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.



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.)