Want the mic a little higher? Okay…. that’s the works. Too short still? Let me put it on a milk crate. There – how about now? STILL too short? Ooooooooohhhh!
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.
As I mentioned last week, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has mustered a small army of robots to do his bidding. He started with a landscaping enterprise, but found that putting lawn mowers in the hands of automatons is kind of a bad idea. (They tend to be a bit more self-directed than he had anticipated.) So his next venture was an all-robot band, which he calls “Marvin and the Lawn Robots”. I admit, at first I laughed. What a ludicrous idea! Who would want to hear them? That was Monday. By Wednesday they had a gig at one of the local gin mills, taking the door (and perhaps a couple of windows) for their trouble. Again, I laughed! How, I asked (laughing), will you even get your P.A. gear in the freaking door?
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.
So here I am, trying to get a mic in front of a 12-foot-tall robot Marvin calls “Tiny” (stage name, I expect). This should be an interesting night.
