Tag Archives: Marvin

Robo-mill.

2000 Years to Christmas

Yes, I know the clothes washer is running. I was trying not to speak too loudly, but it appears to have overheard what I was saying earlier. This is a fine kettle of soup. Wait … what’s happening in the kitchen?

Arrgh. Hi, out there in web land. Hope all is well with you. Over here in Big Green – land (not to be confused with big Greenland, the island), the year is getting off to a rocky start. Nothing too surprising in our world. It gets a bit annoying having to tip toe around this place, but we have to be more careful than usual, now that Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, has finally delivered the big-ass Christmas present he warned us about late last year. We all thought he was just winding us up, but there actually was a rabbit in the hat, as it turns out, and well …. now it’s out.

Now, I know what you’re all thinking: “Joe, Joe! What did Mitch get you? What’s the present? Tell us NOW!” Just calm down children, and I’ll tell you. You’ve heard of the Internet of Things (IoT)? How about smart home technology? Well, if you haven’t, good for you … that means you’ve managed to avoid listening to National Public Radio for the last five years. Interactive houses are all around us these days, and while they are the product of other people’s inventive imaginations, that fact doesn’t preclude the possibility that someone else might re-invent that stuff for his or her own nefarious purposes. What I’m trying to tell you is, Mitch gave us a Smart Mill for Christmas this year. Yes … he wired up the Abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill so that it responds to our every command. Isn’t that something?

Well, yes, it is something. But nothing good, I assure you. For one thing, Mitch has everything set so that it hears every word you say and takes each one as some kind of command. It kind of works like this: Instead of saying some corporate-determined name like “Alexa!” or “Gladys!”, you trigger the “Smart Mill” by saying, “Cheney Hammer Mill!” And just saying “Cheney” won’t work – that will get you a hologram of the former Vice President. And trust me … nobody wants that.

Actually, we’ve had to curtail our euphemisms to a ridiculous degree … one time this week, Anti-Lincoln misplaced his keys and shouted, “Give me a break!” in frustration. Suddenly, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) came wheeling in like an automaton possessed and attempted to break the antimatter emancipator’s right arm. Fortunately Marvin lacks the strength to do such a thing, but still … he could just as easily been a competent robot, compelled to violence via wi-fi by a malevolent electronic brain hidden in the bowels of the Hammer Mill. And then there’s the song lyrics. Damn!

Suffice to say that we are not enjoying the mad science version of IoT, It’s a lot like the mad science version of everything else, frankly. The only upside I can see is that it can do mundane stuff like this: “Cheney Hammer Mill: Publish this blog post!” Zing!

Unresolved.

2000 Years to Christmas

I had that piece of paper five minutes ago. Did you see it? Okay … was that before or after you started the fire in the fireplace? Before … I see.

Well, I HAD a list of New Year’s resolutions all set to share with you, but apparently they have gone up in smoke. Sometimes when I ask Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to do something, he gets it done via the path of least resistance. Start a fire, I might say, and if he’s holding a piece of paper, whether it’s some scrap from the day before or the original Declaration of Independence, that becomes the means of ignition. (As an aside, if you’re wondering what happened to the original Declaration of Independence, well … ask Marvin.)

Hmmm … let’s see if I can repeat them from memory. Here goes.

Resolution #1: No disputes with our crazy neighbors.
Hey, look … I know they’re annoying and randomly cruel, but they live upstairs and they’re not going anywhere. The least we can do is make an effort to be more tolerant. We can start by overlooking little slights … like when they try out their new fracking rig by drilling a hole in our ceiling and injecting toxic fluid into our living room.

Resolution #2: Finish what you started, fucker.
Yeah, we need this one. After all, we still have a fresh Ned Trek episode under construction, to say nothing of our anticipated fourth album, still in the planning stages. It’s easy enough to get the ball rolling downhill. But when it comes to … uh … okay, that’s a really lousy metaphor for what I’m trying to express. We drop the ball, that’s the rub. Gotta stop that thing.

It's a metaphor, okay? Jesus ... just let it go.

Resolution #3: Don’t. Just don’t.
Well, we weren’t going to. Not sure where you got the notion that we ever would. We’re not that kind of band, okay. So don’t even think about it.

Resolution #4: Tour more.
Okay, this is a controversial one. Not everyone wants to pile into a ramshackle interstellar vehicle and prattle off to another galaxy just to entertain shapeless blob-like creatures that have never even heard of us. You really have to love that sort of thing to do it for a living, you know? So we’re putting it out there – book away, Anti-Lincoln, and let’s see who’s serious about making some deep space magic.

Resolution #5: Keep your dumb-ass blog posts short
As much sense as this makes, I’m afraid we’ve violated it merely by penning this post. What can I say? Half of our new year’s resolutions are straw men anyhow. We can just knock this one down on our way to fulfilling the more important ones.

Resolution #6: Build more straw men
Okay, now you’re just fucking with me. I only have one answer to this, and that’s … fulfill resolution #5.

Twelve days of it.

2000 Years to Christmas

On the first day of something my something gave to me … something, something, something, blah, blah blah blah blah, five golden … things!

Arrgh. Leave us face it. For a band that began its recording career with what was ostensibly a Christmas album, we are terrible at remembering even the most oft-repeated holiday songs. Someone – I think it was Marvin (my personal robot assistant) – once suggested caroling around the neighborhood on Christmas eve, hoping for some charitable cast-offs and crusts of festive breads, but when you glom over too many lyrics, you lose credibility as a caroler and instead of handing foodstuffs to you, your audiences tend to throw them at you with some force. Personally, when it comes to seasonal pastimes, I prefer the ones that don’t involve serious festive injuries and having steaming vats of hot holiday cheer poured on us from second-story windows. Call me Scrooge.

We don’t have any really strong holiday traditions. Probably the most enduring one is our annual Christmas week sequestration, imposed on us by the local DPW, which views the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill as a handy place to dump tons of snow they’ve removed from more affluent and generously populated quarters. Sure, we can’t emerge from the mill for a stretch of days, but that gives us a reason to be innovative in our festive celebrations. It’s not about how many gifts you buy, or how much food you throw in the garbage disposal …. no no, Christmas is about the little things. Really little things, like nano particles. You see, when we’re snowed in over the holidays, our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee takes it upon himself to show us slide presentations of particles he has utilized in his more depraved experiments. A four-hour powerpoint on sub atomic particles – now that’s the kind of Christmas I’m talking about.

Dull.

Speaking of Christmas, as I mentioned before, we are marking the 20th anniversary of our first album, 2000 Years To Christmas, this season. And when I say we’re “marking” it, I don’t mean urinating on it …. far from it! While 2000 Years To Christmas is not generally available in stores, there are umpteen different ways to hear it, download it, and even get your hands on the disc. If you want to know more, just visit our special Anniversary Page for details.

Otherwise, we’ll be posting a few things over the holidays, as always. Maybe not all twelve days … just the ones we know the lyrics to.

T’is the seizin’.

2000 Years To Christmas

No, you’re not on my list, and for one very good reason: I don’t have a freaking list. I can see about getting you on Anti-Lincoln’s list, but I don’t think that’s the kind of list you want to be included on, if you know what I mean. A word to the wise.

Yes, I’m afraid it’s that time of year again, friends. And once again I have to explain to Marvin (my personal robot assistant) how the world of humans works. You’d think after twenty years he would have some of this stuff encoded into his memory banks, but no … every holiday season it’s human nature 101 and elements of capitalism. What the hell am I, anyway, a freaking community college for robots? Hey …. not a bad idea, really. We’ve got the space, and at least a couple of spare power strips they can plug into. We could call it Robotech, order some jerseys and pennants and …. WHAT AM I SAYING?

Christmas is always confusing, right? For one thing, it’s a consumer frenzy, at least for half of the population. For the rest of us, it’s mostly about blocking our ears when we go to the grocery store so that we don’t hear the holiday loop, playing over and over … something we of Big Green find particularly irritating, as they almost never include any selections from 2000 Years To Christmas, our now-classic holiday album, only this year celebrating its 20th anniversary. And while millions are charging their way into credit oblivion, we remain cloistered in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, crazy neighbors right upstairs, and the bailiffs at the door. “The law is an ass,” I keep shouting at them, and they just keep pounding.

Are they still pounding on the door? Sounds like it.

Well, you know what they say about the law. First comes the pounding, then comes the impounding. And while I’m explaining capitalism to Marvin for the nineteenth time, I may as well share this small lesson with you, namely the part about what happens when you pay neither rent nor property taxes for years on end. As dyed in the wool collectivists, we are merely seeking shelter where shelter is available (such as it is), but that carries little weight with the local constabulary, whose minions are apparently under orders to evict us in time for the Christmas pageant. They want to see us shivering in our second-hand galoshes on the side of the road as the yuletide procession trudges past the hammer mill entrance. How festive these men in blue can be!

Right, well … in any case, if you want to help with our legal defense fund, celebrate this Christmas with a 20th anniversary edition of 2000 Years To Christmas, available now from us or from online streaming/download services. We’ve got a few signed copies, so if you want one, let me know. Just don’t tell the bailiff … he’ll want one, too.

Thankfulness.

I made a list of important things to include on the blog post. Now where did I leave it? What’s that? I used the back of it for a grocery list then threw it away? Right, well … they weren’t THAT important.

As is apropos of the season, here at Big Green, there is a lot to be thankful for. Sure, we may seem like just another cynical rock band, iconoclasts, always questioning authority, taking the road not taken, bending pretzels the wrong way, riding bicycles with square wheels, etc. But that doesn’t mean we’re ungrateful. Hell no!

I’m thankful for the roof over our heads. At least the parts that don’t let the rain in. After all, we spent a good portion of the year in the potting shed, so being back in our own squat feels like a million bucks, even if it leaks from time to time.

I’m thankful for having a personal robot assistant. Hey, not everyone can say that, right? Not only do I have the full and (somewhat) able assistance of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), I also enjoy the benefits of having his inventor Mitch Macaphee close at hand as our resident mad science advisor. So if Marvin needs an oil change, new air filter, set of tires, software upgrade, etc., the shop is right downstairs. It’s that easy!

I’m thankful, also, that I finally got the next episode of Ned Trek edited and sent over to Matt for finishing. Freaking took me weeks, people. This one is a musical, too, so not only can you look forward to a completely ridiculous mashup of classic Star Trek, contemporary conservative politics, and Mr. Ed, but you’ll get no less than eight new Big Green songs, all for the low, low price of absolutely nothing. And instant delivery, on demand. Beat that, Jeff Bezos!

2000 Years To Christmas

Speaking of billionaire dreams, it’s that time of year again … and this time around, we mark the 20th anniversary of the release of our first album, 2000 Years To Christmas. It makes for a great stocking stuffer, though I don’t recommend wearing any stockings stuffed with this CD, unless you want a one-way ticket to the podiatrist. You can get a copy, digital or disc, from some random slave of Jeff Bezos, play it on your favorite streaming services, or get it direct from the Big Green collective – just use the payment methods described on our music page, or email us for alternative arrangements. We will be giving away free discs to random people who ask for one, so don’t be shy …. talk to us.

Coverland.

Where’s my great American songbook? I know I left it around here somewhere. What’s that you say, Marvin (my personal robot assistant)? There’s no such thing? That’s just a metaphor for everything written before nineteen sixty? Okay, gotcha.

Look at me, for chrissake. I’m turning the Hammer Mill upside down looking for something that doesn’t even exist outside of our tiny little minds. No, there is no Great American Songbook per se, though I have had “fake” books over the years – the Boston book, the Real book, the Real book with lyrics, etc., all illegal as hell. Strange thing to be declared contraband, but you had to have them …. even if you just played in a contraband. (A band that plays everything backwards, that is.) Seriously, fake books were an essential survival tool in the world of itinerant musicians.

You may well ask why I would need a compendium of old songs. And well you may. Keep asking – eventually I’ll find an answer. Yes, well … as you know, times being what they are, we need to, as the corporatists are fond of saying, diversify our revenue stream. That means selling nuts on the street corner (Marvin’s job), bilking the local vicar (Anti-Lincoln’s job), blackmailing the neighbors with anti-gravity rays (Mitch Macaphee’s job), and plunking out cover songs in the local coffeehouse / bar (ulp … my job). And like filling in for the local retail clerk, none of us are any good at our new jobs. (Particularly Marvin … he keeps over-roasting the filberts in his toaster oven.)

You guys know anything from the Real Book? No?

Not that I’m entirely new to the work. Long-time listeners of Big Green will be surprised to learn that we have, in fact, played covers in front of yawning audiences. I even have video demo tape of covers we did back in the early 1990s which I may even be imprudent enough to post someday (with some encouragement). We used to cover all sorts – Talking Heads, Jimi Hendrix, David Bowie, The Band, Neil Young, Taj Mahal, fuck all, you name it. What I’m doing now is more like what I did when I was 19 or 20 – folk-pop music from the 60s and 70s, which was, frankly, contemporary music when I was 19 or 20. Hard for me to believe that anyone wants to hear those songs again, but I don’t know …. maybe it’s been long enough. And I need some freaking coin in my hat, dude.

So start busking, right? Where’s my “Real Book”? I mean … someone else‘s Real Book.

Staying afloat.

Where did I put that bucket? Is that mine you’re using? Well, give it back, damn it. Go find another one to carry your golf balls around in. Jesus H. Christmas.

Yes, greetings from the one-man bucket brigade here at the abandoned and partially submerged Cheney Hammer Mill. Perhaps you heard about all the flooding we got here in upstate New York after that Halloween storm? Well, the old water kept on rising in our neck of the woods, and it ain’t pretty. Trouble is, back when they built these old mills, they located them close to the water for a variety of reasons. Practical, yes …. back then. Now it’s a positive nuisance! The canal behind the Hammer Mill sloshed over in the first 24 hours, and we’ve been flapping around in scuba flippers ever since.

Why am I bailing this place out alone? Because everyone else, well … bailed, frankly. Can’t blame them – this sucks. They’re all off to higher ground, except for Marvin (my personal robot assistant) who has been scouring the neighborhood for discarded golf balls this past week. He’s somehow gotten into his brass skull that they have some intrinsic value. Anyway, he’s pretty much useless with respect to the flood waters. So is our resident mad scientist Mitch Macaphee, who traipsed off to Madagascar as soon as the going got a bit rough. I ask you …. what’s the use of having a mad scientist if the son of a bitch can’t control the goddamn weather? Am I right?

A bit damp for my taste. What about you?

Okay, so … the saving grace of this mill is that it’s shot full of holes by our crazy upstairs neighbors, so a lot of the water is just leaking out through the bullet holes. (And no, they’re not helping me with the flood waters. They’ve trundled off to crazytown for the weekend to see some relatives.) I’m helping it a bit with this bucket … literally the one bucket we have in the joint. Aside from the bucket we use to carry a tune around in. That’s a joke, son. You’re supposed to laugh at this juncture. Or perhaps not.

Anyhow, when the water level gets low enough in the studio, we can start working on those mixes again. Water and music don’t mix, in my experience. Aside from Yellow Submarine, Octopus’s Garden, and that Jimi Hendrix song from Electric Ladyland …. a merman I would be, or something. Help me out here. Grab a bucket, for crying out loud.

Scare tactics.

What are you talking about? I was very careful in my deliberations about this get up. If someone’s feathers get ruffled, well … it’s not on me, man. Folks got to just calm down.

Yeah, it’s Halloween again, everyone. Kind of a big holiday around these parts. Why, I’ve known these quiet suburban moms and dads to take their kids out in gale force winds, forcing them against the elements to have a good time, damn it.  That’s how memories are made, my friends. Here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, we try to make this old barn of a place seem inviting. We can’t afford pumpkins or corn stalks, of course, so we just slip the mansized tuber a fiver and ask him to stand by the front door with a citronella torch. He looks, uh, kind of autumnal … if you squint.

Now, I’m not a big one for dress-up, as you know. Never liked it, never. That said, I did put on some old jeans and borrowed one of those blue denim shirts, then combed my hair forward and put on a fake beard so that I would look like George Harrison on the cover of Abbey Road. Set aside the gray hair, it almost works. Anti-Lincoln, however, accuses me of being culturally insensitive. I keep telling him, none of our neighbors are from the north of England. Who will care?

You know, you could pass for Lincooln.

Hah. Anti-Lincoln should talk. HE chose to dress in a seasonally inappropriate costume. Whoever heard of going out on Halloween dressed as Santa Claus? You can’t muddle the major hyper consumer holidays in that way. You’ll make people’s heads explode! Then they’ll expect presents from you. I told him he should go as Lincoln, but he didn’t want to offend our crazy upstairs neighbors, who I believe are from south of the Mason Dixon line somewhere.  No one thinks much of my suggestions on this topic, and with good reason.

Look at Marvin (my personal robot assistant). He’s going as a hot water heater again this year.  No matter what I say, that’s what he’s dong, even when those people up the street mistook him for an actual hot water tank and installed him in their basement next to the furnace. (It took weeks to get the smell of natural gas out of him.)

Try to help and what happens – am I right?

No quarter.

I don’t remember this room being this cramped. For crying out loud, what did they do to this place? Where’s my plastic furniture? I was weeks collecting that bedroom set!

Oh well … there’s bound to be a few glitches in any complex negotiation. The important thing is, we’re back, baby! We’ve won the right to squat in our beloved Cheney Hammer Mill once again. And when I say “beloved”, well … that’s a relative term. Next to the potting shed we’ve been crammed into all summer, the mill is a veritable palace. Sure, we have to share it with lunatics, but even that’s not unprecedented. (Just take a look through our back pages and you’ll see what I’m talking about.)

All that said, there are a few restrictions on what we’re going to be able to do as residents of the mill from here on out. Maybe it was a mistake to deputize Anti-Lincoln as our chief negotiator with the crazy upstairs neighbors. Our main thought was that he was, after all, an old country lawyer … or the antimatter equivalent of one. It’s that second element we didn’t fully consider. Antimatter country lawyer means the opposite of country lawyer … so, I don’t know … city outlaw? In any case, Anti-Lincoln didn’t come away with the better part of THAT deal.

So this is what we have to deal with:

No Tap Dancing. Okay, this shouldn’t be a problem for anyone except Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has brass feet and sounds like he’s tap dancing when he’s just walking across the floor.

No Cops. Again, not a problem for most of us … in fact, a positive benefit for some … like Anti-Lincoln, who is (as mentioned earlier) an outlaw.

Nah, none of that, Marvin., thanks to old honest Abe, here.

No Boiled Asparagus. This is getting up my nose a bit. Unfortunately, when I complained about it, our nasty neighbors stuffed raw asparagus up my nose.

Mandatory Clapping for Fireworks. I think I may have mentioned that our upstairs neighbors love a nice fireworks display. Apparently they want to spread the love around a little. And when I say “spread”, what I really mean is enforce through the power of contract law.

No Loose Coins. I can’t figure this one out at all. They prefer that we use paper money. What the hell am I going to do with that barrel full of quarters I’ve been filling since third grade? That’s my retirement, people!

Those are the highlights. There’s more, but I’ll save it until I locate my plastic side table. Thieves!

Weather or knot.

Hmmmm. That looks like light coming in. Not necessarily a bad thing, except that’s a wall, not a window. So, I don’t know… somewhat problematic.

Okay, it turns out that a potting shed is not the best place to hide during a hurricane or other extreme weather event. Who knew? Seemed sturdy enough when we moved in. I know you’re used to hearing us complain about nearly everything, but we had very few complaints about the shed, aside from the fact that there was no screen for the fireplace. Our landlord’s response? “Run for your lives! The potting shed doesn’t HAVE a fireplace!”

Yesterday the wind started kicking up and water came pouring down from the heavens like one of those super soaker shower heads. (Actually the shower head is like the rain, but never mind.) Then the entire structure started to sway lazily in the wind. Far from keeping the weather out, the shed was practically inviting it in, and frankly, this shed isn’t big enough for me and some screaming ‘nado. Well, there was some noise, and Marvin (my personal robot assistant) sounded the alarm klaxon (really just a digital recording he plays back on such occasions). The shed lifted up and came down like a tossed coin, rolling around on its edges as it came to a clumsy stop.

Cheese and crackers!

Naturally, we broke out our foul weather gear, which looks pretty much like our fair weather gear, except that we keep it in a different cardboard box. I do have one Gorton’s Fisherman style hat that allows me to cross the courtyard on occasion and pound on the hammer mill door in hopes that our nasty neighbors will grow a compassion bone and decide to let us back in.  No luck yet, but what the hell. I’ll tell you, this puts a real damper on rehearsals. There aren’t a lot of genuinely waterproof instruments in the kind of music we play, so our songs start to sound a bit waterlogged by the end of the first half-hour.

I don’t know … how long does it take a sousaphone to rust? Depends on the brand, I’m guessing. Got an umbrella …. anyone?