Tag Archives: upstairs neighbors

Usual Rubbish

T’is the seizin’.

2000 Years To Christmas

No, you’re not on my list, and for one very good reason: I don’t have a freaking list. I can see about getting you on Anti-Lincoln’s list, but I don’t think that’s the kind of list you want to be included on, if you know what I mean. A word to the wise.

Yes, I’m afraid it’s that time of year again, friends. And once again I have to explain to Marvin (my personal robot assistant) how the world of humans works. You’d think after twenty years he would have some of this stuff encoded into his memory banks, but no … every holiday season it’s human nature 101 and elements of capitalism. What the hell am I, anyway, a freaking community college for robots? Hey …. not a bad idea, really. We’ve got the space, and at least a couple of spare power strips they can plug into. We could call it Robotech, order some jerseys and pennants and …. WHAT AM I SAYING?

Christmas is always confusing, right? For one thing, it’s a consumer frenzy, at least for half of the population. For the rest of us, it’s mostly about blocking our ears when we go to the grocery store so that we don’t hear the holiday loop, playing over and over … something we of Big Green find particularly irritating, as they almost never include any selections from 2000 Years To Christmas, our now-classic holiday album, only this year celebrating its 20th anniversary. And while millions are charging their way into credit oblivion, we remain cloistered in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, crazy neighbors right upstairs, and the bailiffs at the door. “The law is an ass,” I keep shouting at them, and they just keep pounding.

Are they still pounding on the door? Sounds like it.

Well, you know what they say about the law. First comes the pounding, then comes the impounding. And while I’m explaining capitalism to Marvin for the nineteenth time, I may as well share this small lesson with you, namely the part about what happens when you pay neither rent nor property taxes for years on end. As dyed in the wool collectivists, we are merely seeking shelter where shelter is available (such as it is), but that carries little weight with the local constabulary, whose minions are apparently under orders to evict us in time for the Christmas pageant. They want to see us shivering in our second-hand galoshes on the side of the road as the yuletide procession trudges past the hammer mill entrance. How festive these men in blue can be!

Right, well … in any case, if you want to help with our legal defense fund, celebrate this Christmas with a 20th anniversary edition of 2000 Years To Christmas, available now from us or from online streaming/download services. We’ve got a few signed copies, so if you want one, let me know. Just don’t tell the bailiff … he’ll want one, too.

Usual Rubbish

Staying afloat.

Where did I put that bucket? Is that mine you’re using? Well, give it back, damn it. Go find another one to carry your golf balls around in. Jesus H. Christmas.

Yes, greetings from the one-man bucket brigade here at the abandoned and partially submerged Cheney Hammer Mill. Perhaps you heard about all the flooding we got here in upstate New York after that Halloween storm? Well, the old water kept on rising in our neck of the woods, and it ain’t pretty. Trouble is, back when they built these old mills, they located them close to the water for a variety of reasons. Practical, yes …. back then. Now it’s a positive nuisance! The canal behind the Hammer Mill sloshed over in the first 24 hours, and we’ve been flapping around in scuba flippers ever since.

Why am I bailing this place out alone? Because everyone else, well … bailed, frankly. Can’t blame them – this sucks. They’re all off to higher ground, except for Marvin (my personal robot assistant) who has been scouring the neighborhood for discarded golf balls this past week. He’s somehow gotten into his brass skull that they have some intrinsic value. Anyway, he’s pretty much useless with respect to the flood waters. So is our resident mad scientist Mitch Macaphee, who traipsed off to Madagascar as soon as the going got a bit rough. I ask you …. what’s the use of having a mad scientist if the son of a bitch can’t control the goddamn weather? Am I right?

A bit damp for my taste. What about you?

Okay, so … the saving grace of this mill is that it’s shot full of holes by our crazy upstairs neighbors, so a lot of the water is just leaking out through the bullet holes. (And no, they’re not helping me with the flood waters. They’ve trundled off to crazytown for the weekend to see some relatives.) I’m helping it a bit with this bucket … literally the one bucket we have in the joint. Aside from the bucket we use to carry a tune around in. That’s a joke, son. You’re supposed to laugh at this juncture. Or perhaps not.

Anyhow, when the water level gets low enough in the studio, we can start working on those mixes again. Water and music don’t mix, in my experience. Aside from Yellow Submarine, Octopus’s Garden, and that Jimi Hendrix song from Electric Ladyland …. a merman I would be, or something. Help me out here. Grab a bucket, for crying out loud.

Usual Rubbish

Scare tactics.

What are you talking about? I was very careful in my deliberations about this get up. If someone’s feathers get ruffled, well … it’s not on me, man. Folks got to just calm down.

Yeah, it’s Halloween again, everyone. Kind of a big holiday around these parts. Why, I’ve known these quiet suburban moms and dads to take their kids out in gale force winds, forcing them against the elements to have a good time, damn it.  That’s how memories are made, my friends. Here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, we try to make this old barn of a place seem inviting. We can’t afford pumpkins or corn stalks, of course, so we just slip the mansized tuber a fiver and ask him to stand by the front door with a citronella torch. He looks, uh, kind of autumnal … if you squint.

Now, I’m not a big one for dress-up, as you know. Never liked it, never. That said, I did put on some old jeans and borrowed one of those blue denim shirts, then combed my hair forward and put on a fake beard so that I would look like George Harrison on the cover of Abbey Road. Set aside the gray hair, it almost works. Anti-Lincoln, however, accuses me of being culturally insensitive. I keep telling him, none of our neighbors are from the north of England. Who will care?

You know, you could pass for Lincooln.

Hah. Anti-Lincoln should talk. HE chose to dress in a seasonally inappropriate costume. Whoever heard of going out on Halloween dressed as Santa Claus? You can’t muddle the major hyper consumer holidays in that way. You’ll make people’s heads explode! Then they’ll expect presents from you. I told him he should go as Lincoln, but he didn’t want to offend our crazy upstairs neighbors, who I believe are from south of the Mason Dixon line somewhere.  No one thinks much of my suggestions on this topic, and with good reason.

Look at Marvin (my personal robot assistant). He’s going as a hot water heater again this year.  No matter what I say, that’s what he’s dong, even when those people up the street mistook him for an actual hot water tank and installed him in their basement next to the furnace. (It took weeks to get the smell of natural gas out of him.)

Try to help and what happens – am I right?