Tag Archives: upstairs neighbors

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

Fire works.

Jesus. You can READ by it, for crying out loud. When the hell are they going to run out of bottle rockets? Where the hell are the cops? Oh, right … we’re off the books. Never mind.

Another late night here at the previously abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, our adopted squathouse of longstanding and that of a pack of crazy people with a fondness for pyrotechnic displays. Our upstairs neighbors appear to be celebrating some obscure personal holiday this week, marking the occasion with obscene displays of fireworks over the mill every night and raucous drinking, dancing, fist-fights, etc., in the afternoons. At least they’re quiet for a few hours in the morning, when they are apparently sleeping off the previous night’s bender, but that’s short-lived.  And here we are again, at 2 in the morning, blinded by the rockets’ red glare, deafened by bombs bursting in air. (And strangely, the flag was still there … their family flag, with some strange runic symbols on it. Very creepy.)

Actually, our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee has a plan to oust the new squatters. He’s starting to get annoyed, and that’s never a good thing with Mitch. We’ve been asking him to formulate something … anything that might, I don’t know, calm them down or something, make them civilized. For weeks, he kept giving us the same old bromide about it being far easier for us as civilized men to behave like savages than it was for them as savages to behave like civilized men.  (Mitch gets philosophical at times, but only to the extent that it may be expressed in terms of Star Trek dialogue.) Then they dropped a cherry bomb into his bedroom, and sophistry was out the window.

Yeah, great, Mitch. Just watch the trophy case.

I think it’s fair to point out at this juncture that Mitch has a lot of tricks up his sleeve. Granted, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was one of those tricks, and as such, is not terribly impressive by automaton standards. Still, this is a guy who can make whole continents disappear. Not real good at making them come back again, but then half a loaf is better than no bread at all. We are encouraging him not to go too, too far. Most of what he’s suggested thus far is fire-related: atomic flame throwers, combustible gases, etc. He has taken up residence on the second floor, in the room right under their master bedroom, so …. if there are any vacancies at the mill in the next week or so, we’ll let you know.