Usual Rubbish

The life.

1 Comment


I hate it when I misplace things. Where the hell did I put that sucker? You don’t suppose…? Oh, no. No, that’s too awful to contemplate. I refuse to concede the possibility of such an unhappy happenstance.

Oh, hi. Just spitballing here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. Nothing to get excited about. Between Big Green tours, as you may already know, we tend to blow a lot of time in contemplation and various other pointless activities. Not because we are perennial time-wasters, you understand. No, no – it’s the ascetic lifestyle we aspire to. I know most bands drown themselves in drink, cloud their minds with illicit drugs, and indulge in multifarious pleasures of the flesh. Not this crew, my little friend – not a bit of it. We are like monks. (Did I say monks? I meant monkeys. Or Monkees. You take your pick.) We sit about, scratch, toss things at one another… until somebody says, get up there and play.

Funny thing is, when we play, it’s actually quite a lot like sitting around, scratching, and tossing things at one another. We just do it with guitars, drums, keys, etc. Some hollering as well. You see, this is why we are so popular on other planets (and in certain remote areas frequented only by wild animals). Big Green has never really broken into the terrestrial human market, though we’re certainly not averse to that. This may be mildly enlightening for those who have pondered the seemingly prevalent space references in our music. Songs like, well, Evening Crab Nebula (a Christmas song)…

If you’re gonna’ follow that evening star
better be sure how wise you are
If you’re gonna’ follow that evening star, better not follow it all too far
or you’ll be choked and froze in the vacuum of space
Can’t treat the Crab Nebula
like it’s there to direct ya’
by pointing out some pertinent biblical place

That’s just one example. And yeah, we’re aiming that at both an Earthbound audience and those folks out there in spaceland. Got to name-check a few communities they’re likely to recognize – kind of like those pop songs that have place names in them (like Huey Lewis naming cities at the end of “Heart of Rock and Roll”, for instance). When we’re up in the Crab Nebula, they wait for this song. They start waving their tentacles and nodding their oddly misshapen heads. It’s a gas.

So, sure… we may be different. But we take pride in our difference. For us, it makes all the difference that we’re different. And…. that’s all I’ve got.

Political Rants

Radiation vibe.

Okay, I borrowed the title from Fountains of Wayne – quite like that song, actually. Here’s what’s on my tiny little mind this week…

Japan is glowing. The story keeps shifting on the crippled nuclear reactor in Japan. One day there’s a pressure problem in reactor 1, the next it’s #3 that’s spewing deadly isotopes. This feels a lot like the Deep Water Horizon catastrophe in that bland assurances are followed by new threats and, later, more bland assurances. The troubling part is that all six of these reactors have had problems – with both Three Mile Island and Chernobyl, it was a single reactor. Add to that the multiple caches of spent fuel rods, the presence of plutonium in reactor #3, and the evident contamination of food, water, and soil, and this is, as Colbert has said, a “Disas-Turducken”.

Of course, we have similar reactors here, ludicrously close to major population centers, whose operating permits are based on equally ludicrous 50-mile perimeter population evacuation plans – eerily similar to the old Civil Defense evacuation plans that were on hand during the Cold War, when the entire population of, say,  Utica, NY was instructed to head to shelters in nearby Frankfort, NY, and stop by a McDonald’s on the way for refreshment (I am not making this up). I’m glad that NY Governor Andrew Cuomo is at least looking at the Indian Point plant a bit more closely. There is no realistic evacuation scenario for this, nor is there one for the Diablo Canyon plant, conveniently located on two fault lines in southern California. Some people talk like we’re married to nuclear power. ‘Til death do us part? Really?

Another War. This action against Gaddafi forces in Libya is no doubt partly the brainchild of humanitarian interventionists like Samantha Power and others. I can understand the rationale, but again – our military is an extremely blunt instrument. Once commenced, these operations create a life of their own. It probably is worth reminding people that the Afghan War is in its tenth year, and Iraq in its ninth. Our fearless leaders have found the formula for perpetual war – no conscription, borrowed funding, and a lot of bloviating. My hope is that, in this case, Obama is as good as his word that he will back away from the fighting quickly… because lord knows, the American people seem unmotivated to stop even those conflicts they no longer support.

luv u,

jp

Usual Rubbish

Cold porridge.


No, we’re not having porridge this evening, cold or otherwise. That was Marvin (my personal robot) typing the title for me as he does most weeks. Explains a lot.

What’s happening around this place? Usual kind of stuff. We’re preparing for the warm weather, which typically comes around this time in the northern hemisphere (for those of you browsing in from Madagascar). That’s kind of an involved process. We have to put out the fire we started in the basement last November. No, we don’t have a furnace – that’s for bourgeois rock bands and… what do they call them? …. symphony orchestras. Hell, no – no furnace for Big Green. We just bust up a bunch of old furniture, baskets, hammer stocks (of which there are many lying around the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill), and other combustibles, chuck ’em down the basement stairs, light ’em up, and keep it going until March.

Okay, so… first step, put out the fire. Second, open a few windows. I don’t know how many of you out there live in abandoned factories. (I’m guessing it’s less than a thousand on any given day.) For those of you who have permanent residences in actual houses or other appropriate human habitation, it’s probably hard to picture just what we have to go through to get some fresh air into this bloody great brick barn. All of the window hardware is rusted, all of the casings are cracked and paint-sealed. I think the only actual paint left is the stuff holding the windows closed.

Sure… I’m certain someone out there has already asked themselves (or their robot friend) “Why don’t they just break the windows?” Or perhaps you’re asking, “Does the moon weigh the same when it’s in crescent phase as it does when it’s full?” Or maybe you ponder other imponderables, such as the tides (they come in, they go out, never a miscommunication) or the weekend lineup on MSNBC. Well, there are answers to all of these questions…. but if I were to simply GIVE them away, you would think me an easy mark, wouldn’t you? No, no… everything has a price, my friend. Just let me know how much you want, and I’ll send it in the morning post.

Hmmm…. well, I’ve wandered a bit. Back to producing. Where’s that electric banjo?

Weird ass music since 1986