That’s kind of an odd sound. Did you hear it, Anti-Lincoln? What’s that? No hearing aid? I didn’t know you were hard of hearing. Huh. Explains a lot, really. I think we all just sort of assumed that you were obstinate and disagreeable. And manic depressive. And a total asshole. Oh – well, you heard THAT now, didn’t you?
It’s hard to ‘splain what it’s like living with a bunch of freaks like the entourage surrounding Big Green. I know that if you’re a rock music fan, you have probably read all the stories about the folks who hung around with the Beatles or Justin Bieber’s posse or whatever. Yeah, our group is nothing like that. Though I suppose we have the rough equivalent of “Magic Alex” in our mad science adviser, Mitch Macaphee. Just call him Magic Mitch. (Not to his face, of course.) Once caveat: his version of the “nothing box” would probably be explosive.
Maybe it’s just that you get more sensitive with age. You know, the goings-on in the middle of the night, the moving stuff around and slamming doors, the playing instruments at all hours – I should really stop doing all that shit. No, seriously … I’ve become kind of attached to the idea of sleeping through most of the night (especially this time of year, when the nights last half the day.) In fact, I get SO attached to the idea of sleeping that I need an frightfully loud 
alarm clock, which now takes the form of Marvin (my personal robot assistant) setting off one of his servo-alarms while standing next to my cot.
You know you’re living in freak land when the most normal individual in your group is a man-sized tuber. (I would say my brother Matt is the most normal, but that would just be a dirty lie.) Of course, that has never stopped us from making music. In fact, you could say that it has contributed to our productivity. The freakier we get, the stranger the albums get. That seems like a natural progression to me.
Okay, well … back to whatever I was doing before. Odd jobs, like bending pretzels, perhaps.
Must be a reason that sound comes out of the speakers when you play our recordings. All I know is that we make noises, put them into machines, and voila. Maybe Mitch Macaphee goes in there after we’re done and fiddles around with the sound molecules, perhaps in hopes of precipitating some kind of sonic explosion. Perhaps not. (I know that there’s usually an subsequent economic explosion, or implosion, to put the matter more precisely.)
Song: It Should’ve Been Me – The closer on our 2013 album 
I guess there’s a renewed interest in the red planet since NASA recently determined that there’s evidence of flowing water on the surface – mostly ice melt in the mountains. Hell, we could have told them that. I can’t remember which interstellar tour it was, but one time we played a ski chalet on Mount Olympus. The dry ice was up to our ankles, but there was some water ice as well – mostly in our cocktails, though. Pretty cushy arrangement, but again … not our audience. And dry, very dry.
Imagining Henry Kissinger trying out for the Monkees back in the late sixties, like Charles Manson did. Hanky’s Monkees, it might have been called. Or perhaps not. (This stemmed from our recollection of an earlier episode when we pondered whether or not Davy Jones might have been killed by primate poachers.)
Well … so much for our pleasant day out. What’s next on the agenda? Not much. Just back to the hammer mill. We’ve got some music to work on. Where’s that going? I don’t know … another album, maybe. Not sure how we’ll release it, but we will make it available in some way, shape, or form. Maybe we’ll have Marvin hand deliver it to everyone in Upstate New York. Maybe we’ll sell it in the anteroom of the Petrified Creatures Museum. Maybe BOTH of those things.
Oh, hi. Welcome to the land of the great ideas. I’m Joe Perry (not of Aerosmith) of Big Green, and well … I am responsible for many of the “great” ideas. Why “great” in quotes? Those are litotes, and I use those when I’m being painfully ironic. Which is to say … our great ideas are not great at all. In fact, most of our ideas are just plain STUPID. But hey, if we let THAT stop us, we probably wouldn’t get out of bed in the afternoon. (Did I say afternoon? I meant … uh … morning.)
Oh, hi. Caught us in full-on crisis mode here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, as of now Planet Earth’s first line of defense against the menace of stray comets invading the inner rings of our solar system (where most of us reside). Or so it would appear. Seems like the planetary defense systems maintained by major world governments have been caught asleep at the wheel on this one, so bloody hell, it’s up to us to save Earth’s bacon. And its beans. And, of course, its life-giving stilton cheese. I could go on, but again … we’re in CRISIS mode.
Sometimes it actually pays to be late. I’ll give you a for instance. There was this gig on Mars we booked for next month, and we were planning to take a private rent-a-rocket up there, having lost contact with our mad science adviser Mitch Macaphee. That’s fine. Only the rocket is an Antares Orbital CRS-3. Yes, THAT Antares Orbital CRS-3. The same one that blowed up real good a couple of days ago. Oh, yes. That’s the flight you WANT to be late for.
Oh, hello. Just working up our census form. Don’t mind me. Didn’t know there was going to be a 2014 census, but I guess that’s understandable, since we don’t get a lot of news flowing into the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our squathouse. Just yesterday some dude in a Fedora knocked on the front gate and handed me a questionnaire. He said I had to finish it by Saturday or his friend might set the mill on fire. (I think the friend’s name was Giancarlo.) How old is Mitch Macaphee? No … I mean before the youth serum?