Tag Archives: Marvin

Usual Rubbish

Woodshedding.

Ah, this is the way to do it. Just unpack your axe, shut the ramshackle wooden door with a little loop of string, and get down to it. No distractions, no inconvenient intrusions on your privacy … no interruptions, like those times when you take nutrition in some form. Nothing like that.

Hi, folks. Yep, we’re woodshedding. Not the kind you’re thinking about, you musician types. No, we’re actually just living in a wooden shed – specifically, the garden shed in the courtyard of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our erstwhile squat house in upstate New York, a region known for bands making do with very little and making it big on something small. Bands like The Band, Rusted Root, uh …. and others. We’re sort of following in the tradition of clubhouse recording … not out of choice, you understand, but out of necessity. This place is barely big enough to be considered a club house. And frankly, I’m not sure what club would want us as members at this point.

Our hammer mill has been taken over by belligerent squatters – not the nice kind, like us – so we’ve retired to the garden shed where the mansized tuber keeps his watering can and fertilizer. He’s a little put out, I should mention. After all, he’s had the place to himself for about nine years, and all of a sudden five disheveled refugees crowd into his space, knocking things over and generally putting his life into disarray. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has graciously agreed to stay outside of the shed, where he’s doing service as a scarecrow. (Not real good at it. The crows laugh at him … or at least it sounds like they do.)

Go hang out with Tubey, Marvin.

If Anti Lincoln pushes over a bit, I have just about enough room to set up my throwaway electric piano. In return, though, he insists that I only play songs that remind Lincoln of the war. It’s all about give and take in this place – everybody looks out for everyone else. Everyone except Mitch Macaphee, who looks like he’s ready to go to one of his mad scientist conferences in Madagascar or Belize or someplace less well-known. I’m expecting an ultimatum any day now – either let him have his basement lab back or it’s off to hyper-scientific crazytown. Who can blame him? (Another week in this woodshed, and I might just tag along with him.)

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.)

Usual Rubbish

Riot Act.

Okay, listen up in there! By order of the local constabulary, you’ve got FIVE minutes to vacate the premises. FIVE minutes before we come in through the front door. You can bring your personal belongings. And I know you have to pack, so … if you take a little longer than FIVE minutes, that’s … uh …. okay.

Oh, shit – I’m no good at this, am I? Far too conciliatory. And I even forgot to turn the damn bullhorn on, so those shifty no-good upstairs neighbors probably didn’t even hear me.  Damn it, I asked Mitch Macaphee for some device that might shift these objectionable squatters from their perch on the third floor of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. I was picturing some kind of rocket or drone-like device, tipped with high explosives. Then he handed me a bullhorn, a used one at that, with some semi-embarrassing decal stuck on the side of it. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) thinks they’re Grateful Dead-style dancing bears, but I think they’re just dumb-ass cartoon bears. (Maybe those two things are the same thing.)

Okay, listen up in there!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. The Cheney Hammer Mill is a great barn of a place, right? Why the hell can’t you people share a squathouse that expansive? Well …. for one thing, if it were that expansive, we couldn’t afford to live here. (I’m hearing your thoughts, not reading them, so a little misinterpretation is to be expected.) For another thing, our upstairs boarders are crazy as loons. I told you about the fire works. Then there’s the craft show they hold every weekend, setting up potters wheels in the courtyard and inviting all and sundry to come and try their hand at slip-molding. And if that wasn’t bad enough, one of them is taking up scrimshaw.

I’m sure you always thought Big Green was a kind and understanding band, not given to unreasonable outbursts. Well, I like to think that that’s still the case. But after weeks of fireworks displays, barbecues, and craft shows, and with the promise of whale’s teeth being delivered in bulk, we have reached the end of our patience. It’s time to man the barricades and call these suckers out! And if they ignore us, well … maybe I’ll consider turning the megaphone on for a change.