Need a couple more of those buckets. How about some pale green in the upper left hand corner? And put that HMI light just behind the plastic fichus tree. That’s the ticket.
Ah, visitors. Welcome, welcome. Reading this, you may ask yourself, “What the fuck – do these guys do everything themselves?” (No, I’m not affecting to give you permission to ask such a question. Nay, I believe in free will, and am merely speculating on the character of your thoughts. Affected, me? Perish the thought!) And the answer to that question might be yes, if by “everything” you mean “everything that can be done in that run-down mill.” (If you mean something else, well… what can I say?) So… yes, we do… uh… do everything around these parts. Well… most of us do, anyway. (Some of us don’t do everything… or “do nothing”, as the saying goes.)
Oh, sure – we have the equivalent of domestic help. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) counts as a domestic, technically speaking. (Very technically.) I suppose the man-sized tuber counts, too, sort of like a coffee table might. (Hey… it holds coffee for you, right? Defies gravity in a sense, no?) But 
how much help are they, really, when it comes to the important stuff, like… like bricking up an open window, or finding a lost quail egg, or whitewashing the widder-woman’s fence? How about mastering an album, damnit? How much help is Marvin, eh? Squat! And the freaking man-sized tuber – when’s the last time he twiddled a volume pot? Day before never, that’s when! So, hey… the next time you wonder why it takes us five years to make a m.f.-ing album, here’s an easy answer – we get no help from nobody, no how. (pant, pant, pant….)
Phew! I feel much, much better now. Catharsis aside, there is a grain of truth to what I’m saying, albeit an extremely minute one. Don’t think I need to mention that our rapacious corporate label is worse than useless in this regard. What the hell – who would have ever thought a 
company called Loathsome Prick Records would be run by scoundrels and assholes? And yet, there you have it. (Don’t tell them I said so, okay?) And then there are the closer-to-home issues, like the quarrelling Lincolns (posi and anti), and Big Zamboola, who just hangs around the courtyard confounding the local astronomy club with his mysterious gravitational light-bending trick (quite astounding). It’s not so much that they’re destructive – more that they simply don’t contribute to a harmonious living atmosphere. Neither does Mitch Macaphee, with his rapidly multiplying horde of experimental critters. (Frankenstone has discovered the rave. A couple of decades late, but what the hell… he’s made of stone.)
At least we’re back in the confines of the mill, safe from the rain (or most of it, anyway). Now if we could just get past these household projects, maybe we could … I don’t know … take a raft down the Mississippi… or the Mohawk…
