Evicted… again.

First there was day of the triffiids. Then there was night of the living dead. Now there’s week of the homeless virtual rock band. And what do they all have in common? Space people. Mother-fucking space people.

Hello again from sleepy upstate New York (formerly known as Sri Lanka). Last week as you recall, your friends in Big Green had made the fearful discovery that our local city hall was under foreign occupation. No, it hadn’t been overrun by stormtroopers from a distant power – this was a far more congenial takeover. Space people, armed with sacks of cash and buckets of Miracle Grow bribed their way into the building and have taken the place of our entire city council. This could be a problem, folks. Got a tax dispute? Tell it to the space man. Need the street sweepers to do a once-over on your block? Better learn to speak Betelgeusean real quick. (And take it from me – it is not an easy language to learn. No vowels. Nada.) Someone set your house on fire? Contact the mother ship… pronto. (Little bit of extra response time, you understand.)

I suppose you’re wondering how in the world our elected officials could possibly have been coaxed away from their posts by large amounts of cash… how proffered piles of filthy lucre could convince them to abandon their constituents to other worlders… how the promise of permanent paid vacation could somehow outweigh their dedication to public service. Well, stop it. Of course they took the money and ran – that’s their job. Damnit, if our public officials weren’t corruptible, we would never have been able to remain in our adopted squat house for lo these many years. Our corporate label – Loathsome Prick Records – understood this very well. It’s thanks to them, in part, that we were able to keep Marvin (my personal robot assistant) under our leaky roof. Apparently there’s a local ordinance against harboring mechanical men. (You’d be surprised what kinds of Byzantine laws lurk in the dusty volumes stacked down at your local codes department.) Nothing a little palm grease couldn’t finesse.

No more. See, this is where our problem lies. Not only are these space people total-ass lawn freaks, they’re also straight as the proverbial arrow. Incorruptible, at least by any terrestrial standard of graft. And now that they have taken over our local government, they appear determined to follow the letter of every law on the books, dating back to… well… the civil war, perhaps. Not a good thing at all. Just the other morning, there was a loud knock on the door. It was some of Marvin’s old colleagues from the local constabulary, only they weren’t collecting quarters for the annual charity cotillion. They were putting us out on the street, in effect – a 10-day eviction notice, signed by someone named Gizmadiyar (apparently the acting mayor… and between you and me, I don’t think he’s acting). Even Marvin’s timely intervention seemed to have no effect – the constables seemed quite happy in their work…. almost… TOO… happy….

Now, those of you who’ve been reading this blog for the last seven years know. We of Big Green have seen the elephant and heard the owl… or is it heard the elephant and seen the owl…? (Can you herd elephants?) Either way, we’ve been through far too much in our time to allow ourselves to be made homeless by some interstellar freak named Gizmandiar. Not to worry… though if you do happen to send a package our way, be sure to address it: