Can’t see. Must wipe the sweat from my tormented brow. That’s it… that’s got it. Finished… my work here is through! And now for the final… OH, MAN-GODDAMN!
Hey, out there. How long has it been since you were last here? A week, already? I’ve spent practically that whole time trying to fix my A-90 keyboard controller. I suppose if you were to be charitable about it, you could describe me as technically challenged. And with help of the sort you get from Mitch Macaphee (Big Green‘s mad science advisor) and Marvin (my personal robot assistant), I feel like the proverbial one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Hell, if this is a horse race, I’m the nag hopping along on one hoof. (Hmmmm… what other colorfully rustic aphorisms can I employ here?) It’s hard enough trying to prepare for a tour under these conditions. But when you’re also dealing with the uncaring vacuum of space, it’s, well, kind of life-threatening.
Speaking of life threatening, the man-sized tuber has volunteered to cook dinner this evening. It’s not so much a new thing as the revival of an old thing, as a matter of fact. Tubey once imagined a career as a Julia Child-type television chef, cooking down-home favorites like mushroom pie and baloney sandwich casserole – you know, the kinds of dishes you grew up vomiting… I mean, relishing. (By which I mean you smothered them with relish to kill the 
highly repugnant flavors.) I suppose it goes without saying that Tubey never realized his dream-career, but isn’t that the case for most of us, eh? How many of you out there wanted to be space men or jet pilots or mountain climbers or steamship captains? (Only three? C’mon – it’s got to be more than just three of you!)
And while we’re on the subject of steamship captains (I feel a transition coming on), it’s only fair to warn you that Admiral Gonutz is now on the job, in the house, etc., as our interstellar tour coordinator. Has he ever coordinated an interstellar tour before? Well… that answer has to be no. But he has a lot of relevant experience. He has driven a boat. (Boats are kind of like spacecraft.) He has spent time on tropical islands (often mistaken by viewers of sixties television programs as alien planets). I think this experience will serve us well in the great beyond. The admiral has already plastered his walls with charts of terra incognita – though I think most of them are old maps of Patagonia, and I don’t mean the boutique.
Well, got to go. I can smell dinner already. And I’ve broken yet another A-90 key, so it’s probably time to take my chances with the stew.
Hey, there. Just starting to plan out our trip to the outer limits. No, not the sixties television show – that was a piece of broadcast entertainment, not a place you can actually go to. I mean the outer limits of the space-time continuum, already – that dark pocket of nothingness where all of the demand for Big Green performances floats in a vacuum like a cork in a bathtub. We must pursue that cork, my friends, for it beckons. The cork beckons! Behold, the cork! Death to Moby Dick! Right, well…. be that as it may. (I’ve been hanging around with anti-Lincoln a bit too much lately – he sometimes doest this extended riff on Captain Ahab and, well, he’s kind of convincing with that beard of his.) We must follow the demand, whatever cliff it may lead us off of.
Assisting us in this tiresome duty is our old friend, Rear Admiral Gonutz (ret.), formerly of the Naval Reserve. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) looked him up at our request when we realize that this was a job several magnitudes too subtle for the mind of the man-sized tuber, who has been filling in as our road manager. (He basically occupied roughly the same volume of space as a road manager might; other than that, not much.) As some of you might remember, Gonutz is not shy. He believes in aggressive touring – musical “shock and awe”, as it were, at least in terms of the itinerary. I personally think he is insisting on Jupiter because he’s fond of the club scene, but that’s just a suspicion. (I’m chock bloody full of suspicions.) Proud man.
Oh, hello, cyber-surfers. You find us in one of life’s most humble pursuits: making a substandard dinner. That’s the kind we like here at the Cheney Hammer Mill – far preferable to no dinner at all. In case you hadn’t guessed, soup is on the menu this evening, and inasmuch as we cannot afford that ultra-haut cuisine canned stuff you probably enjoy, your stalwart friends in Big Green are making it from scratch. And when I say scratch, that’s no euphemism. As I mentioned before, elbow grease is a euphemism, and one that should never be an ingredient in home made soup. Though, sadly, it is now part of ours. Another reason why it’s best not to have Marvin (my personal robot assistant) help with such tasks. (He just had his elbows re-greased, as it happens.)
Enough about dinner. What else is happening, aside from the fabrication of inedibles? Not a lot, my friends. Just keeping body and soul together, that’s the long and short of it. (We’re a little longer on the short of it, truth be told.) Started some projects, but have yet to finish any of them. We do have a song due out on a compilation CD – a fundraiser for Haiti relief – which is supposed to be out any day now. (A little late on that one.) That’s a new recording called “Only You,” one of Matt’s numbers. I’ll post a link when it finally sees the light of day. Either that or we’ll drop it into the soup and have you take a bowl home with you. Talk about rich! It’s soup you can dance to.
Whoops. Didn’t know anyone was browsing this side of the Web. Hope you’re doing well. Bit embarrassing, this, actually. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) recently got his prehensile claws on one of those super-shmeensy video cameras. He says he had to go broke to get it…. he had to go broke the department store window, that is. (Cue laugh track. I said cue it, Marvin! Do I have to do everything?) Anyhow… now Marvin has to video everything, committing our sullen, sordid lives to Quicktime day in and day out. What he’s doing with it all I can only guess. Posting it to YouTube? Burying it in a hole in the yard? Feeding it to Big Zamboola? Lawd knows.
What else has been going on? Well, a little bit of music making, one might say. There’s been some talk of a tour, it’s true – another interstellar excursion of indefinite duration and itinerary. Perhaps an inner-earth tour, though the mansized tuber may ask to be excused from that one. (As a root vegetable, he has spent more than enough of his life underground.) I have also heard mutterings about a possible performance in upstate New York, at an area music festival ’round the Mill somewheres. Can’t say more at this point. I’ll listen a little harder to see if the mutterings are generally in favor or opposed to the suggestion. Then I will amplify them with my trusty typing fingers. From their mouths to your ears – that’s my pledge. (I’m just a freaking middle man!)
If it sounds like I’ve been reduced in rank to roadie status, that’s because it’s true. Just call me Spike or Lenny – you know, one of those roadie names. I’ve considered investing in a carton of muscle shirts, but I don’t have any muscles, so… what’s the point, right? (How do I lift those heavy bass cabinets? Tendons only, my friend.) There are worse things to do for a living, only up to now I haven’t had to do any of them, so… this is rock bottom. The things we do for friends! And by “friends” I mean robot friends.
Turns out I’m the “how”. Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t be wasting my time on this shit. Only.. he’s the only robot I’ve ever had, and when those brass eyes start to tear up, I relent. Mind you, I’m the only member of Big Green involved in this enterprise. Matt and John both flat-out refused to carry water for a bunch of mindless robots. None of our other household denizens and assorted hangers on at the Cheney Hammer Mill would agree to lug Marvin’s gear around either (I thought I could at least get the Lincolns interested, but they REFUSED, insisting they had something else going – some kind of debating society, I believe.) As for the man-sized tuber, he’s running the sound board, and… well, those little twig-like arms of his are even less suited to a roady’s tasks than mine.
Oh, man. Typing in my sleep again. Someone should really take this laptop away from me. I’m liable to post ANYTHING while I’m sleeping, even (dare I say it?) the password to Marvin (my personal robot assistant). That’s all you would need to make him do YOUR bidding, however inaccurately. Actually, (*yawn*) his password is a vegetable that starts with “P” followed by the fifth number up from zero. Do your worst. Don’t forget to oil him regularly, and if he asks you to feed him, just ignore it. He fancies himself some kind of humanoid or cyborg, but that’s pretty far from the truth. For chrissake, Mitch Macaphee made him out of bits and spares. Nothing of value in … HEY! STOP KICKING ME, MARVIN! THAT HURTS!!
Mitch, thankfully, has given up on his idea to build a radical new transportation system circumventing the surface of the Earth entirely in favor of direct routes through its chewy nougat center. However sound that idea may have seemed, it turned out to be surprisingly impractical. Who knew there were so many obstacles deep beneath the Earth’s crust? I always assumed this was one of those relatively inexpensive planets – you know, the ones that are hollow inside? A hollow chocolate world. No, sir… turns out it’s not. The Earth, you see, is like an enormous malted milk ball, except instead of some kind of hydrogenated artificially-flavored wad of sugar and cornstarch, it’s full of rock and dirt and molten lava. Yeah, man… who knew? Guess I should have paid more attention in school. Let that be a lesson to ALL of you kids out there. STOP READING THIS BLOG! SAVE YOURSELVES WHILE THERE’S STILL TIME!
Yeah, it’s us again. Big Green, standing at the rim of another hole to the center of the Earth. Damn, this gets tiresome sometimes. We’re not complicated people, you know… aside from that psychology thing. All we want to do is hang out at our abandoned hammer mill, make a little music, watch the stars from the rooftops, bend pretzels on alternate Thursdays, and shoot arrows through the persistent space/time warp in the washroom that Mitch created so many months ago. It’s the simple things that give the most pleasure, is it not? (No, really… I want to know. It is the simple things, isn’t it?) And yet we are perpetually faced with these complications, these Gordian knots, these Rubic Cubes, these Junior Jumbles, these Uncle Art’s Funland spot-the-differences cartoons, these…
Okay, right… well, this little problem we have may not be as difficult as one Uncle Art can typically dish up, but it’s a poser, that’s for sure. You see, Mitch has been building this complex system of tunnels to various destinations on the globe (some actually on the surface of the globe, but – and this is important – NOT ALL). Of course, a project this ambitious requires rigorous testing to ensure the safety of the patrons Mitch hopes to eventually charge MUCHO DINERO for the privilege of riding his trans-Earth trolley through the planet’s chewy center.
Oh, yeah – he’s done it again. Our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee is the “he” I mean, and he’s … well .. cracked like any good mad scientist would be. I told him a dozen times that building underground tunnels to other countries is just not a very good idea. I warned him that there would be perhaps dire consequences to attempting such a project. Why… just tell me, why do mad scientists NEVER LISTEN TO REASON? WHY MUST THEY DESTROY THEMSELVES AND ALL THAT THEY LOVE?
What is his motivation here? The most capitalistic of reasons, Colonel Austin. He wants to set up what he calls an underground “choo choo” and charge people for the privilege of riding down the hole and out the other side of this increasingly raggedy planet. Fantastic scheme, to be sure… except convincing people to ride on the freaking thing will take even more engineering prowess than actually constructing it. (You DON’T want to see the men’s room – it’s …well… substandard.) I know he means well (I think), that he’s trying to bring in some badly needed revenue at this critical juncture when yours truly is about to be ejected from the Cheney Hammer Mill by the department of health. (They take issue with all of the mongooses. What the hell – so do I! Thing is, so do the mongooses.) It’s just the method, Mitch, the method.
Oh, sorry, you all. (What, am I southern now?) I was just having one of my difficult moments. That’s a new pastime here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. We each get all dramatic and difficult at least half a dozen times a day, preferably taking turns at it so that the ambient noise doesn’t upset the mongooses trying to sleep on the roof when the sun is hottest around midday. (Are you getting all this down?) Why would we take on such an endeavor? Well, as you know (and this is perhaps the reason why you love us), we are not tremendously successful as a band. No heap big contract. No honking piles of ready cash. No adoring fans dogging our every step. And times being what they are, we thought, well…. if we act like assholes, these things will come our way.
stardom. It kind of creates a penumbra of mystery around the umbra of famousness. That’s the shit we need, friend – to be sure.
What was that sound I heard, coming from down below? Some kind of tectonic activity? A passing subway car? Or could it be….. a tuber in distress?
random, stupid detail about people’s personal lives of interest to no one other than themselves. We are certainly guilty of that. Yeah, I know the standard jibe. Big Green is all yak and very little music, right? Well…. right enough. Too much talking, not enough music – got it. And it’s been almost a year and a half since our last release, International House. So what the hell – time to get off our sorry butts and start strumming, pounding, screeching again.
them AND play them live. And what the hell – let’s do a powerpoint, besides. Matt and I have been knocking our heads together, and we’ve started laying down some tracks with Marvin (when he’s available) recording reference drums until John White returns from his extended trip to Madagascar. (Where do you rent a gas car in Madagascar?) The virtual reels are rolling… that’s what that freaking noise is.