Tag Archives: Cheney Hammer Mill

Usual Rubbish

Letters home.

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Haven’t you finished that symphony yet? Well, get going. You’ve got a piano concerto to write as well. Don’t hurry or anything …. it’s due to the publisher on Friday. That’s today.

Man, some of these deadlines are hard to meet, particularly when you’re living in a crowded, leaky potting shed in the courtyard of your former sqauthouse, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. We’re just trying to keep the ship afloat here, folks, and to do so we cannot limit ourselves to any single genre of music. That’s why I have Marvin (my personal robot assistant) composing music for hire. This week he’s working on modern classical music … long hair stuff. Marvin knows what that’s all about. I plugged a Classical Gas album into his tape drive.

With all the disruption, you’d think our mail wouldn’t find us, but never underestimate the power of mail carriers to find their target. They dropped us a parcel of letters, postcards, and newsletters as thick as your ass. And as I was sorting through this bounty, I found a missive from one of our closest neighbors. In fact, it was from the very people who kicked us out of our beloved hammer mill. At first I was reluctant to open the letter, as I thought it might be booby trapped with gelled explosives or one of those greeting card sound chips playing Yakety Sax. (I think I might slightly prefer the explosives.)

Is that for me? Holy cats.

What did the letter say? Aw, not much. They asked if we were liking the potting shed as much as they liked sending us there. I thought that was sweet. They also invited us to share favorite recipes that include ingredients we left behind in the hammer mill kitchen. I’m sending them a dog-eared copy of the Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee.  It’s got some of my favorites in it. Now, I know you’re probably thinking I’m being too indulgent with our belligerent hammer mill usurpers, but never fear. The Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee doesn’t really exist, and neither does Gilbert Humvee. It’s just our way of being neighborly.

I can’t wait to write back to Otis, Marjory, and Kirsten. (Those are the new squatters). I feel I could call them by name now when they kick me out. There’s a lot of love here!

Usual Rubbish

Banjo doorstop.

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I feel a draft. Don’t you feel a draft, Marvin (my personal robot assistant)? Oh, right. I forget you’re made of brass and polystyrene. What about you, mansized tuber? Oh, right. You’re a plant. Guess it’s just a “me” thing.

Well, we knew it would be difficult to spend nights out in the courtyard of the Cheney Hammer Mill, our erstwhile squat house. Not that that place was insulated and tight as a drum. Quite the contrary. But at least there were places deep inside the mill where you couldn’t see sunlight. Can’t say the same for this potting shed. It’s got more holes than a North Dakota oil field. And it’s twice as greasy. When the wind blows, it whistles. (Or maybe Anti-Lincoln whistles … not sure.)

Yes, we’ve had to make do in a lot of ways since moving out of the dump into this wreck of a shack, driven from our home by some drunken upstairs neighbors who hate our freedoms. (Like the freedom to live undisturbed in a hammer mill … one of our most CHERISHED freedoms.) Refrigeration is a bit of an issue, for instance. We thought about using a styrofoam cooler packed with ice, but we didn’t have any ice and …. well … we didn’t have a cooler, so we just put the perishables in the middle of the floor and waved fans at them. Turns out there’s a reason why they call them perishables. Who knew?

Hey, Abe! We found a use for that thing!

About the only customized feature on this shack is a spring-loaded door that slams closed every time you pass through it. It’s a bit problematic when it comes to carrying gear in and out, so we quickly decided to prop it open with something handy. And since the only personal belongings we’ve been able to retrieve from the mill are musical instruments, we had to decide which instrument was  expendable enough to be used as a doorstop. My vote was for the accordion, but the front-runners were banjo and bagpipes. Banjo won the final run-off, much to the chagrin of Anti-Lincoln, who has been known to pluck the gut bucket from time to time.

Just as well. If we’d used either the accordion or the bagpipes, every time we closed the door, either one would make its signature sound. Sure, you’d know when somebody enters the place … but then you know anyway, because it’s a POTTING SHED, for crying out loud.

Usual Rubbish

Woodshedding.

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Ah, this is the way to do it. Just unpack your axe, shut the ramshackle wooden door with a little loop of string, and get down to it. No distractions, no inconvenient intrusions on your privacy … no interruptions, like those times when you take nutrition in some form. Nothing like that.

Hi, folks. Yep, we’re woodshedding. Not the kind you’re thinking about, you musician types. No, we’re actually just living in a wooden shed – specifically, the garden shed in the courtyard of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our erstwhile squat house in upstate New York, a region known for bands making do with very little and making it big on something small. Bands like The Band, Rusted Root, uh …. and others. We’re sort of following in the tradition of clubhouse recording … not out of choice, you understand, but out of necessity. This place is barely big enough to be considered a club house. And frankly, I’m not sure what club would want us as members at this point.

Our hammer mill has been taken over by belligerent squatters – not the nice kind, like us – so we’ve retired to the garden shed where the mansized tuber keeps his watering can and fertilizer. He’s a little put out, I should mention. After all, he’s had the place to himself for about nine years, and all of a sudden five disheveled refugees crowd into his space, knocking things over and generally putting his life into disarray. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has graciously agreed to stay outside of the shed, where he’s doing service as a scarecrow. (Not real good at it. The crows laugh at him … or at least it sounds like they do.)

Go hang out with Tubey, Marvin.

If Anti Lincoln pushes over a bit, I have just about enough room to set up my throwaway electric piano. In return, though, he insists that I only play songs that remind Lincoln of the war. It’s all about give and take in this place – everybody looks out for everyone else. Everyone except Mitch Macaphee, who looks like he’s ready to go to one of his mad scientist conferences in Madagascar or Belize or someplace less well-known. I’m expecting an ultimatum any day now – either let him have his basement lab back or it’s off to hyper-scientific crazytown. Who can blame him? (Another week in this woodshed, and I might just tag along with him.)

Usual Rubbish

Backyardvarks.

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Did you bring a blanket? No? Nah, neither did I. Never think of these things when you’re in a hurry. Fortunately, it’s the middle of the summer, and it’s freaking eighty degrees. So … eff the blanket.

Yeah, I’m sure you expected this. We met our ornery neighbors upstairs in virtual battle – a war of words, let’s say – and they prevailed … because they’re just bone mean. So we have been temporarily expelled from our beloved abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill and have taken up provisional residence in the mill’s backyard. Humiliating, yes, but it’s not the worst kind of humiliation we’ve had to endure. Nothing near as bad as what we experienced on Neptune some years back, nor the depredations of Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm, Inc., our erstwhile corporate record label. Still … not good.

Hey, we’re pushovers – what can I tell you? When neighbors say jump, we jump. When they say run, we jump, mostly because we’re not real good at running. Our encounter with the obnoxious bunch on the third floor did not come to blows, thankfully, but it was contentious enough to convince us that we should spend a few nights in the courtyard with the mansized tuber. If you’re wondering why we didn’t set Marvin (my personal robot assistant) after them, the answer is simple … he’s just too simple to be effective in a situation like that. Though his claws should be registered with the local police department as near-lethal weapons. When he clacks those suckers together, you could literally laugh yourself to death.

Hey, Tubey ... is there room for a few more in that shed?

This could be worse, of course. We can pitch a tent or two, start a little fire, maybe play the banjo. We can roast marshmallows over the flames and toss them, molten, at our enemies. Our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee can whip up some kind of force field that will keep us safe from predators and bailiffs. (Anti-Lincoln claims he’s being followed by a bail bondsman, but I think he’s forgetting that the 1860s ended more than a century ago.) I’m actually surprised at how easily Mitch is taking this eviction. Typically, he goes ballistic on people long before any dispute ever reaches this level of action. (Not sure, but I suspect he may be taking something to calm his nerves. High strung, these mad scientists.)

For the time being, if you want to reach us, use the comment form on the blog or send your notes to: Big Green, Behind the Potting Shed, Central Courtyard, Abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, Little Falls, NY. (Or just address it Joe / Potting Shed – I’ll get it.)

Usual Rubbish

Riot Act.

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Okay, listen up in there! By order of the local constabulary, you’ve got FIVE minutes to vacate the premises. FIVE minutes before we come in through the front door. You can bring your personal belongings. And I know you have to pack, so … if you take a little longer than FIVE minutes, that’s … uh …. okay.

Oh, shit – I’m no good at this, am I? Far too conciliatory. And I even forgot to turn the damn bullhorn on, so those shifty no-good upstairs neighbors probably didn’t even hear me.  Damn it, I asked Mitch Macaphee for some device that might shift these objectionable squatters from their perch on the third floor of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. I was picturing some kind of rocket or drone-like device, tipped with high explosives. Then he handed me a bullhorn, a used one at that, with some semi-embarrassing decal stuck on the side of it. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) thinks they’re Grateful Dead-style dancing bears, but I think they’re just dumb-ass cartoon bears. (Maybe those two things are the same thing.)

Okay, listen up in there!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. The Cheney Hammer Mill is a great barn of a place, right? Why the hell can’t you people share a squathouse that expansive? Well …. for one thing, if it were that expansive, we couldn’t afford to live here. (I’m hearing your thoughts, not reading them, so a little misinterpretation is to be expected.) For another thing, our upstairs boarders are crazy as loons. I told you about the fire works. Then there’s the craft show they hold every weekend, setting up potters wheels in the courtyard and inviting all and sundry to come and try their hand at slip-molding. And if that wasn’t bad enough, one of them is taking up scrimshaw.

I’m sure you always thought Big Green was a kind and understanding band, not given to unreasonable outbursts. Well, I like to think that that’s still the case. But after weeks of fireworks displays, barbecues, and craft shows, and with the promise of whale’s teeth being delivered in bulk, we have reached the end of our patience. It’s time to man the barricades and call these suckers out! And if they ignore us, well … maybe I’ll consider turning the megaphone on for a change.

Usual Rubbish

Fire works.

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Jesus. You can READ by it, for crying out loud. When the hell are they going to run out of bottle rockets? Where the hell are the cops? Oh, right … we’re off the books. Never mind.

Another late night here at the previously abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, our adopted squathouse of longstanding and that of a pack of crazy people with a fondness for pyrotechnic displays. Our upstairs neighbors appear to be celebrating some obscure personal holiday this week, marking the occasion with obscene displays of fireworks over the mill every night and raucous drinking, dancing, fist-fights, etc., in the afternoons. At least they’re quiet for a few hours in the morning, when they are apparently sleeping off the previous night’s bender, but that’s short-lived.  And here we are again, at 2 in the morning, blinded by the rockets’ red glare, deafened by bombs bursting in air. (And strangely, the flag was still there … their family flag, with some strange runic symbols on it. Very creepy.)

Actually, our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee has a plan to oust the new squatters. He’s starting to get annoyed, and that’s never a good thing with Mitch. We’ve been asking him to formulate something … anything that might, I don’t know, calm them down or something, make them civilized. For weeks, he kept giving us the same old bromide about it being far easier for us as civilized men to behave like savages than it was for them as savages to behave like civilized men.  (Mitch gets philosophical at times, but only to the extent that it may be expressed in terms of Star Trek dialogue.) Then they dropped a cherry bomb into his bedroom, and sophistry was out the window.

Yeah, great, Mitch. Just watch the trophy case.

I think it’s fair to point out at this juncture that Mitch has a lot of tricks up his sleeve. Granted, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was one of those tricks, and as such, is not terribly impressive by automaton standards. Still, this is a guy who can make whole continents disappear. Not real good at making them come back again, but then half a loaf is better than no bread at all. We are encouraging him not to go too, too far. Most of what he’s suggested thus far is fire-related: atomic flame throwers, combustible gases, etc. He has taken up residence on the second floor, in the room right under their master bedroom, so …. if there are any vacancies at the mill in the next week or so, we’ll let you know.

Usual Rubbish

Latchkey musicians.

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I thought the light was on your side of the stable. Jesus … just reach over and click it on, will you? What? No electricity? I paid the light bill, damn it. Oh … I see. No wiring in the barn. Got it.

Well, friends, you know what they say – if you’re planning on spending years in a squathouse, it’s a good idea to spend the night there before you sign the paperwork. (Yes, even squathouses require paperwork. Look it up.) That’s what we elected to do, since our nasty third-floor neighbors in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill started driving us out of our longtime squat with their loathsome habits and noisy weekending. It’s not easy to contemplate giving up the home you’ve known for nigh onto twenty years. But if nothing else, we of Big Green are practical. That’s why we only tour venues that are deep in interstellar space – it keeps the competition down.

Anyway, we got a tip on an old horse barn a couple of minutes from the hammer mill; apparently no one has used the building for a decade or more. We trooped over there, on foot, and bunked down for the night. Now, when I say “bunked”, I don’t mean to suggest that there were actual bunks in this place. It was kind of like a stationary hay ride … not that I’ve ever been on a hay ride, but I’m guessing it’s a slightly more kinetic version of what we experienced last night. Am I making myself clear?

Is it morning yet? Mother of pearl ...

Then, about 5 a.m., some dude came in and mistook Marvin (my personal robot assistant) for some kind of agricultural implement. I think he was digging post holes or something else kind of farmer-y. That’s when we pulled up stakes.

Okay, so the red barn isn’t going to work out. It was worth a go. We’ll just tough it out on the ground floor and basement of the Cheney Hammer Mill for the time being, checking the classifieds and the local Pennysaver for affordable rentals, then X-ing them out because we can’t afford rent. Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, is working on some kind of force field to throw up between us and our feisty neighbors upstairs. (I told him there’s at least two floors between us and them already, but hey … he needs something to do.)

Usual Rubbish

House hunting.

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No, man – that’s just not acceptable. We have a budget, remember? A very tight budget. We just can’t afford something that ostentatious. Perhaps a step or two down from that, like … like maybe a pole barn. Or a shed.

Oh, hi. Yeah, you’ve caught us in the midst of the sort of dilemma all bands face at some point in their careers – finding another place to live because the squat-house you’ve been occupying for twenty years has been taken over by ne’er-do-wells. Don’t you just HATE when that happens? It’s kind of what we went through back in the late nineties, when we were evicted from our beloved lean-to in Sri Lanka. Oh, the memories. Sad was the day when that thing collapsed. (As a famous cartoonist once put it, it leaned fro. Or perhaps closer to the mark, it leaned-too much.)

So, once again, we are in search of lodgings. Our upstairs neighbors are simply insufferable. And honestly – we’re not super picky people. We didn’t get our hair in knots over the odd explosion here and there, or the noisy parties, or the constant arrivals and departures at all hours. Then there were the inhuman things they did to Marvin (my personal robot assistant), dressing him up like a farm hand and dropping him out in the courtyard with a pitchfork in his claw. But the final straw was the music, oh the music! They have some kind of song service, and they dialed in the eighties this past week. Seriously, eighties pop radio wafting down from the third floor. I feel like I’m back in my Albany apartment circa 1982, listening to my neighbors cranking out Loverboy crap at two in the morning.

Nah. Waaay too tony for us.

Have we confronted them? Of course. And as you know, I have extensive training in conflict de-escalation, so I was among the first to ascend the stairs to the third floor and politely request a conference with the new occupants. A little later on, as the urgent care nurse was wrapping gauze around my battered forehead, it occurred to me that our approach to this problem may be a little off.  Maybe we’ve been here too long, I thought, rubbing my chin and wincing in pain. Hence the house-hunting project.

We’ve gone through the local squathouse listings, worked our way through mills and barns, and now we’re down to shacks, sheds, huts, and … well … brickyards. Yeah, I know – pretty meager, but ANYTHING’s better than listening to “Turn Me Loose” one more freaking time.

Usual Rubbish

One man’s ceiling.

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Oh, Jesus … not again. If you don’t quiet down, I’m going to call the police! What? Of course they’ll come. The cops don’t hold a grudge. And besides, I doubt they even remember that little note l left on their cruiser last year. It was a joke, for chrissake.

Ah, hello out there. Back to domestic bliss here in the formerly abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. I say “formerly” because in our absence during our Ned Trek Live Springtime Tour Extravaganza 2019, not only did snapping turtles move into our basement studio, but some even more combative creatures took up residence on the third floor of the mill. I send Marvin (my personal robot assistant) upstairs to find out what the commotion was all about, and he came back with an upside-down pitcher on his head. We then sent him back up there with a bundt cake Anti-Lincoln’s aunt Mildred made, but they weren’t having it. They threw our peace offering into the courtyard! (It made a crater on impact. Auntie Mildred should have shelled those walnuts.)

Okay, now … let’s just try to keep our heads, shall we? After all, we don’t own this mill. We just squat here, and frankly it’s selfish of us to think that we can have this place all to ourselves. Still, those folks are noisy as hell. They party on until the wee hours of the morning, pulling together drum circles and howling at the moon. At one point we though we could out-gun them with our PA equipment, but that was a joke – our main speakers are about 40 years old and sound like freaking kazoos. And those people don’t seem to mind the sound of kazoos. In fact, they might enjoy Matt’s early composition, the theme from Destination Space, played by an orchestra of kazoos (all tracked by Matt himself). Then again … perhaps not. So let’s find it and crank it up to eleven! THIS IS WAR!

Better have another word with them, Marvin.

Damn. I lost my head in the span of a single paragraph. These are trying times indeed, my friends. On days such as this I rely on the sage counsel of Antimatter Lincoln, a man  who has seen his share of hardship and sorrow, who has navigated the treacherous shoals of total warfare, who held onto his vision for a better world through the worst of times. Well … I mean, his doppleganger did, anyway. Anti-Lincoln did the opposite of all that stuff; he basically watched the Twilight Zone and ate TV dinners for a living before he met us. (That’s when he moved on to beef jerky.)

Arrrgh. There they go again! Where are my headphones?

Usual Rubbish

Lights out.

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I thought I told you to pay the bill before we left. Well, if you did, why the hell is it sitting here on the counter? Riddle me that, Batman! WHAT? Well, of course you can’t see it. The lights aren’t on …  BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T PAY THE BILL.

Man god damn, now I have to give lessons on household finance. I ask Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to do one thing, ONE THING, before we set off on our Ned Trek Live Springtime Extravaganza Tour 2019, and he screwed it up. I put the electric bill in front of him, hooked a pen into his prehensile claw, and told him to cut a check to National Grid, post haste. Nothing. And now we’ve come home from our less than triumphant interstellar tour to a dark hammer mill with a leaky roof and a family of turtles living in our studio. And no, they’re not subletting.

Yes, friends, we are back on terra firma, and none too soon. No, we didn’t get to the Small Magellanic Cloud. We kept flying towards it, hoping it would get a little bigger in our forward view screen, but no luck. Saturday came and went – that was the date of our gig – and so we chose to turn around. I asked Mitch Macaphee, our resident mad scientist, to send off some kind of automated vehicle in our stead, with a letter of apology sealed in its nosecone. Well, he sent some kind of missile out towards the Small Magellanic Cloud, but I’m not certain what it was, exactly. I guess they’ll find out in a couple of hundred thousand years. (Sometimes surprises are pleasant … and sometimes … )

In the studio? Uh ... okay.

Back here on earth, everything went to hell, as you might expect. The hammer mill is in a shambles – exactly how we left it. Aside from the lack of electricity, the air seems a little thin in here, like it’s been on a hunger strike since we left. I was hoping the mansizedtuber would have looked after the place a bit in our absence, but damn it, you can’t get good help around here, even if you grow it in a planter. Speaking of planters, we almost went nuts cooped up in that tiny flying saucer. That SOB made the lunar module seem spacious. It also made the LEM’s computer system seem sophisticated. (It wasn’t.)

I would like to be able to say that we made a pile of quatloos on this tour and that we now have the means to make this place habitable. Yes, that would be a nice thing to be able to say … I just can’t bring myself to do it.