All the king’s robots and all the King’s pens
We might be the subject of another community effort to rid the neighborhood of ne’er do wells. I object to being termed in such a way, as I sometimes do well.
Search Results for: entourage
Planning a tour on the ground floor
We’re tossing parts back and forth, barking into mics, squinting at pages of poorly recorded verse. We’re pulling things apart and patching them back together.
What the hell is next – a boat ride?
Somebody page back through the blog posts. Don’t stop until you see Trevor James Constable and some dude who looks like a nebula.
Dispatch from the string recycling center
You’re more than welcome to stop by, take a seat, and watch us attempt to record pop music using stone knives and bear skins.
This is not the sort of thing I meant
Anti-Lincoln sits around the mill sulking most of the time, wishing he were made of positrons instead of pure anti-neutrons (absolutely pure!).
Social media killed the radio star.
It seems no one in our entourage has ever played a parlor game before. We are creatures of the road, my friends, driven by eternal wanderlust.
Daddy took the t-bird away (Damn him!)
We scratch and scrape for every morsel, and we all share the workload. This morning I was on scratch duty. Tomorrow it will be scraping.
Unmasked at the CHENEY Hammer Mill (again).
All the human members of Big Green, as well as our various hangers-on, feel that the masks generally improve our looks. I don’t disagree.
Names and faces.
We were poor, fighting the mice for scraps, sharing smokes, sleeping on people’s floors. (At one point it got so bad we were forced to sleep on somebody’s walls.)
Rogue appliances.
Whose idea was it to have a mad scientist in residence? Mine? Oh, right. Well … it seemed like a good idea at the time. And he did get us to Aldebaran in one piece. (Albeit a very small piece.)