Tag Archives: mansized tuber

Usual Rubbish

Yamtastic.

2000 Years to Christmas

There are a thousand and one practical uses for them, Mitch. You can eat them, for one thing. And if you wire them up right, you can use them as primitive dry cell batteries. That’s two. Just nine hundred ninety-nine to go.

Damn, it’s hard to talk a man of mad science into something that doesn’t involve explosions. Here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, we are currently in the midst of an agrarian revolution. We’re feeling our roots here in rural upstate New York. Why fight it, Big Green? You are people of the land. You are born of the soil, and you refer to yourselves in the second person. Did I ever tell you my daddy was a poor dirt farmer from up in the hills around Milford? Well, if I did, I was either drunk or more drunk. Dad grew some tomatoes and hot peppers in the backyard, that’s about it. (Oh, and there were those grape vines, but I digress.)

Okay, so we DON’T have the soil in our blood. What of it? We are simply living up to the promise implicit in our name. If we call ourselves Big Green, we should be cultivating green things in a big way. And now, with the advent of robot-driven agriculture, we can, in a sense, plant our cake and eat it too. Though I understand that cake is very hard to grow hydroponically. It takes a lot of sun, and when it ripens, you have to frost the whole crop or your yield goes right through the floor. I’ve seen many a good man flounder on the shoals of cake farming, my friend. Nope …. not for me.

Me bairns! Me poor bairns!

No, we’ve decided to go with sweet potatoes. That’s not entirely by accident (though most of what we do is). Our long time associate, the mansized tuber, is himself an overgrown sweet potato, and he has graciously consented to contribute some shoots to the cause. I’ve instructed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to plant the shoots in such a manner as might be recommended by people who know how the hell to do this. Marvin duly checked YouTube, then started poking shoots into little pots, all lined up on tables in the dilapidated main assembly room. Before any of us knew it, he was raising a small army of mansized tubers …. only they weren’t yet man-sized, unless we’re talking about very tiny men. They were more mouse-sized. Give them a chance!

I don’t know where this is going, but I know this: our friendly mansized tuber is going to have a lot of company this spring.

Usual Rubbish

Banjo doorstop.

I feel a draft. Don’t you feel a draft, Marvin (my personal robot assistant)? Oh, right. I forget you’re made of brass and polystyrene. What about you, mansized tuber? Oh, right. You’re a plant. Guess it’s just a “me” thing.

Well, we knew it would be difficult to spend nights out in the courtyard of the Cheney Hammer Mill, our erstwhile squat house. Not that that place was insulated and tight as a drum. Quite the contrary. But at least there were places deep inside the mill where you couldn’t see sunlight. Can’t say the same for this potting shed. It’s got more holes than a North Dakota oil field. And it’s twice as greasy. When the wind blows, it whistles. (Or maybe Anti-Lincoln whistles … not sure.)

Yes, we’ve had to make do in a lot of ways since moving out of the dump into this wreck of a shack, driven from our home by some drunken upstairs neighbors who hate our freedoms. (Like the freedom to live undisturbed in a hammer mill … one of our most CHERISHED freedoms.) Refrigeration is a bit of an issue, for instance. We thought about using a styrofoam cooler packed with ice, but we didn’t have any ice and …. well … we didn’t have a cooler, so we just put the perishables in the middle of the floor and waved fans at them. Turns out there’s a reason why they call them perishables. Who knew?

Hey, Abe! We found a use for that thing!

About the only customized feature on this shack is a spring-loaded door that slams closed every time you pass through it. It’s a bit problematic when it comes to carrying gear in and out, so we quickly decided to prop it open with something handy. And since the only personal belongings we’ve been able to retrieve from the mill are musical instruments, we had to decide which instrument was  expendable enough to be used as a doorstop. My vote was for the accordion, but the front-runners were banjo and bagpipes. Banjo won the final run-off, much to the chagrin of Anti-Lincoln, who has been known to pluck the gut bucket from time to time.

Just as well. If we’d used either the accordion or the bagpipes, every time we closed the door, either one would make its signature sound. Sure, you’d know when somebody enters the place … but then you know anyway, because it’s a POTTING SHED, for crying out loud.

Usual Rubbish

Backyardvarks.

Did you bring a blanket? No? Nah, neither did I. Never think of these things when you’re in a hurry. Fortunately, it’s the middle of the summer, and it’s freaking eighty degrees. So … eff the blanket.

Yeah, I’m sure you expected this. We met our ornery neighbors upstairs in virtual battle – a war of words, let’s say – and they prevailed … because they’re just bone mean. So we have been temporarily expelled from our beloved abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill and have taken up provisional residence in the mill’s backyard. Humiliating, yes, but it’s not the worst kind of humiliation we’ve had to endure. Nothing near as bad as what we experienced on Neptune some years back, nor the depredations of Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm, Inc., our erstwhile corporate record label. Still … not good.

Hey, we’re pushovers – what can I tell you? When neighbors say jump, we jump. When they say run, we jump, mostly because we’re not real good at running. Our encounter with the obnoxious bunch on the third floor did not come to blows, thankfully, but it was contentious enough to convince us that we should spend a few nights in the courtyard with the mansized tuber. If you’re wondering why we didn’t set Marvin (my personal robot assistant) after them, the answer is simple … he’s just too simple to be effective in a situation like that. Though his claws should be registered with the local police department as near-lethal weapons. When he clacks those suckers together, you could literally laugh yourself to death.

Hey, Tubey ... is there room for a few more in that shed?

This could be worse, of course. We can pitch a tent or two, start a little fire, maybe play the banjo. We can roast marshmallows over the flames and toss them, molten, at our enemies. Our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee can whip up some kind of force field that will keep us safe from predators and bailiffs. (Anti-Lincoln claims he’s being followed by a bail bondsman, but I think he’s forgetting that the 1860s ended more than a century ago.) I’m actually surprised at how easily Mitch is taking this eviction. Typically, he goes ballistic on people long before any dispute ever reaches this level of action. (Not sure, but I suspect he may be taking something to calm his nerves. High strung, these mad scientists.)

For the time being, if you want to reach us, use the comment form on the blog or send your notes to: Big Green, Behind the Potting Shed, Central Courtyard, Abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, Little Falls, NY. (Or just address it Joe / Potting Shed – I’ll get it.)