What’s the matter with me? I thought I put that thing away about an hour ago. My mind is becoming unhinged. (Did it have a hinge to begin with? And if so, what was it hinge-ing upon?)

Weighty questions indeed. That’s what you get here at the hammer mill… the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, that is… where you can find the answer to any question but one – how the hell can we stand living here? Now, don’t get me wrong. It isn’t because the place isn’t well appointed (in fact, you might even say that it’s dis-appointed) – this is part of its rustic charm. As someone who has spent much of his life in the lap (or some other anatomical area) of luxury, living in a squat house can be a refreshing change. (Especially on days when you’ve got running water.) No, no… I’m referring to the recent change in ownership, to wit, the unfortunate turn of events that resulted in our corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records, acquiring the title to this old wreck. And before I go on, let me just ‘splain you about something – they don’t see this as an investment property, okay? They see this as leverage.

Leverage towards what? Good question. Seems like ever since the man-sized tuber was a baby carrot, these fuckers have been pushing us to release some product for them to push. Now, if you know Big Green at all, you know our credo… the quality goes in before the music goes out, or something like that. Sure, we’ve been working for years on this project, but damnit, we haven’t gotten to that quality part yet. Damned frustrating thing. We tried to insert the quality right off the bat, but it was just too big. Then Mitch Macaphee came up with a formula that would convert quality into a semi-viscous fluid, which we could then pour into our recordings. But that just managed to gum up the works, and we lost precious time… six months, I believe. (Just try to get semi-viscous fluid out of reel-to-reel tape spools. If you’ve ever seen The Reluctant Astronaut with Don Knotts, you know what I’m talking about.)

Who’s to blame? I think you know the answer to that question. (Oh, yes you do… don’t try to hide in the back, there – I see you!!) It is most assuredly Marvin (my personal robot assistant) who is responsible for the monumental cock-up that has befallen us of late. Now, I know what you’re going to say…. the same thing posi-Lincoln (the good one) has been saying all week: Marvin can’t help himself; Marvin has lost his tiny little nut; Marvin is addlebrained and cracked in the crown. Poor little Marvin, right? Well, goddamn it…. I’m sick and tired of this robot-coddling. If he’s got the poor judgment to go bonkers all over the place, the least he can do is avoid any kind of real estate transactions. I mean, it’s not like he’s a professional realtor or anything. Think of the issues they have to contend with! And I’m supposed to feel sorry for him? It’s unsupportable, damnit, unsupportable!

Phew. Well, I’ve gotten a little overheated here, my friends. And I apologize. I should let Matt take over the keyboard for a couple of weeks. Or maybe Big Zamboola. (Nah… he types with his ass.)

Hmmmm. Play that one back again. Yep, yep. Yep. Uh…. nope. Can’t hear it. Try it again. Try tweaking up the fenstenmacher towards the end, there. Okay, okay…

Oh, hi. (No, not Ojai, California. “Oh…. hi….”) Forgive me for not responding to your presence sooner. I was deep in post-production land, here in the bowels of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill wherein we have made our home (albeit somewhat tentatively). Yes, we are putting those last few finishing touches on Big Green’s long-awaited sophomore album – truly a labor of love, my friends. (Yes, love… and great hatred. We’ve been toiling on this sucker for almost five years, and I for one can hardly wait to set it loose into the wild.) A subtle and arcane process it is, for sure. What… you’ve never looked in on a Big Green post production session? My god, man… look in, then, look in. Let me be your guide, your interpreter, your local connection, your book-keeper, your rent-a-juggler, your basketball inflator, your….

Okay, I’ve wandered a bit. Sorry. Grueling work, this post production business, especially when you have to do it in a drafty old mill like this, flanked by a needy man-sized tuber, a couple of cranky Lincolns, a wayward planetoid without a solar system, and a lunatic robot. Yes, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) still has his issues, but we’ve pretty much decided to give him his space. (No more banjos in the blender, though. It makes the smoothies taste weird.) After all, this old barn of a place is plenty big enough for a person (or a robot) to go as mad as he/she likes, just so long as he/she doesn’t hurt anybody, or him/herself. Got that, kids? And remember – be free. Okay, everybody got a paddle ball? Good. Start paddling on three… one … two … THREE! Good, Jimmy! That’s the ticket. VERY good!

Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yeah. There’s another distraction, kind of related to the Marvin crazy-man thing. As you may remember from a couple of weeks ago (go back and check, I don’t know for sure), Marvin took it into his little tin head to sign over our squatting rights (such as they are) to the kind and generous folks at our current corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records. As Matt was quick to point out (with a flaming poker, no less), this transaction may tend to give our paymasters a little more leverage over us than some might consider either fair or appropriate. Not that they would necessarily press their advantage, but… necessity has very little to do with it. And just yesterday, in the middle of a mastering session, the playback was drowned out by the sound of a band saw. No, it wasn’t a last-minute avant garde solo thrown into the middle of Do It (Every Time). It was a bunch of workmen hired by Loathsome Prick to rip a new entrance in the courtyard wall. Which just happens to be one of the walls enclosing our makeshift studio. Which just happens to be where I’m standing right now.

So, I don’t know…. what would YOU do if your record label sawed a great big hole in YOUR mastering session? Would you stomp around and curse their bones? Would you pick up a paddle ball? Drop us a line and let us know. (And if any of you know what a Fenstenmacher is, add that to your little message.)

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. Om naman shavaya. Ooooommmm…. OooooHooommmm… ahem! ahem! gack!

Whoops – sorry there, folks. Got a frog in my throat. Just trying to catch up on a little relaxation, eastern-style. Yep – transcendental meditation, as practiced by the now-late Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who passed away just this week. Didn’t know we were into this arcane trend of many decades past? Well…. truth is, not. Just thought that, hell, if it worked for The Beatles and other somewhat more popular pop groups, perhaps it might work for us. So I started meditating, thinking if I did it hard enough, it would make us enormously famous and successful retroactively. Then we could retire to our lonely mountaintop redoubts and play the plastic banjo until doomsday. (Which might be right around the corner…. REPENT!!) Anywho… it hasn’t worked so far. Not sure, but I think I may have coughed up my fifth vertebra. (Whatever it was, it sure seemed crunchy…)

Okay, well, there are other reasons for my resort to distinctly metaphysical sources of comfort here in the bowels of the Cheney Hammer Mill. One biggy is the continuing madness of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has persisted in the bizarre practices I described in last week’s entry (if you missed it, scroll down and you’ll see why I’m so discomfited). And as if that isn’t bad enough, he’s added a few more strange things to his repertory – stuff like, well, bouncing around on his head while reciting the acknowledgments page in his owner’s manual. Like putting a tambourine in the blender and drawing question marks on the outside with axle grease from the local garage. I could go on, but I’ll spare you. (You might start meditating, as well… and we can’t have that.)

As you may recall, Marvin’s inventor, the unredoubtable Mitch Macaphee, is far to busy doing nothing in Buenos Aires to come out here and straighten his creation out. This is not good. We’re in the closing phase – yes, friends, the closing phase – of production on our new album. Just today, Matt and I were editing a piece of some ambient sound we recorded on Cancri 55 into one of the songs on the new album – a little number called “Volcano Man”. (There’s this strange interlude about halfway through – you’ll hear it.) Yes, we’re sprinting to the finish line like overheated sloths… but this mad Marvin business is seriously getting in our way. No, seriously…. if he doesn’t get a grip, we may have to pull his power supply. Yes. Oh, yes.

Whoa… wait a minute, hold on. Can’t get too worked up, now. Must relax. Ooooommmm. Namaaaaaann. Shhhharayaaaaa. OooooomyGod, he’s doing it again! Put that blender down, Marvin!