h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Well, it looks like the band is moving up in the world. We may only have two people willing to make something of this pit and our musical talent, but look, now we have a bartender at our "Nightclub of sorts," as well.

Nice to meet you. I'm Yossarian, percussionist extraordinare.

*handshake*

*shakes hands*
My pleasure, I'm sure. I'm MoGgie. I've been known to torment my pets, friends and neighbors with my musical 'talent'. That's why I figured it would be better to leave the accordion at home and let y'all take care of the music. But I'm an excellent bartender.

Hey... Mund gave me a theremin the other day, and I LOVE it! I'll run over to my place and grab it so you can give it a try too.

*polishes off her and dashes out the door*

*reenters the room with a (http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/playground/theremin1.shtml) under her arm.*

Here you go. Give it a try. It's a lot of fun.

Hoopy

I'll check it out tomorrow, though. It's really late and I'm behind schedule with all my work IRL.

Mund sneaks in, aware he has his own key, but also that he's been shirking the vital work of sweeping up and pulling the electrical supply cables out of that interesting little stream down the side of the building.

The lights are low, and there's no murmur of conversation. Can Yossarian and the Mother of God have gone off for a little walk in the swamp outside?

Mund's legs are tired, though recent tasks of writing novels and painting windows don't seem to have involved the legs very much. There's a filthy armchair which is considering a career move into the world of marshmallows, and it fits Mund like a wet pair of pants.

Relaxation's what we need my friend, 'cause there's not enough time to go round.

Mund has brought his flute - you know, the one with the occasional sticking spring - and he plays a slow, exploratory tune into the dim, low-ceilinged space. If only this was the Taj Mahal - a guy called Paul Horn recorded an album of flute playing there, just teasing and being teased by the echoes.

That's better. I want to do something, if I can ever peel this chair off. But maybe a small drink first, if MoG has left some vital supplies under one of the tables...

Er,


Judging by your updated space, I take it that the band hath come to an end...?

My updated space? Starting a band... better if it never meets... That "joke" has been there from way back. I thought the Mother of God might help (did you see her proposal for a rat xylophone?).

Last night I found myself listening to BBC Radio 2, which I consider to be "old people's pop music". But of course old people move on, and I was enthralled by a selection which ranged from Otis Redding to King Crimson.

The most astonishing thing in the whole hour was the suggestion that Kurt Cobain really rated King Crimson and wanted to sound like them. I know the presenter as a bit of a comedian, so I may have been taken in by that.

This week I have to give a lesson in electric guitar playing to a twelve-year old. You may think that's a problem, but last week he was round here trying our trombone.

Ed wakes up from a contemplative mood (that's his story and he's sticking to it) to see the Mother of God dancing around by the theremin, punching the air to elicit squeals and groans from the machine.

Fearing that he will never rise from this infested armchair or - even worse - that he is mewrging with it in some cross between Flann O'Brien and Star Trek, he calls...

"Is there any Scotch left? And where did I put my flute?"

Mund wakes up from a contemplative mood (that's his story and he's sticking to it) to see the Mother of God dancing around by the theremin, punching the air to elicit squeals and groans from the machine.

Fearing that he will never rise from this infested armchair or - even worse - that he is mewrging with it in some cross between Flann O'Brien and Star Trek, he calls...

"Is there any Scotch left? And where did I put my flute?"

Oops. Dual personality syndrome.

And then there's the verb to mewrge. It's a messier form of merging, but not a pretty word, so it'll never get into an Adams or post-Adams dictionary.

Mewrging is only socially acceptable after you've had a few, my dear.
*brings Mund another and goes back to play with the theremin, begins bellydancing at it just to see what'll happen*

*a sorely twisted version of 'The Girl From Ipanema' warbles forth*

Your flute's over here, by the bar. I almost used it as a cocktail stir, but decided to use my fingers instead. I didn't want to restrict you to fluid melodies, ya know.

My, this place is getting exciting with live bellydancing performed by the Empress of the Universe who also happens to be serving her very own finger stirred scotch...

*twirls drumstick around his hand a few times*

*sparkling profusely, MoGgie mixes another batch of cosmicpolitans and plops into a chair*

*hic*

Are you gonna play for us, Yossarian? Or just twiddle your sticks?

*MoGgie's magic bag rustles in the corner and a tiny pokes it's nose out and sniffs the air*

baaaaaaa?

So the club's a bit quiet, not enough people looking round the door, the hygiene standards start to slip... And all you need is the Mother of God to drop in and everything is sweetness and light. (That sentence needs to be reviewed against current PC filters.)

** Lay down a beat Mr Y, and I'll join in with whatever seems appropriate. **

But (holds up a hand), if you can get even a sorely twisted version of 'The Girl From Ipanema' out of a theremin by belly-dancing (or any other method!), you're in the running for a Nobel music prize or at least a sainthood (which you wouldn't really value, with your existing qualifications).

And if you want to know about a really sorely twisted version of 'The Girl From Ipanema' (isn't cut and paste wonderful?), don't ask me about Stackwaddy.

Do you think that, if I just whisper-type the phrase "sex and drugs and rock and roll", the search engine will direct sad people here so that we can relieve them of their hard earned money on the flimsiest of pretexts? Oops! I think the words escaped my fingerlips.

We're talking to a very small number of people here. Are we wasting our time?

*finishes setting up his drum set, but before he breaks into some amazingly technical and tough funk beats, he stops to answer Mund's inquiry*

I think that if you lure them in with giant subject headings entitled, "The Orgy Closet," or any other obscenly erotic title, they may come, but they will not stay.

Maybe if we invited our friends (as you invited MoG), things might pick up...?

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