Okay, just leave it over there. Yeah, there – on top of the steamer trunk. The larger steamer trunk… the one with all the chains and locks wrapped ’round it. That’s it. Thanks, buddy….
Sheesh, these mad scientists don’t exactly travel light. I’ve never seen so much bloody luggage… not since that one time Imelda Marcos stopped by our lean-to in Sri Lanka to say hi on her way back from Italy. (I’ve still got a pair of espadrilles to serve as a memento. Could never bring myself to wear them – hot pink doesn’t suit me, generally speaking.) Every time Mitch Macaphee goes on one of these quasi-scientific junkets, he comes back with a boat load of stuff. W.T.F., even when he comes back in a plane, he’s got a boat load. Usually it’s a random amalgamation of electronic equipment, volatile chemicals, exotic materials of every color and description. Just freaky, frankly…. but that’s our Mitch, and he’s back (with a vengeance).
No, that’s not a figure of speech. Let me tell you something (young lady)… I have been around musicians most of my life, and they are, by and large, a touchy lot, usually liable to hold a grudge if you give them ample cause. But they don’t hold a candle to scientists. (And if I were you, I wouldn’t either… because their clothes may be covered in some kind of explosive residue from a recent experiment – don’t take the chance!) When scientists step on each other’s toes, steal each other’s sandwiches, put their fingers in each other’s soup, etc., there is truly hell to pay. And from what I understand, our own Mitch Macaphee experienced some kind of unpleasantness whilst in Buenos Aires… the kind of unpleasantness that makes you grind your teeth at night… and dream about the invention of deadly vapors, untraceable by forensic instruments.
Now I can see where Marvin (my personal robot assistant) gets it from. He is, after all, a creation of Mitch Macaphee – Mitch’s eighth experiment, as it happens – and he has proven himself capable of some pretty remarkably nasty vendettas, especially just lately. This thing about the Canadian Space Robot Known as Dextre (or “CanSpRoKAD” as the tabloids might one day call him) is some of the most over-the-top behavior I have ever seen from our metallic friend. (And lest you forget, this is the robot who, several years ago, danced with Morlocks somewhere near the center of the earth – look it up.) His father/inventor Mitch, however, has 
got him beat. I mean, I walked away from my mastering console to prepare a welcome home feast for the guy, and what did he do but brood his way through the whole first course (mashed potatoes), dreaming of revenge. But why? And against whom? And why is he wearing my espadrilles? (Frankly, they make him look short.)
Well, I don’t expect you to answer all of these questions for me sitting in front of your computer monitor. Just print the blog off, take it into the next room, and work on these important questions over the next week. I’ll look forward to hearing your responses….
