Hammer Mill Days

What's the matter with me? I thought I put that thing away about an hour ago. My mind is becoming unhinged. (Did it have a hinge to begin with? And if so, what was it hinge-ing upon?) Weighty questions indeed. That's what you get here at the hammer mill... the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, that is... where you can find the answer to any question but one - how the hell can we stand living here? Now, don't get me wrong. It isn't because the place isn't well appointed (in fact, you might even say that it's dis -appointed) - this is part of its rustic charm. As someone who has spent much of his life in the lap (or some other anatomical area) of luxury, living in a squat house can be a refreshing change. (Especially on days when you've got running water.) No, no... I'm referring to the recent change in ownership, to wit, the unfortunate turn of events that resulted in our corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records, acquiring the title to this old wreck. And be...

The U.S. military shot down one of its own spy satellites this week. The satellite (like our military policy itself) was dysfunctional and the Pentagon's originally-stated reason for the shoot-down was the fear that its fuel supply would survive re-entry, land in a populated area, and possibly expose people to lethal chemicals. Once the deed was done, however, that rationale started breaking down, at least judging by what I heard of the coverage (from NPR's Pentagon reporters, who are pretty close to being official spokespersons). The next day the military was suggesting, though its press surrogates, that the fuel wasn't all that dangerous and that, in any case, chances of its falling near civilization were around 3 out of 100. (Good thing, too, since as of Thursday morning they couldn't be certain they had destroyed the fuel tank.) Of greater concern to them at that juncture was the possibility that components of the satellite's surveillance technology would fall i...

Hmmmm. Play that one back again. Yep, yep. Yep. Uh.... nope. Can't hear it. Try it again. Try tweaking up the fenstenmacher towards the end, there. Okay, okay... Oh, hi. (No, not Ojai, California. "Oh.... hi ....") Forgive me for not responding to your presence sooner. I was deep in post-production land, here in the bowels of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill wherein we have made our home (albeit somewhat tentatively). Yes, we are putting those last few finishing touches on Big Green's long-awaited sophomore album - truly a labor of love, my friends. (Yes, love... and great hatred. We've been toiling on this sucker for almost five years, and I for one can hardly wait to set it loose into the wild.) A subtle and arcane process it is, for sure. What... you've never looked in on a Big Green post production session ? My god, man... look in, then, look in. Let me be your guide, your interpreter, your local connection, your book-keeper, your rent-a-juggler, your b...

When has there been a weirder election, I ask you? It's like upside-down land, or that planet on the far side of the sun that is an exact mirror image of the Earth, except that everyone eats corn on the cob up-and-down instead of side-to-side (apologies to Father Sarducci). On one side, a field of mostly white guys has narrowed to a woman and a brother; on the other, a 71-year-old "maverick" is winning out against religious and social conservatives. It took eight years of Dubya/Cheney to make this field look good to two historically cautious institutional parties. The Democrats haven't even half-seriously advanced an African-American or female candidate for national office since 1984-88 - now it's as if they figure, what the hell? And not choosing someone broadly approved by the Christian right is a very different kettle of fish for the G.O.P. Amazing. And yet, from a policy standpoint, we're not looking at any radical departures here. The general election wil...

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. Om naman shavaya. Ooooommmm.... OooooHooommmm... ahem! ahem! gack! Whoops - sorry there, folks. Got a frog in my throat. Just trying to catch up on a little relaxation, eastern-style. Yep - transcendental meditation, as practiced by the now-late Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who passed away just this week. Didn't know we were into this arcane trend of many decades past? Well.... truth is, not. Just thought that, hell, if it worked for The Beatles and other somewhat more popular pop groups, perhaps it might work for us. So I started meditating, thinking if I did it hard enough, it would make us enormously famous and successful retroactively. Then we could retire to our lonely mountaintop redoubts and play the plastic banjo until doomsday. (Which might be right around the corner.... REPENT!!) Anywho... it hasn't worked so far. Not sure, but I think I may have coughed up my fifth vertebra. (Whatever it was, it sure seem...

Choosing who to vote for in the presidential election is always a question of one or the other of two people you're not so crazy about (or downright detest). That's probably one reason why so many people don't bother to vote at all. Myself, I always make it to the booth for major elections - seems only right since so many people died to gain the franchise back in the civil rights struggles of the 1950s-60s. I'm usually not at all happy with the options, as some of you know, and the prospect of a McCain vs. Clinton general election is a depressing one for me. Not that I invest all that much stomach lining into the question of who will occupy the White House. (Far be it from me to suggest that a vote every four years is all you should expect to have to do to make the world a better place.) But honestly, both of these people will make abysmal presidents. And while I would prefer not to lock-in another eight years of Republican party ascendancy, particularly the virulent st...

No, Mitch. That's not the point, man. Wait a minute, wait a minute.... I think somebody may be reading what I'm typing into my stupid blog. Hold on... Yeah, I posted it. Sorry, Mitch - I'll call you back. Bye. Hi, everybody... it's your old pal Bozo. Did I say Bozo ? I meant Joe . Beg your pardon, I'm all farmisht . Just spent the last half-hour on the phone to Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has taken up residence in a relatively comfy treehouse outside of Buenos Aires for the summer. (Just to be clear, Mitch is in the treehouse, not Marvin. Marvin is the one who fell out of a tree.) I hate to treat so distinguished a mad scientist as some kind of cheap tech support, but damn it, we're desperate... desperate , I tell you! (Phew!) No, no... not life or death. Marvin's on the fritz, that's all, and it's proving to be a bit of an inconvenience. It happened just after we crashed back home last week. As you know, B...