Give me that back door religion, give me that back door religion, give me that back door religion, it’s good enough for me!
That’s the song we’re singing here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now that Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been plying his new trade as preacher, flock-leader, and chief financial officer of the local diocese of the Space Hippie Sect. Yes, it’s a religion he made up using bits and pieces from Hulu reruns he watches in his ample spare time (contrary to common belief, robots are slothful creatures generally, their servos idle nearly 65% of the time). Turns out it was time well wasted, as the converts have been trudging in, eyes glazed, arms extended in front of them, hungry for spiritual guidance. Didn’t know Marvin was so good at getting money out of people. Must be new programming… for somebody.
How do we of Big Green feel about floating our household on donations to a church hastily invented by a renegade robot? Well, not bad, actually, times being what they are. It’s always good to see a small business owner succeed, and if Marvin isn’t that, I don’t know what he is. And even though the church gatherings involve a good deal of tuneless singing and electric space-banjo playing, they pay for the lights, the heat, the occasional pizza. Life is good. At least until the police arrive. (Note to police: If you read this blog regularly, please be advised that this is “satire” and therefore 
constitutionally protected speech, not a Web-based confession of ill deeds. Nor is this claim a lame effort to keep you from breaking up this great little scam we’ve got going….. um… in the satire.)
Okay, so maybe it’s not completely on the up and up. At least it beats the down and down… hands down. Why, even Mitch Macaphee seems to think Marvin’s on to something, and he rarely admits to any interest in money or valuables, unless they can be easily converted into experimental subjects. (A true scientist, our Mitch.) And face it, we’ve sold our integrity a whole lot more cheaply than this in days past. Those of you who have followed us since… well… three weeks ago know that this is true.
Well, off to another revival meeting. Trouble is – when the faithful decide it’s time to go to Eden, what then? ROAD TRIP!
Whoops, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was listening in. Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Actually, I was just giving a small piece of advice to Marvin (my personal robot assistant) with regard to what is acceptable and unacceptable when one is contemplating organizing a major religion. Not that I know all that much about it, but I think I know more than Marvin does, and I think that gives me “tell you something right now” rights and privileges. Especially with a bloody robot. (Don’t tell him I said that – he’ll start sulking again.)
Sheesh – now who’s the robot? (I guess that still would be Marvin.) Marvin was looking for a religious movement that would be, well, sticky enough to draw some fanatical adherents even in this forgotten backwater of Central New York. Kind of a back stoop movement, if you will. Marvin would do the organizing, with a little help from anti-Lincoln, who is himself a pretty effective fanatic. (Thing is, I don’t know if he can get the space-age guitar thing just right.) I am a bit skeptical, but even so… it could kind of work. Here you have a millennial movement whose goals – hijacking a fictitious space vessel and driving it to an equally fictitious planet – can never be realized, only hoped for – worshipped, if you will. Pretty much the stuff successful religions are made of. And hell, Marvin’s got his first converts: Lincoln, Big Zamboola, and the man-sized tuber.
Yes, I know… we should do the decent, right? Be with our families, etc. Alas, technology makes clueless monkeys of us all. This horrible rust-bucket leftover from some forgotten interplanetary invasion we rented as transport during our interstellar tour has blown yet another gasket or some such thing, per our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee. He used a lot of big words, none of which I’d ever heard before (though Matt was familiar with several of them… strange…). The upshot is, we’re chugging along at subnormal speed, making our leisurely way back to Earth from the Kuiper Belt – last stop on the ENTER THE MIND: THE ULTIMATE BIG GREEN EXPERIENCE interstellar tour.
Me? I’m telling holiday stories to anyone who will listen. Thing is, no one will listen. Actually, as rock bands go, we’ve got a lot of holiday related material. There’s our first album, 
Sunday evening, 6:37 p.m. – Mitch Macaphee test-fires the main engine on our ramshackle space craft; the one that will supposedly carry us to many a far-flung rock venue in the galaxy. Based on what I heard, I have my doubts about this vehicle. It took Mitch about fifteen pulls of that rip cord to get the thing smoking, and that’s about all it did… smoke. No lift. Matt just looked on and shook his head. I saw that and shook my head. Whole lot of shakin’ going on ’round here.
has come to despise that thing, as he does any object that resembles a pot. Fortunately, he’s on wheels, so no matter how large he gets, we can push him along. Or pull him behind. Do plants breathe?
Man, I’ll tell you – tempers run short here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in the middle of July. All this heat… it’s driving us mad! Those of us who weren’t mad to begin with, that is. (Strangely, it kind of drives Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, sane.) I’m just trying to clear out the clutter a little bit, and I threw out a beam of wood. I mean literally, I threw it out the window in hopes the trash collectors would pick it up. Next thing I know, it’s back in the freaking hallway. I guess Lincoln (or perhaps anti-Lincoln… I keep mixing them up because the heat makes them switch personalities) has grown attached to that particular fallen roof beam, or was perhaps planning to whittle it into something more attractive. Don’t know for sure, but he appears to have taken the heat. Calm down, Mr. President!
Still, as many of you probably know, the main consideration with these tours is logistics. I don’t know if you’ve followed our previous outings, but typically we run into some kind of technical or manpower-related difficulties at some point in the proceedings, then mayhem ensues. That’s been the pattern. Why, you ask? Well, it could be because we’re just plain unlucky. Or maybe because we’re getting a little old and codger-like. But I think the most convincing explanation is that we rely too much on frail human faculties to carry us from solar system to solar system. We need more automation. And watching all that footage of those BP robots working furiously on that spill in the Gulf, I’m reminded that robots – excluding for a moment Marvin (my personal robot assistant) – are an under-utilized resource in this operation.
Oh, hi. Didn’t notice you there, peering at me from the other side of this flat screen monitor I live in. Hope all is well at home. I’m just hanging out here in the delightfully abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, having a little chat with our old friend Lincoln, who was carried here from yesteryear through the magic of Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating device a year or two back. (That’s a long way of saying hello – I know.) What are we chatting about? Funny you should ask. The usual topics that come up around here, like how many hammers were forged here, how long this place has been abandoned, and HOW THE HELL ARE WE EVER GOING TO MAKE ENOUGH MONEY TO GET A DECENT PLACE TO LIVE. (That last one’s a bit of a sore spot. Not sure if you can tell.)
Hmmm. That last utterance took on a decidedly militaristic cast – my apologies. As I was saying, I and several others – though certainly NOT Marvin (my personal robot assistant) – have been tossing around possible entries for Lincoln’s upcoming work. Why does he need our help? Well, friends – he may be an excellent commander in chief, a clear-minded leader with nerves of steel, a visionary… but aside from speeches written hastily on the backs of envelopes, his writing for mass audiences leaves a bit to be desired. Far too flowery, too prolix. Goodness me, Lincoln! Take a page out of your evil twin’s playbook. Economy! For chrissake, it’s a rare thing indeed when Anti-Lincoln writes anything longer than a two-word phrase that ends in “you.” (Say what you like; at least he keeps the focus on “you.”)
If it sounds like I’ve been reduced in rank to roadie status, that’s because it’s true. Just call me Spike or Lenny – you know, one of those roadie names. I’ve considered investing in a carton of muscle shirts, but I don’t have any muscles, so… what’s the point, right? (How do I lift those heavy bass cabinets? Tendons only, my friend.) There are worse things to do for a living, only up to now I haven’t had to do any of them, so… this is rock bottom. The things we do for friends! And by “friends” I mean robot friends.
Turns out I’m the “how”. Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t be wasting my time on this shit. Only.. he’s the only robot I’ve ever had, and when those brass eyes start to tear up, I relent. Mind you, I’m the only member of Big Green involved in this enterprise. Matt and John both flat-out refused to carry water for a bunch of mindless robots. None of our other household denizens and assorted hangers on at the Cheney Hammer Mill would agree to lug Marvin’s gear around either (I thought I could at least get the Lincolns interested, but they REFUSED, insisting they had something else going – some kind of debating society, I believe.) As for the man-sized tuber, he’s running the sound board, and… well, those little twig-like arms of his are even less suited to a roady’s tasks than mine.
Yeah, big things are happening here at the Hammer Mill. Really big things. Like the giant garage sale Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has talked us all into participating in (and contributing to). That’s bigger than we really want it to be, frankly. For one thing, we don’t HAVE a garage. And if we DID have one, we wouldn’t sell it (we just got it in my imaginary world, for chrissake – what’s the matter with you, man?) Seriously, though, I think Marvin is selling everything we own, including all of our instruments. That’s like being up shit creek and selling your paddle in a garage sale. (In fact, it IS being up shit creek and selling the paddle… assuming some fool wants to buy it.)
Oh, damn. Didn’t mean to give you an inside look at our dissention in the ranks. Yeah, things are pretty rough around the edges in Big Green ville these days. Tempers are wearing thin… thin as the knees of our jeans. Ragged as the cuffs of our shirts. Threadbare as the ascot Lincoln still wears to dinner (even though we don’t do the ascot thing at dinner anymore – I’ve told him a dozen times!) Why, we may even resort to WORKING for a living. That may seem drastic to you, but it’s a real possibility. Don’t think we don’t have offers. (We don’t, but that’s another matter entirely.) There’s a little thing called opportunity … and a little thing called luck. One or the other of those little things may just get close enough to be considered a big thing here in the Cheney Hammer Mill.
Yeah, I’m losing track of day, time, even planet, solar system. I may even be working in base-12. (That would not be a good development, particularly with my bank balance.) Big Green and friends have been a little busy just lately – too busy, frankly, for the niceties of neighborly chats, friendly asides, opening mail, cooking dinner, and writing blog posts.
Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has zucchini to take to market – yet another one of his hare-brained business ventures. I haven’t seen the man-sized tuber in a couple of days, come to think of it – perhaps he was mistaken for a great bull zucchini. (Marvin is a little unsubtle. A zucchini would have to tell him it wasn’t a zucchini if it wanted to avoid the market stall.)
Oh, yes… the blog. As you can see, I’m at loose ends here. Just killing a little time between sessions. Matt put down a vocal the other day. (I wish he’d stop putting me down, man. I’m trying my BEST!) Next it’s my turn, but first Marvin (my personal robot assistant) needs to go in there and clean up the tracks a bit, do a little of his magic. (What kind of magic? Can’t say. It’s magic, damnit!) So while I’m just sitting here, I’m filling out crosswords, completing puzzlers, and… well… opening our overinflated mailbag. Some of these things have been sitting in there for six months or better. (I think I spy a christmas present…. from 1970…)
Okay, m’Lord, you see… “George” is a fictional character – a mad scientist, like Mitch Macaphee (who is, sadly, real). Not everyone in our songs is for real, okay? Sometimes we make up unlikely personages, like “Jane” or “Abraham Lincoln”, and sometimes we borrow them from other authors, like “Tarzan” and “Edward Teller”. And regarding the reclamation of Pangea, no worries… that will take some time, he-he-he…. sometime indeed…