What do you mean what am I listening to? Music. What the hell do you think? It's my abandoned storage room. You got a problem with that? You do? Hmmm. Okay.
Well, here we are - another February at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, and let's just say things are getting a little slow around the Big Green collective enterprise. For the world is frozen and I have touched the sky. (Wasn't that almost a Star Trek episode?) 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky - how about that? Anyway, not much to do this month except catch up on my reading and listen to some tunes. I made the mistake of cranking up some traditional jazz - Lenny Breau, to be exact - and our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee took exception to that. Not a jazz fan he. I think he's partial to Wagner. Porter Wagner.
Actually, it's not just the music that has Mitch acting ornery. He's been at sixes and sevens ever since that Space-X launch of the "Falcon Heavy" and the subsequent touchdown of its twin booster rockets. I have never seen Mitch so glued to a television set (except that time he was cooking up a new kind of super glue and, well, inadvertently glued himself to the television set). I may be going out on a limb, but I think the thing that is sticking in his craw is the notion that another private rocket launch would be so successful. He also has a strange fixation on the Elon Musk space car. I think he wants to hijack that ride and take it to Pluto.
I try to mollify Mitch with my assurances that, though the Falcon Heavy was a huge success, we DID do at least five interstellar tours by virtue of his spacecraft expertise. Sure, we were almost killed about a thousand times and, sure, we were stranded on strange alien worlds for weeks on end, but those are mere footnotes. The REAL story is that we didn't make a dime on ANY of those tours. THAT'S what's got ME all worked up. I don't know what the hell MITCH has to complain about. (Phew. You can see why my effort to reassure Mitch kind of fell flat.)
Okay, so ... keep an eye on the hammer mill. If you see the nose cone of a rocket sticking up out of the courtyard, give me a call.