Tag Archives: hammer mill

Usual Rubbish

Book him.

The difference between falling up and falling down is merely one of direction. How’s that, Lincoln? Not pithy enough? All right, I’ll keep trying.

Oh, hi. Didn’t notice you there, peering at me from the other side of this flat screen monitor I live in. Hope all is well at home. I’m just hanging out here in the delightfully abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, having a little chat with our old friend Lincoln, who was carried here from yesteryear through the magic of Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating device a year or two back. (That’s a long way of saying hello – I know.) What are we chatting about? Funny you should ask. The usual topics that come up around here, like how many hammers were forged here, how long this place has been abandoned, and HOW THE HELL ARE WE EVER GOING TO MAKE ENOUGH MONEY TO GET A DECENT PLACE TO LIVE. (That last one’s a bit of a sore spot. Not sure if you can tell.)

Well, we’ve had a lot of ideas tossed around over the past few months. But recently it occurred to us that we are not using our own home-grown resources to their best advantage. After all, we have space creatures, a mechanical man, a giant sentient potato, and one of America’s most revered presidents (as well as his evil doppelganger) in our entourage. Why not exploit them more fully? That is why I’m working with Lincoln today. I’ve suggested that he needs to leverage his reputation as perhaps our greatest president by publishing a book of some sort – I have suggested a collection of aphorisms, something like what Yogi Berra may have published. Witticisms, as it were. Or as they are. Or as we were. (As you were!)

Hmmm. That last utterance took on a decidedly militaristic cast – my apologies. As I was saying, I and several others – though certainly NOT Marvin (my personal robot assistant) – have been tossing around possible entries for Lincoln’s upcoming work. Why does he need our help? Well, friends – he may be an excellent commander in chief, a clear-minded leader with nerves of steel, a visionary… but aside from speeches written hastily on the backs of envelopes, his writing for mass audiences leaves a bit to be desired. Far too flowery, too prolix. Goodness me, Lincoln! Take a page out of your evil twin’s playbook. Economy! For chrissake, it’s a rare thing indeed when Anti-Lincoln writes anything longer than a two-word phrase that ends in “you.” (Say what you like; at least he keeps the focus on “you.”)

So anyway. Here’s one from Mitch Macaphee. Never invent a deadly laser you wouldn’t aim at your own mother. Still nothing? Work, work, work.

Usual Rubbish

Picture imperfect.


Please turn that thing off. No… I really do not want to be video’d right now, damn it. No! I’m washing my socks, for chrissake! Who the hell would want to see me doing this, man? Put the freaking camera away!

Whoops. Didn’t know anyone was browsing this side of the Web. Hope you’re doing well. Bit embarrassing, this, actually. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) recently got his prehensile claws on one of those super-shmeensy video cameras. He says he had to go broke to get it…. he had to go broke the department store window, that is. (Cue laugh track. I said cue it, Marvin! Do I have to do everything?) Anyhow… now Marvin has to video everything, committing our sullen, sordid lives to Quicktime day in and day out. What he’s doing with it all I can only guess. Posting it to YouTube? Burying it in a hole in the yard? Feeding it to Big Zamboola? Lawd knows.

While Marvin’s been capturing the fascinating sight of me washing socks in a time-honored fashion (using rocks in a nearby stream), our old friend sFshzenKlyrn has been at it again. Still not over the unintended offense I committed last week, he is continuing to rampage through our solar system, acting out his rage on unsuspecting targets… like that touchdown Jesus statue out in the “heartland”. Don’t think that was an act of God. No, sir… that was an act of sFshzenKlyrn. He’s been melting plastic devotional statues since Moses was a pup. (Hey… everybody’s got to have a hobby, right?) That’s part of what’s special about him. That and his specific gravity. (D’oh!)

What else has been going on? Well, a little bit of music making, one might say. There’s been some talk of a tour, it’s true – another interstellar excursion of indefinite duration and itinerary. Perhaps an inner-earth tour, though the mansized tuber may ask to be excused from that one. (As a root vegetable, he has spent more than enough of his life underground.) I have also heard mutterings about a possible performance in upstate New York, at an area music festival ’round the Mill somewheres. Can’t say more at this point. I’ll listen a little harder to see if the mutterings are generally in favor or opposed to the suggestion. Then I will amplify them with my trusty typing fingers. From their mouths to your ears – that’s my pledge. (I’m just a freaking middle man!)

Okay, well… I’ve got to get back to my socks. Marvin is now pointing his camera at a snake, so I think I can finish my laundry undisturbed.

Usual Rubbish

Hard feelings.

Hey, what can I tell you? I didn’t intend to piss him off, guys. Not my intention at all. Nor was it my intention to destroy the planet Jupiter. Furthest thing from my mind.

Oh, hi. Just caught me in the middle of a little band meeting. (Bret? Here. Jermaine? Here. Murray? Here.) I’m being raked over the coals by my fellow Big Green members and our various hangers on – Mitch Macaphee (our mad science adviser), Lincoln, anti-Lincoln, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), the man-sized tuber… even Big Zamboola has chimed in. What’s the “issue”, as they say? Oh, hell… it’s about our perennial sit-in guitarist from the planet Zenon, sFshzenKlyrn. He’s been a house guest here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill for the past week or so. That is to say, he was our guest, up until he departed yesterday in a bit of a Zenite huff. (How do I know? His radioactive vapor trail was tinged orange around the edges. Sure sign.)

So, why the hurried departure? Was he on his way to, I don’t know, Joseph A. Bank to get two free suits after buying one overpriced suit? No, no, nothing like that. It’s down to me, I’m afraid. One of those obscure cultural faux pas you run into when dealing with the denizens of another galaxy – kind of like showing the soles of your feet to an Iraqi. I insulted sFshzenKlyrn in some way, apparently, when I turned down his generous offer of Zenite snuff. I believe that, combined with a hand gesture I made involuntarily, is the equivalent of telling a Zenite that his specific gravity is roughly equivalent to that of Yak dung.  (For those of you who are unfamiliar with Zenite etiquette, that is considered a particularly grave insult.)

sFshzenKlyrn left in a cloud of radioactive dust. I imagined he was going straight home, using his typical method of traveling between the dimensional layers of the wobbly thing we call reality. Not so. I guess he was a little madder than he looked, because he felt the need to act out his anger. And he did this by driving straight into the planet Jupiter, causing a bit of a disturbance. (I’m told he did that one time before, some few years back. Left a bit of a red spot, as I recall.) What this has meant to the inhabitants of Jupiter I do not know, though I suspect we will hear about it the next time we go on interstellar tour. (Late this summer, I believe. Stay tuned!) It did, however, cause quite a stir back home here, with people calling it a dramatic collision, a missile, an asteroid, and so on.

Nah. Just a pissed off Zenite guitarist, that’s all. And from the ‘splosion he created, I guess his specific gravity must be quite a bit greater than that of Yak dung after all. Whoops! Sorry, sFshzenKlyrn!