Tag Archives: Beatles

Usual Rubbish

Don’t let it be.

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Why not? Because I said so, damn it. Will you just listen to me once? No, Marvin, no. We’re far to … uh … well-done for that. Too crispy. If “The Colonel” saw us, he’d try to put us in a bucket with some nice pre-fab buttermilk biscuits. Mmmmm boy.

Oh, hello. Funny that you always seem to show up when we’re having a little disagreement over here. Nothing serious, you understand – just a difference of opinion. Between me and a robot. Not just any robot, of course – I mean Marvin (my personal robot assistant). I should keep him off Facebook, frankly. That’s where he saw that article that’s been driving him frantic ever since. It was probably planted on Facebook by the IRA – the Internet Robotics Agency – as a black ops effort against gullible automatons.

What’s the story about? Glad you asked. It was a piece about how filmmaker Peter Jackson is going to make a documentary out of hours of archived film footage of the Beatles originally gathered for the movie Let It Be. That got Marvin thinking … maybe WE could do something like that. First, find a director (preferably a famous, gullible one), then send him all of our home movies from the past thirty or thirty-five years. Make it forty. After that, they could shoot interviews of all of us while we talk about the content on the footage and make pithy comments while the Director checks his phone. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?

Make a movie out of THAT?Of course it bloody doesn’t! What, point hi-def video cameras at our superannuated faces? Nothing doing. And as far as the archival footage goes, what we have is so rough and so primitive I doubt anyone would be able to interpret the hazy dark shapes on the screen in a way that would suggest real human activity. What director is going to take a bunch of VHS tapes and make a documentary? The idea is ludicrous, and yet Marvin is married to it, much like that time he married that stamp vending machine over at the corner drug store. The only thing that worked about that marriage was when it came to putting postage on the wedding invitations. In that respect, it was a match made in heaven.

So, short story, we’re not doing it … no matter what the black ops people say.

Usual Rubbish

Freak week.

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That’s kind of an odd sound. Did you hear it, Anti-Lincoln? What’s that? No hearing aid? I didn’t know you were hard of hearing. Huh. Explains a lot, really. I think we all just sort of assumed that you were obstinate and disagreeable. And manic depressive. And a total asshole. Oh – well, you heard THAT now, didn’t you?

It’s hard to ‘splain what it’s like living with a bunch of freaks like the entourage surrounding Big Green. I know that if you’re a rock music fan, you have probably read all the stories about the folks who hung around with the Beatles or Justin Bieber’s posse or whatever. Yeah, our group is nothing like that. Though I suppose we have the rough equivalent of “Magic Alex” in our mad science adviser, Mitch Macaphee. Just call him Magic Mitch. (Not to his face, of course.) Once caveat: his version of the “nothing box” would probably be explosive.

Maybe it’s just that you get more sensitive with age. You know, the goings-on in the middle of the night, the moving stuff around and slamming doors, the playing instruments at all hours – I should really stop doing all that shit. No, seriously … I’ve become kind of attached to the idea of sleeping through most of the night (especially this time of year, when the nights last half the day.) In fact, I get SO attached to the idea of sleeping that I need an frightfully loud Two useless inventionsalarm clock, which now takes the form of Marvin (my personal robot assistant) setting off one of his servo-alarms while standing next to my cot.

You know you’re living in freak land when the most normal individual in your group is a man-sized tuber. (I would say my brother Matt is the most normal, but that would just be a dirty lie.) Of course, that has never stopped us from making music. In fact, you could say that it has contributed to our productivity. The freakier we get, the stranger the albums get. That seems like a natural progression to me.

Okay, well … back to whatever I was doing before. Odd jobs, like bending pretzels, perhaps.