Tag Archives: potting shed

Usual Rubbish

Smash flops.

I don’t know – what do you think? It’s been a few weeks. Actually longer. Starting to lose track. When you’ve been at sea as long as we have, you forget what the shore looks like. Though if memory serves, it sure looks like shit.

Ah, forgive me. You caught me in the midst of my musings. My mind tends to wander as I squat here in the humble potting shed that sits in the courtyard of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our erstwhile squat-house now under occupation by hostile neighbors. (See what I mean? I can’t even write short sentences anymore.) Living here offers an opportunity to reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re going. Where we’ve been is nowhere. Where we’re going is, who the hell knows. And the midpoint between nowhere and who the hell knows is … I don’t know, fuck-all? Something nicer?

For some reason, this week we were talking about whether or not Big Green would do another album. After all, our last release was in 2013, when we dropped Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick. And we haven’t forgotten what happened then … we dropped it and it broke into a million pieces. Then we dropped another one; that one broke into a million pieces. So we tried carrying the third copy around more carefully. That’s when one of those Texas rangers shot the thing so full of holes that now every copy has bullet holes in it. See for yourself!

SEe? Shot full of holes.

Anyhow, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that we would put out another collection, particularly since we have tracked somewhere between 80 and 100 songs under the rubric of Ned Trek since we released our last album. (Sure, some of those numbers are meant for laughs, but what the hell …. Cowboy Scat wasn’t?) In fact, I myself can discern as many as three distinct albums in that big bag o’ songs, but given the amount of effort involved in preparing and releasing a collection, my guess is that we will start with one, albeit kind of a long one. (Again, Cowboy Scat was 21 songs. Yes … 21.)

I still haven’t given up on my notion of having an online jukebox. Everyone else has, of course. So maybe an album is the thing. Probably the best we can manage, living in a potting shed.

Usual Rubbish

Weather or knot.

Hmmmm. That looks like light coming in. Not necessarily a bad thing, except that’s a wall, not a window. So, I don’t know… somewhat problematic.

Okay, it turns out that a potting shed is not the best place to hide during a hurricane or other extreme weather event. Who knew? Seemed sturdy enough when we moved in. I know you’re used to hearing us complain about nearly everything, but we had very few complaints about the shed, aside from the fact that there was no screen for the fireplace. Our landlord’s response? “Run for your lives! The potting shed doesn’t HAVE a fireplace!”

Yesterday the wind started kicking up and water came pouring down from the heavens like one of those super soaker shower heads. (Actually the shower head is like the rain, but never mind.) Then the entire structure started to sway lazily in the wind. Far from keeping the weather out, the shed was practically inviting it in, and frankly, this shed isn’t big enough for me and some screaming ‘nado. Well, there was some noise, and Marvin (my personal robot assistant) sounded the alarm klaxon (really just a digital recording he plays back on such occasions). The shed lifted up and came down like a tossed coin, rolling around on its edges as it came to a clumsy stop.

Cheese and crackers!

Naturally, we broke out our foul weather gear, which looks pretty much like our fair weather gear, except that we keep it in a different cardboard box. I do have one Gorton’s Fisherman style hat that allows me to cross the courtyard on occasion and pound on the hammer mill door in hopes that our nasty neighbors will grow a compassion bone and decide to let us back in.  No luck yet, but what the hell. I’ll tell you, this puts a real damper on rehearsals. There aren’t a lot of genuinely waterproof instruments in the kind of music we play, so our songs start to sound a bit waterlogged by the end of the first half-hour.

I don’t know … how long does it take a sousaphone to rust? Depends on the brand, I’m guessing. Got an umbrella …. anyone?

Usual Rubbish

Letters home.

Haven’t you finished that symphony yet? Well, get going. You’ve got a piano concerto to write as well. Don’t hurry or anything …. it’s due to the publisher on Friday. That’s today.

Man, some of these deadlines are hard to meet, particularly when you’re living in a crowded, leaky potting shed in the courtyard of your former sqauthouse, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. We’re just trying to keep the ship afloat here, folks, and to do so we cannot limit ourselves to any single genre of music. That’s why I have Marvin (my personal robot assistant) composing music for hire. This week he’s working on modern classical music … long hair stuff. Marvin knows what that’s all about. I plugged a Classical Gas album into his tape drive.

With all the disruption, you’d think our mail wouldn’t find us, but never underestimate the power of mail carriers to find their target. They dropped us a parcel of letters, postcards, and newsletters as thick as your ass. And as I was sorting through this bounty, I found a missive from one of our closest neighbors. In fact, it was from the very people who kicked us out of our beloved hammer mill. At first I was reluctant to open the letter, as I thought it might be booby trapped with gelled explosives or one of those greeting card sound chips playing Yakety Sax. (I think I might slightly prefer the explosives.)

Is that for me? Holy cats.

What did the letter say? Aw, not much. They asked if we were liking the potting shed as much as they liked sending us there. I thought that was sweet. They also invited us to share favorite recipes that include ingredients we left behind in the hammer mill kitchen. I’m sending them a dog-eared copy of the Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee.  It’s got some of my favorites in it. Now, I know you’re probably thinking I’m being too indulgent with our belligerent hammer mill usurpers, but never fear. The Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee doesn’t really exist, and neither does Gilbert Humvee. It’s just our way of being neighborly.

I can’t wait to write back to Otis, Marjory, and Kirsten. (Those are the new squatters). I feel I could call them by name now when they kick me out. There’s a lot of love here!