Tag Archives: orgone generating device

Usual Rubbish

Ear candy.

2000 Years to Christmas

Turn it down, the radio! No, that’s too low. Now turn it up again. Ah, that’s perfect. What’s that you say? It’s not a radio? But it has dials and lights and noise comes out of it. This is strange.

Oh, hi. I was just contemplating a new advance in audio science called the Eight Track Cartridge Player – a bold invention that enables you to copy a two-sided, long-playing record onto a medium that’s broken into four equal parts … so inevitably, one or more of the songs on the LP will be randomly broken in half somewhere in the middle. Or there will be big unexplained periods of silence at various points on the album. Or both. That IS a step up. Now if we could just get a record album onto some kind of medium that would allow us to play the whole thing from beginning to end without any of that nonsense, skip to another track instantaneously, fast forward, etc. Wait …. WHAT??

You know, the thing about living in an abandoned hammer mill is that you’re so isolated from the outside world, you almost literally become unmoored in time. Even your mad science advisor loses track of what decade it is, and starts inventing things that have already been invented in previous times, thinking they are his or her own ideas. Not that anything like that would ever happen around here. Okay …. in fact, that HAS happened around here, truth be told. This week it was the eight track cartridge deck. Last week it was the bicycle. My guess is that, by sometime next week, he will have installed one of his new tape decks in his ramshackle bike and start riding it around the valley, cranking up the tunes, and swearing at the gaps at key points in whatever album he’s listening to. Fun times!

Wow, Mitch. Another breakthrough.

Now, if we could get Trevor James Constable’s patented Orgone Generating Device working once again, we could actually turn a profit on Mitch Macahpee’s retread inventions. How, you may ask? Well …. think of how we managed to bring antimatter Lincoln into our midst – through a time portal generated by Trevor James’s invention. So, Mitch could take his re-invented eight-track machine, set the Orgone Generating Device (or OGD) to 1957, and drop in at SONY to show those fuckers how it’s done. Of course, they would buy up the patent almost immediately, then he could move forward in time to a point when sales are sufficient to shower him with remuneration, which he could then haul back to the future to share with us. Or maybe he would just use the profits to buy himself a tony house in the 1960s and forget our sorry asses. Hmmmm …. maybe not such a good idea.

SCRATCH THAT, MITCH! TRY INVENTING THE BLENDER NEXT – I’D KILL FOR A SMOOTHIE RIGHT ABOUT NOW.

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

High Yuletide.

2000 Years to Christmas

Uh, Anti-Lincoln …. Abe … I was going to have a word with you. Actually, several of us were planning on, well, maybe starting a conversation about, well … it’s kind of awkward. How can I put this delicately? Ah, yes. – got it. You’re a stoned-out, drunken loser-ass mofo. Can we talk?

Yes, that’s right, friends. It’s time for another intervention, this one directed at the Great Un-Emancipator, Antimatter Lincoln, who’s been with us since the day he stumbled out of whatever alternate universe he comes from via Trevor James Constable’s patented orgone generating machine. Seems like so long ago now, doesn’t it? Well, some things never change … and one of those things is Anti-Lincoln’s propensity toward inebriating and intoxicating substances, including (but not limited to) hard liquor, malt beverages, chicken fricassee (with cognac sauce), morphine, hooch, devil’s weed, and marijuana. Oh, yes … it’s time for another little talk with the tall guy.

We thought this would be easier, frankly. I think it was Matt who had the idea of making Marvin (my personal robot assistant) a kind of trustee to Anti-Lincoln, as well as a minder. If he saw the unpresident start to imbibe in a serious way, he was to insert himself between the man and the drink, or joint, or bowl, or whatever he was into. Okay, well … that didn’t work so well. Anti-Lincoln is a bad tempered fellow, as you may recall. His reaction to being corralled by a robot was to attempt to convert said automaton into an elaborate bong for his hashish bender on alternate Saturdays. (Actually, Marvin makes a fairly decent bong, mainly because he has a lot of empty space inside that metallic exterior. True fact.)

Uh, Lincoln? We gotta talk, man.

Last week was the last straw. Anti-Lincoln took delivery of something like a bale of marijuana. He claimed it was CBD and that he had a prescription for insomnia. I called bullshit because the mother sleeps most of the freaking day as it is. If he has insomnia, I’m Pavarati. (And just for the record, I am, in fact, not Pavarati). Now, I know he’s just stocking up for the holidays. In Anti-Lincoln’s world, when the Yuletide rolls in, it does so with a vengeance. And so before he goes on his holiday bender and starts insulting the neighbors, and the local constables, and the bartender, and the … well, pretty much everyone that comes within his field of vision, we of Big Green need to convene a small group intervention. Old Anti-Lincoln will be scared straight …. or not. (If history is any guide, we will be the only straight ones in the hammer mill by the time we’re done.)