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Dwarfed ambitions.

Interstellar Tour Log: April 10, 2014
On the surface of Dwarf Planet 2012 VP.

That’s it. I am officially declaring our Interstellar Tour over and done with. I’m sick of these stupid slug lines reminding people where the hell we are all the time. Also, we’ve simply run out of places to play here on Dwarf Planet 2012 VP. That’s likely because, aside from a few street-corner fried plantain vendors, there is virtually no commerce here. This planetoid is devoid of performance venues. We actually set up and jammed in a nearby crater just on the off chance that random extraterrestrials would happen upon us. Nothing. Not a sausage.  This is just like back home.

Ah, home. The sainted abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. It’s leaky roof, its moldy basement, its crumbling walls, its heaps of abandoned hammer parts and random knobs of discarded pig iron that I keep tripping over even after having squatted there for more than a decade. I miss that dump, and I’m not alone in that sentiment. Hell, even Marvin (my personal robot assistant) looked a little misty yesterday as he scrolled through photos of the mill on his laptop. Lincoln seems like a man without a rostrum. The mansized tuber, well … he’s a plant. Don’t expect a lot of overt sentiment out of him.

That's the ticket!So, yeah, after months in space, we are ready to take the long trip home, back from the Ort Cloud, back from hastily named space rocks that are hard to classify. Before we go, though, we want to leave a stake in the ground here on Dwarf Planet 2012 VP. My thought is, well, let’s name the sucker after ourselves. Let’s claim it for Big Green, well and truly. We could be subtle about it and just shift the name to 2012 BG. Or we could go all-out and call it Big Greenland (though I was reserving that for a future theme park). We’ve got friends at NASA … I’m guessing this is do-able. (And yes, we have to ask for permission, since we need telemetric data from the space agency to find our way back to the mill.)

Homeward bound, chaps!

Usual Rubbish

Release minus … what?

Still watching that space? Well, give it up. That was a joke, damn it. Don’t take me literally … that way lies madness.

Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of RickWell, here we are, inching closer to the release date of Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick, Big Green’s third and perhaps silliest album ever. Fully 21 tracks of pure, unadulterated goofiness, each one performed by what is nominally a completely different combo. We’ve got the master all set. We’ve designed the packaging for our limited run of CD-Rs and the graphics for our digital distributors. Now all we have to do is, well, complete the arcane process of acquiring ISRC codes for all of the tracks, manufacturing the discs, doing a run of wax cylinders for those listeners still enamored of that format, and so on.

What is the release date? Good question. Ask our corporate label, Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm, Inc., a.k.a. Hegephonic. They make all the big foot decisions. (By that I mean, they actually have a sasquatch  serving as their Chief Operations Officer. Explains a lot.) Like many artists (and it’s in deference to the mansized tuber that I include us within that rubric), we get impatient with red tape. So when you see the disc – if you see the disc – you will see our own imprint on the package; a logo for Hammermade Records, and well, it doesn’t exist, but it sounds right, so what the fuck.

The mother of all imprintsSome have told us that we should have called the label Hammermaid, like Milkmaid condensed milk. We don’t listen to some people, particularly if they are Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has a particular liking for condensed milk products because they remind him of motor oil. In any case, we don’t take a lot of pains over trifles like imprints and logos, because in all honesty, that’s not what we’re about. We are the original discorporate rock band. We say no to corporate hegemony. We’re off the grid, man. (Aside from all that stuff involving money, paying for things, etc.)

So again, be forewarned. Release of Cowboy Scat is imminent. After which, we will likely go into hiding (or perhaps the witness protection program) assuming Cousin Rick Perry catches wind of this. (Don’t tell ‘im!)

Usual Rubbish

Enterprise, come in.

What next, man?What is this again? Beeswax. Do you have to keep it in my bedroom? We’ve got an entire abandoned 19th century mill here – there’s plenty of space in the forge room. Marvin??

Oh, hello. Didn’t see you there on the other side of that iPhone screen. Thanks for dropping by Big Green’s near totally useless blog, now more than ten years in the making! (Slogan: Blogging pointlessly since 1999.) You caught me in the middle of a small dispute with the help. No, we are not effete artists with domestics swarming all over the place, attending to our every whim. Certainly not! Our domestic workforce consists of a handful of surly operators, including:

  • Marvin (my personal robot assistant) – Created by a mad scientist and one-time scrap metal dealer, Marvin helps around the mill with lifting fairly heavy things, moving those things from one place to another, and …. and lifting other fairly heavy things.
  • Mansized tuber – Talk about growing your own! Matt harvested this oversized sentient sweet potato back in the old days, when we were in the witness protection program and pretended to be living in Sri Lanka. Anyhow, the mansized tuber isn’t really much of a help at all, but he does give me something to blog about once in a while, and that amounts to a particular kind of heavy lifting.
  • Lincoln – Storied 16th president of the United States, saved the Union, ended organized chattel slavery, and became the greatest president Hollywood has ever seen. Rescued from the awful past via Trevor James Constable’s Orgone Generating Machine, which created a time portal through which Lincoln and his evil doppelganger passed and …. well …. search the blog for details; it’s complicated. Anyhow, he helps around the house with light cleaning, some cooking, occasional legal counsel. Probably the best natured of the bunch.
  • Anti-Lincoln – Surly opposite doppelganger of the above. (See above for creation myth or just follow the tag anti-Lincoln.) He burns things when it gets cold outside. Sometimes he’ll throw something edible into the fire.

That’s the list of what might be termed domestics. Everyone else around here is an associate, or hanger-on, or I don’t know what. It’s a squat house, for crying out loud. And now Marvin has gotten it into his head to sell lip balm or something. He managed to trade some bricks from one of the outbuildings in exchange for a couple of barrels of beeswax. Entrepreneurs! They’ll be the death of all of us!

Sorry. He gets a little over enthusiastic sometimes, that’s all.