Tag Archives: planetoid

Thule fool.

For the last time, Mitch, I said no. No, damn it! Isn’t it cold enough in upstate New York? And you want to go way the hell out there? Forget it!

Ah, right. I’m typing all this as we speak. My apologies – we were just having a band meeting and, well, things were starting to get a little contentious. You see, our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee got it into his head that we should book a performance or two on Ultima Thule, that snowman-shaped object in the Kuiper Belt recently photographed by a NASA space probe. “You’d be the first,” he said. “Don’t you want to be first in something?”

You see what we have to put up with around here? I mean. Matt and I were just asking for ideas about new venues, new opportunities to connect with a broader audience … preferably a terrestrial one. That’s when Mitch piped up about the planetoid. Sure, we’ve played planetoids before. But honestly … you want to go someplace warm during the winter months, right? Somehow an open air concert on the shore of a sea of frozen methane is not my idea of a plum gig. In fact, I’m shivering already. (The Cheney Hammer Mill is kind of leaky, as you might expect.)

It's a freaking snow man, Mitch!Now, it’s no secret that we’re not super fond of live performances. Our battles are fought in the laboratory, not the prize ring! I mean … we make music in the studio, for the most part. Hell, it’s easier, and you get do-overs. So the notion of traveling billions of miles in some dodgy rent-a-spacecraft with a mad man at the helm is not particularly appealing. At the very least, we would need to send Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to do the advance work, which on a gig like Ultima Thule would involve checking the gravitation (too strong, too weak) and doing an atmospheric analysis. I’m guessing the lab work could be finished maybe nine months after his return, which given current technology, might take 40 years.

We could just shoot a line up to the snowman-shaped planetoid and yank it a little closer so that Marvin can do his work. Frankly, he doesn’t need to check its temperature – you just know the sucker is cold, right? It’s shaped like a freaking snowman, for chrissake.

Dwarfed ambitions.

Interstellar Tour Log: April 10, 2014
On the surface of Dwarf Planet 2012 VP.

That’s it. I am officially declaring our Interstellar Tour over and done with. I’m sick of these stupid slug lines reminding people where the hell we are all the time. Also, we’ve simply run out of places to play here on Dwarf Planet 2012 VP. That’s likely because, aside from a few street-corner fried plantain vendors, there is virtually no commerce here. This planetoid is devoid of performance venues. We actually set up and jammed in a nearby crater just on the off chance that random extraterrestrials would happen upon us. Nothing. Not a sausage.  This is just like back home.

Ah, home. The sainted abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. It’s leaky roof, its moldy basement, its crumbling walls, its heaps of abandoned hammer parts and random knobs of discarded pig iron that I keep tripping over even after having squatted there for more than a decade. I miss that dump, and I’m not alone in that sentiment. Hell, even Marvin (my personal robot assistant) looked a little misty yesterday as he scrolled through photos of the mill on his laptop. Lincoln seems like a man without a rostrum. The mansized tuber, well … he’s a plant. Don’t expect a lot of overt sentiment out of him.

That's the ticket!So, yeah, after months in space, we are ready to take the long trip home, back from the Ort Cloud, back from hastily named space rocks that are hard to classify. Before we go, though, we want to leave a stake in the ground here on Dwarf Planet 2012 VP. My thought is, well, let’s name the sucker after ourselves. Let’s claim it for Big Green, well and truly. We could be subtle about it and just shift the name to 2012 BG. Or we could go all-out and call it Big Greenland (though I was reserving that for a future theme park). We’ve got friends at NASA … I’m guessing this is do-able. (And yes, we have to ask for permission, since we need telemetric data from the space agency to find our way back to the mill.)

Homeward bound, chaps!