Tonight’s the night.

That's it, over there.Well, shut my mouth. There appears to be some kind of celebration taking place up the street from the Hammer Mill. Maybe we should mosey on over there. Or maybe not. This street’s getting a little rough. (I don’t mean crime-wise. I mean the pavement’s in pieces, as in potholes the size of a Buick … some with Buicks stuck in them.)

It’s a natural fact – we need to get out more. Big Green is getting house bound, or mill-bound, if you will. Part of it is our reluctance to play gigs anywhere on planet Earth. That is, admittedly, a failing of ours. Mea culpa. I don’t know why we don’t perform on our mother world. Maybe it’s the gravity. My keyboards weigh a ton on earth, but when we play, say, Phobos, I can pick them up with one hand. Sure, there aren’t a lot of music fans there … none, in fact, but setting up is a breeze!

We’ve been asked to consider playing a club or a college here on Terra. Why, just last week, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) said we should set up in the old man bar on the corner and jam until they boot our sorry asses back into the road. Inartfully put, perhaps, but his corroded tin heart was in the right place. So the other night I dropped in at that joint, sat there and stared at the piano for a couple of hours. I didn’t make any noise, so I left. I’m going back again tonight to see if there’s a different outcome.

Old man bar on Earth, zero-gravity lounge on Neptune – it doesn’t make much difference to us where we play, so long as we know what the hell we’re playing. I’ve never been good at set lists, but I know that if someone on stage picks the songs, it’s less likely that we’ll have to play a bunch of stuff people ask us to play. Like something by the Scorpions, for instance.

Whoa, is that the time? Time to go out in the street and be sociable. Talk soon.

Back to the future.

I sometimes forget how Bill Clinton turned my parents into hawks. In these troubled times, it’s worth remembering the degree to which people’s political affiliation determines their worldview. If George W. Bush dropped bombs on Serbia, mom and dad would have been against it, but Bill Clinton … he must have had a reason.

We’re seeing some of the same effect with Obama. His new policy on Iraq and Syria differs from George W. Bush’s Iraq policy mostly in its implementation. Bush trumpeted his intention to go in strong, drop a bunch of bombs, “shock and awe” them. Obama is incrementalist – we’ll do A but not B, then a week later, we’re doing B and C with promises (soon broken) that we won’t move on to D. Ultimately this ends up with regime change, as it did in Libya with disastrous results. What’s the difference? Psychology. Obama knows marketing. He knows that we’ll only eat one or two of those big cookies, but a boat load of those little ones.

Taliban: the next generationThe media, as always, is in the tank for this war. On the morning after bombing began in Syria, the first voice you heard on NPR’s 6:00 a.m. newscast was that of a retired general who had “crafted” America’s bombing campaign during the Gulf War – a man who thought we weren’t bombing Syria hard enough. That’s NPR, no surprise, but don’t expect any better from the liberal media. Rachel Maddow, while a war skeptic, gave a thumbnail recent history of the Iraqi Kurds and the Gulf War that might have been torn out of a Bush campaign media release. Our only role in that saga, according to this telling, was liberating freedom-loving Kuwait and helping the Kurds preserve evidence of Saddam’s pogrom against them.

Maddow left out the small detail that the U.S. helped Saddam to the hilt throughout the 1980s, including during the campaign against the Kurds, then looked the other way when Saddam attacked them again after the Gulf War (until Bush I was shamed into establishing a no-fly zone in northern Iraq). I suppose I should excuse this level of ignorance due to her relative youth – she probably doesn’t remember the events very clearly. I sure as hell do. It was the genesis of the conflict we are entering now, just as our Afghan war was the birth of Al Qaeda.

We go through this cycle of attack repeatedly, and the results are always the same – a bigger mess, more people hating us, more misery in the region. The fact that people like Maddow, who should know better, don’t understand that makes it that much harder to stop this from happening yet again.

luv u,

jp

Plastic baloney.

Is that all we have to eat around here? Jesus Christ on a tricycle. I thought there was some more of that plastic cheese sitting around. Never mind. Just give me another slice of plastic bread. Sigh.

Balogna ... now with more plastic!Oh, hi. Yep, it’s that time of year again. The ba-roke period, as our dear departed friend Tim Walsh used to say. Fighting the cat for scraps, except that we would never do that. In times of want, we have occasionally resorted to eating doll house food. Dibs on the plastic baloney! (Hey, don’t scoff … it’s actually not that much worse than tofu baloney.)

So, why exactly is Big Green wearing a cardboard belt this month? Why, you may ask, would a band with more than 300 songs under copyright need to scratch the floor for discarded fragments of past meals? It’s starving artist syndrome, my friends, pure and simple. Yes, we suffer for our art. Just the other day, I got my leg caught in a banjo string. Hurt like hell, dragging that banjo around behind me. Got a lot of dirty looks, too. Now I know what Paul McCartney was singing about when he did that Christmas record ditty called “Please don’t bring your banjo ’round” or something like that. Folks get real sensitive about that sort of thing, I’ve discovered.

Hey, well … I’ve wandered a bit, banjo or no. It got cold around the Hammer Mill last night, so we wrapped the place up a bit … at least the parts we live in. The unseasonable cold weather has at least given me the opportunity to finish my Ned Trek 20 script and pass it along to Matt, so that he can add about six pounds of weird to it. We’ve recorded our voice parts and are in the editing stage right now, so podcast fans … keep cool. We’re almost there, man. Don’t. Freak. Out.

Well, got to get back to my evening meal. Kind of chewy. Polystyrene really sticks to your ribs, though. (Though what it’s doing in the vicinity of my ribs I have no idea.)

Weird ass music since 1986