Mighty tree.

Nelson Mandela is dead, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Now we need to save his memory from the fate suffered by the leaders of our own freedom movements. We have to keep the loud and the powerful from turning him into a posthumous Santa Claus, as they have attempted to do, with some success, in the case of Martin King, Rosa Parks, and others. King has been reduced to “I have a dream…”, that terminal ellipsis containing practically all that he was – a brilliantly thoughtful man at the front of a mass movement made up of very brave, very thoughtful people, many of whose names we will never know, who brought America back from its own version of apartheid.

So long, good man.The same process has already begun with Mandela. The movement he led is practically invisible to the American public mind. We have a tendency to focus on individuals, and in so doing, we make even those individuals seem two-dimensional, statue-like in their inscrutable virtue. The long walk to freedom begins to take on the character of a leisurely stroll; it becomes the journey of one man, not an entire nation. It is a far easier story to tell, and so our storytellers find it hard to resist. That simpler story conceals a thousand evils, some of which hit close to home.

Evils like our own CIA’s practice of turning over the names of dissidents to the police state commissars who oppress, jail, torture and kill them. They ratted on Mandela after Sharpeville. They did the same to leftists in Indonesia at the start of the Suharto-led massacre of the 1960s. You will find little in the way of regret if you look at the statements of our leaders throughout that period. So simplifying the story definitely plays an important role in preserving the myth we sell ourselves about our being a force for good in the world. The world knows better, frankly. So should we.

Duncan’s solution. Duncan Hunter, congressman from California (though he sounds like a brand of window treatments), has advocated using “tactical nuclear” weapons on Iran if they resist our will. Hard to comment on how crazy this is, but I’ll just put this out there: Hunter should opt for the Twinkie defense; it worked for Dan White.

Some real.

Hello, all. Just taking a moment out from our interstellar tour saga to remember an old friend and one-time band-mate who died unexpectedly this past week. I will no doubt return to the utter nonsense that is this blog’s usual narrative, but right now I can’t quite bring myself to do it. Just need some time for reflection, I guess.

Tim WalshTim Walsh played guitar with a band my brother and I started back in the seventies – a precursor to Big Green in many ways. We had about seventeen names for the group, none of which stuck. (It was a bit like  Jethro Tull’s early days when they played the same clubs over and over under different names – kind of a good strategy, that.) Tim was my sister’s boyfriend at the time; a slightly older (at that point in life, three years made a big difference) kid from Florida who had hair down to his ass, a blackbelt in Tai Kwan Do, and a 1959 black beauty Les Paul Custom.

I was young enough to look up to him in those first days. Later on, we were friends, housemates, brothers in the struggle to make music – and life – work on some level, mostly failing at that but often enjoying the journey. And the journeys were many, to be sure. Driving to New York for the hell of it in his little Honda coupe, rolling out to gigs around Albany in my broken down van, piling in and riding home for the holidays. There were countless late nights and later morning, imbibing beyond the boundaries of sensibility, laughing ourselves sick at bad movies and television. And that laugh – I can hear it right now. Full-throated, all-consuming, as if whatever minor absurdity had inspired it brought home to him the full, glorious absurdity of the universe.

Tim had very, very good fingers, and a singular approach to guitar playing the like of which I have never heard. Music brought him to another, better place, I think, and I hope it will continue to do so long after his departure from this life. The last time I saw Tim was back in 1992 – he moved to North Carolina, built a life around his family, and we fell out of touch for quite a long time – until a couple of years ago, actually, when we reconnected via Facebook and other means. We had grown apart, sure, but still shared something – if nothing else, the ability to laugh at the same stuff, but I think quite a bit more than that as well.

Not much else I can say except that he was a good person, one of the best I’ve known. So here’s to my friend and brother Tim – safe journey.

That’s strange.

I think that’s the last of it. Packed tight, top to bottom. Nice job, lads. Okay … pop the nose cone back on. Time to light this candle!

Nothing to see here, right, Marvin?Oh, howdy. Yup, we’re getting ready to embark on our upcoming interstellar tour in support of our album, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick, which as been a absolute drug on the market down here on earth, but is selling much more briskly in outer spaaaaaaaaaace. Seems like extraterrestrials are totally ready for satirical country-western, mock-pop, found sound records like ours. Who knew?

Now if they only adopted some kind of currency that is convertible into our own. Right now they’re paying us in photons. No, really. Every month, we get a box full of light in lieu of a royalty check. Try taking that to Chase Bank. I can’t even get mortgage backed securities in exchange for that stuff. Still, it’s worth something on Aldebaran, and that’s all that counts … if you live on Aldebaran. (We usually resort to doing all our shopping out there, as it happens.)

Big GreenSome of you are probably wondering whether it’s safe for us to venture beyond the protective atmosphere of mother earth in such a ramshackle looking spacecraft. I totally get that. The thing is, we have assurances from Marvin (my personal robot assistant) that if anything goes badly wrong in the icy vacuum of space, he will be responsible for the consequences. Knowing how risk-averse Marvin has always been, that fills me with confidence. My bandmates look a little nervous, sure, particularly after hearing about the comet ISON, which is in the process of rounding the sun as we speak.

Will we escape ISON’s enormous coma of deadly gasses? Are they indeed deadly as I just claimed just a few key strokes ago? Answers to these and other questions await our liftoff in FIVE …. FOUR … THREE … TWO … days.

Weird ass music since 1986