Bit rushed at the moment. Be with you in just a tick. One, mississippi. Two, mississippi. Okay… two ticks.

Yeah, I know – we’re all busy, right? Well, until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes. (Or a few yards, even.) Big Green may seem like a bunch of slackers, but let me tell you… we’re…. anything… snxxxxx….. Oh, sorry. Drifted off there. Walking a mile in my shoes can get to be a tiring business. Here’s what we’re up against on a typical day:

6:00 a.m. – Snoring loudly. Man-sized tuber sends his daily complaint email to the codes department; still no response after five years, but… he’s a plant, okay? Takes a little learning to get an idea into his fibrous head. But I digress.

8:15 a.m. – Band meeting. Only Marvin (my personal robot assistant) shows up. Which is fitting, because he schedules the meetings unbeknown to the rest of us. As we sleep in our various sections of the mill, Marvin sits at an empty wooden table in the old forge room, making whirring and clicking sounds for about 45 minutes before moving along to his next scheduled duty.

10:45 a.m. – Up and at ’em, as they used to say. At least where I’m concerned. Matt’s been out feeding the birds, beavers, and other assorted creatures since about 5:00 a.m. (Did I leave that out?) John is out feeding the squirrels. I’m feeding myself at the breakfast table, sitting across from a very grizzly looking Mitch Macaphee (resident mad scientist). Another experiment gone wrong, by the look of him.

12:17 p.m. – A quick run around the park. Exercise? Heaven forefend! No sir, it’s me running away from that guy who’s been trying to serve us with an eviction notice for the last five years. This happens almost anytime I nip out to the store for Necco Wafers or the like. ‘Round the part we go, several times, until he tires. Now, this wouldn’t happen if they’d merely accept alternative currency in payment…. like, I don’t know…. Necco Wafers, perhaps? Would such a humble offering once again save the Cheney Hammer Mill from the wrecking ball? Can’t say. Out of breath.

3:45 p.m. – Cantaloupes! Hundreds of them left on our doorstep by parties unknown. We were just about to go into our makeshift studio and work on some makeshift songs, and now this! We decide to task the Lincolns (posi- and antimatter) with disposing of them properly. I’m hoping this won’t result in bushel-loads of melon balls. Hate them things.

5:08 p.m. – Writing the ludicrous blog entry for the week. Not sure who reads this shit, but whoever it is… god bless ’em, anyway. Pressing publish…. NOW. Freak-tastic!

Add a little cilantro. Mmmm…. probably not THAT much. Jesus christmas, Mitch – you’re kind of extravagant with the spicing, aren’t you. Now, don’t get offended, I…. uh, Mitch….?

There he goes again. That’s the second time he’s walked out on me in the course of preparing this meal. Sensitive scientists! Anyway, welcome to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, where spirits are always elevated, music is ubiquitous, and science is a child’s plaything. A lot of experimentation goes on here. We’ve seen it all, frankly, from selective negation of gravity to new formulae for cornmeal popovers. (Actually, the two things kind of go together.) What does it all have in common? None of the results are published, that’s what. What happens at the mill stays at the mill, my friends. Just ask Mitch Macaphee, the mad (and extremely thin-skinned, apparently) scientist who advises us on all matters relating to bubbling beakers of goo, primitive electrodes, and massive pressure gauges. Fortunately he has not invented any new robots – Marvin (my personal robot assistant) is quite sufficient automatronic company for any rock band.

What’s happened over the last week or so? Oh, you know… the usual stuff for a virtual rock band. Practice. Recording. Personal appearances. Listening for that fateful knock on the door from the codes department. (Shhhhh…. Don’t tell them we’re here!) Scraping up loose change wherever we can find it. How is the vacationland scheme going? Ah, we let that one drop. Pretty typical for us, really. Get an idea first, then think about it and realize how stupid it is. (Story of our lives.) The only one of us that was truly into doing it was the man-sized tuber. He had polished up all of his customer service skills and was ready to man that front desk. It took a while to break it to him, frankly. I certainly didn’t have the heart for it, and we didn’t want to delegate it to someone outside of the band proper (particularly since that might end up being anti-Lincoln, who would take delight in tubey’s misery). In the end, it was Matt who handed him the clue. (Scribbled on the back of an empty book of matches, as it happened.)

Putting that unpleasantness aside, we’ve been toiling away at our next album (or “collection”, as Mitch insists on calling it). Breaking new ground here for old Big Green. I, for one, recorded my first banjo part ever. (Luckily, John lent me his banjo… though I had to blacken in a few teeth before hitting the record button.) Matt tried his hand at mandolin and washboard, and we both tracked a jug-band accompaniment. What’s the song? Let’s just say it’s a little number about some friends of ours. No, it won’t be stuffed with inside jokes… just a little topical humor (i.e. only to be taken externally). There are a few others in the works, and we’re following the usual production schedule, so don’t pop the earbuds in just yet (unless you’ve got other things to listen to). In the meantime, we’ve been trying our hand at developing recipes for something we plan on calling the “Big Green Cookbook”. Hence the extra cilantro. (An atypical ingredient for blueberry muffins, I will admit.) Another little money-making scheme that’s sure to….

What’s that? Someone has already done a Big Green Cookbook? Who the hell is Jackie Newgent and why haven’t I ever seen her at any band meetings? (Perhaps because I don’t attend them…?)

You hear that sound? A little subtle, eh? Well, it’s cotton on cotton. That’s me turning my pockets inside out and shrugging my shoulders. Bottom scraped, my friends.

What happened with Big Green‘s massive coin salvage program? Well, all of the jars and old sofas have given up their treasure, and the booty is already spent. That’s right – we pulled together about $47, all of which went to the electric company. (No, I don’t mean the children’s television program from the 1970’s… I mean the fuckers who keep the lights on.) Then there was that fiver that Marvin (my personal robot assistant) found lying around the forge room. I don’t want you to think we’re turning on each other in our hour of need, but I will admit that there was a minor tussle over that bill. Mostly it was Marvin (who was too clueless to let it go) and anti-Lincoln (who was determined to get an absinthe over at the local watering hole), but before long we were all involved, flailing away like drunks, growling like mad dogs over a stolen soup bone. A pitiable sight, to be sure.

Yes indeed. Anti-Lincoln got his absinthe, for all the good it did him. (He’s mad already, I tell you…. MAD.) Once we all regained feelings in our extremities, we tried to take collective stock of our position. Not a very promising one. Matt asked Mitch Macaphee if he could invent some money – that drew a snarky look, and we all went silent. Most of our ideas had gone flat. The portraits with Lincoln didn’t pan out. People refused to believe he actually was Lincoln. I think it was because we had one Lincoln on both ends of town. (We nuked our own credibility on that one, I’m afraid.) There was a suggestion – I think it may have come from me – that we put the man-sized tuber up for sale, but that didn’t fly either. (The bottom fell out of the tuber market months ago.) It seemed as though the only thing left was to start searching for honest remunerative employment. Odd jobs, perhaps. Like bending pretzels and raising alligators. (Apologies to Mad comics.)

Then it struck us. Why don’t we try that thing that Dr. Smith did on Lost In Space when the Robinson’s went away and left him in charge of the Jupiter 2? (Need help on that? Oh, all right…) We can rent the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill out as a luxury resort hotel! Apart from the luxury, we have everything we need. I could print tickets. Matt could borrow some floral umbrellas from the local sporting goods store. John could stop by the lumber yard and pick up some groceries. We could rename the mill something like “Falcon’s Harbor” or “Happy Acres”, even though there’s no harbor and there are no acres. (It’s what’s called the “Pelican Cove” principle, after a planned community by that name that had neither pelicans nor a cove.) We could start selling reservations on the internets – just post a message on any old site and patrons will flock toward us like lemmings. It’s just that easy.

Or maybe not. But it beats working. Got better ideas? Send ’em here.