturdy enough when we moved in. I know you’re used to hearing us complain about nearly everything, but we had very few complaints about the shed, aside from the fact that there was no screen for the fireplace. Our landlord’s response? “Run for your lives! The potting shed doesn’t HAVE a fireplace!”

Yesterday the wind started kicking up and water came pouring down from the heavens like one of those super soaker shower heads. (Actually the shower head is like the rain, but never mind.) Then the entire structure started to sway lazily in the wind. Far from keeping the weather out, the shed was practically inviting it in, and frankly, this shed isn’t big enough for me and some screaming ‘nado. Well, there was some noise, and Marvin (my personal robot assistant) sounded the alarm klaxon (really just a digital recording he plays back on such occasions). The shed lifted up and came down like a tossed coin, rolling around on its edges as it came to a clumsy stop.

Cheese and crackers!

Naturally, we broke out our foul weather gear, which looks pretty much like our fair weather gear, except that we keep it in a different cardboard box. I do have one Gorton’s Fisherman style hat that allows me to cross the courtyard on occasion and pound on the hammer mill door in hopes that our nasty neighbors will grow a compassion bone and decide to let us back in.  No luck yet, but what the hell. I’ll tell you, this puts a real damper on rehearsals. There aren’t a lot of genuinely waterproof instruments in the kind of music we play, so our songs start to sound a bit waterlogged by the end of the first half-hour.

I don’t know … how long does it take a sousaphone to rust? Depends on the brand, I’m guessing. Got an umbrella …. anyone?

Usual Rubbish

Letters home.

Haven’t you finished that symphony yet? Well, get going. You’ve got a piano concerto to write as well. Don’t hurry or anything …. it’s due to the publisher on Friday. That’s today.

Man, some of these deadlines are hard to meet, particularly when you’re living in a crowded, leaky potting shed in the courtyard of your former sqauthouse, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. We’re just trying to keep the ship afloat here, folks, and to do so we cannot limit ourselves to any single genre of music. That’s why I have Marvin (my personal robot assistant) composing music for hire. This week he’s working on modern classical music … long hair stuff. Marvin knows what that’s all about. I plugged a Classical Gas album into his tape drive.

With all the disruption, you’d think our mail wouldn’t find us, but never underestimate the power of mail carriers to find their target. They dropped us a parcel of letters, postcards, and newsletters as thick as your ass. And as I was sorting through this bounty, I found a missive from one of our closest neighbors. In fact, it was from the very people who kicked us out of our beloved hammer mill. At first I was reluctant to open the letter, as I thought it might be booby trapped with gelled explosives or one of those greeting card sound chips playing Yakety Sax. (I think I might slightly prefer the explosives.)

Is that for me? Holy cats.

What did the letter say? Aw, not much. They asked if we were liking the potting shed as much as they liked sending us there. I thought that was sweet. They also invited us to share favorite recipes that include ingredients we left behind in the hammer mill kitchen. I’m sending them a dog-eared copy of the Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee.  It’s got some of my favorites in it. Now, I know you’re probably thinking I’m being too indulgent with our belligerent hammer mill usurpers, but never fear. The Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee doesn’t really exist, and neither does Gilbert Humvee. It’s just our way of being neighborly.

I can’t wait to write back to Otis, Marjory, and Kirsten. (Those are the new squatters). I feel I could call them by name now when they kick me out. There’s a lot of love here!

Usual Rubbish

Banjo doorstop.

I feel a draft. Don’t you feel a draft, Marvin (my personal robot assistant)? Oh, right. I forget you’re made of brass and polystyrene. What about you, mansized tuber? Oh, right. You’re a plant. Guess it’s just a “me” thing.

Well, we knew it would be difficult to spend nights out in the courtyard of the Cheney Hammer Mill, our erstwhile squat house. Not that that place was insulated and tight as a drum. Quite the contrary. But at least there were places deep inside the mill where you couldn’t see sunlight. Can’t say the same for this potting shed. It’s got more holes than a North Dakota oil field. And it’s twice as greasy. When the wind blows, it whistles. (Or maybe Anti-Lincoln whistles … not sure.)

Yes, we’ve had to make do in a lot of ways since moving out of the dump into this wreck of a shack, driven from our home by some drunken upstairs neighbors who hate our freedoms. (Like the freedom to live undisturbed in a hammer mill … one of our most CHERISHED freedoms.) Refrigeration is a bit of an issue, for instance. We thought about using a styrofoam cooler packed with ice, but we didn’t have any ice and …. well … we didn’t have a cooler, so we just put the perishables in the middle of the floor and waved fans at them. Turns out there’s a reason why they call them perishables. Who knew?

Hey, Abe! We found a use for that thing!

About the only customized feature on this shack is a spring-loaded door that slams closed every time you pass through it. It’s a bit problematic when it comes to carrying gear in and out, so we quickly decided to prop it open with something handy. And since the only personal belongings we’ve been able to retrieve from the mill are musical instruments, we had to decide which instrument was  expendable enough to be used as a doorstop. My vote was for the accordion, but the front-runners were banjo and bagpipes. Banjo won the final run-off, much to the chagrin of Anti-Lincoln, who has been known to pluck the gut bucket from time to time.

Just as well. If we’d used either the accordion or the bagpipes, every time we closed the door, either one would make its signature sound. Sure, you’d know when somebody enters the place … but then you know anyway, because it’s a POTTING SHED, for crying out loud.