This land ain't yer land!

Got a bead on it yet, Trevor James? Try 16 degrees azimuth something-the-fuck... you know what I'm trying to say. Ready? Steady.... Fire rockets! No rockets? Well, then, let's just settle for etheric energy waves.

Hello again. Yes, who would've thought it would come to this? Big Green fighting for the very ground we stand on. (We're standing our ground!) That's right - Big Green, the pacifist band; least rowdy motherfuckers on this rowdy motherfucking street we call music. Us... fighting over a broken down mill that isn't even ours. Oh, the shame of it all. (Somebody hand me a bar rag - there's a good chap.) But you know what they say - possession is nine-tenths of the law. (That's why exorcists do such a cracking good business 'round these parts.) What's that? No, we don't count the Cheney Hammer Mill amongst our possessions, strictly speaking, in as much as we don't "own" it. (Like that guy said on Kung Fu - "You can smell hell, but you don't own it.") However, you're forgetting that remaining tenth of the law that isn't possession: murder. (Or, as they say in Brooklyn, moy-duh.)

Well... not moy-duh, er, murder, exactly. Repulsion is more the word. Let me back up a bit. As you may recall (by simply scrolling down a little further on this page), some strange other-worldly aliens landed in our courtyard last week. We began to get the distinct impression that they were planning to stay a while when they somehow generated a rich carpet of suburban lawn in the area immediately surrounding their vessel. Now, we're not fond of grass, okay? Marvin (my personal robot assistant) particularly loathes the stuff, and he's not alone. (I think it's the sound of lawnmowers and sprinklers - reminds him of the primordial shop floor from which his ancestors emerged, their brass knuckles scraping the cobblestones as they slouched toward the homes of their new owners. Just a guess.) I'll tell you, these fuckers must be from a whole planet of lawn freaks - they never stop working on that thing.

Funny thing is, we haven't actually seen the space people. I mean, they fire up their robo mowers, roll out their crawling sprinklers, occasionally call in the Chem Lawn guys to putrefy the neighborhood with their toxins... but they never actually come out of that ship. Even so, it was clear that they had to go before our entire squat house was converted to suburban domestic sprawl - a nightmare in ubiquitous green. Matt, resourceful fellow that he is, thought to ask Trevor James Constable to train his patented orgone generating device on their craft. Matt's theory (totally unencumbered by scientific validity) was that the etheric energy would excite the atoms of the unearthly metal in their hull, generating an uncomfortable temperature within. (Hot? Cold? Not sure about that part....) That was good enough for Trevor James (or T.J., as I call him) - he duly positioned the array and flipped the "on" switch.

What happened then? Well.... not much. At least, not yet. We're patient over here at the Cheney Hammer Mill. What the hell - it might have taken them decades to make the trip from their home planet, for all we know. This could take time. Hey, T.J. - can't you crank that thing up a bit? Mister Chem-Lawn's coming up the street again...