I’m sure that wasn’t right, tubey. No, no… I’m telling you. Countdowns start with larger numbers and end with the smaller ones. What part of that do you not understand? Freaking root vegetables!
Hello, Big Green-a-zoids… and may I also say, GREETINGS FROM OUTER SPAAAACCE!! Yes indeed, since we last spoke (or exchanged cyber glimpses) we have taken the plunge into deep interstellar space – a somewhat limited ship’s complement of band members and available crew. Limited how, you may well ask. And well you may. My answer to that would be, well…. limited in terms of, oh, non-musical skills, like the ability to pilot a space craft, the ability to repair a space craft, the ability to navigate through interplanetary space, and so on. Not core skills for most alternative / indie / discorporate rock bands, but positively essential for this one. And yet here we are, after a somewhat rocky start. They say any lift off you survive is a good one. (But then, what the hell do THEY know?)
What went wrong? Well, it started with the ship. Our rebuild was less than optimal, let’s say (charitably). The resulting interplanetary conveyance resembles more something in the way of playground equipment than space-worthy vehicle. That is not exactly a metaphorical comparison – with our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee AWOL in Argentina (or was it Madagascar? Can’t recall) we were left to our own devices. So Matt and I scavenged the parts from junkyards, rubbish tips, and – yes – abandoned playgrounds (though most playgrounds are abandoned at 2:00 a.m., I’ll wager) and, under John’s able guidance, we cobbed together the makeshift crate that will whisk us from Earth to Mars and back… hopefully. Sure there are holes. Sure it’s held together with duct tape. But damnit, she’s yar. She’s extremely yaaarrrrr….
Whoops – slipped into pirate mode there for a second. Where was I? Ah, yes. What’s gone wrong so far. Yeah, well… there was the ship, problematic at best. Then there was the countdown. Now mind you, John is the only one amongst us competent enough to sit in the helmsman’s chair. I chose Marvin (my personal assistant) to serve as navigator, since… well… since his memory banks include autographed portraits of famous navigators. (Hey, that’s more than I’ve got!) Matt and I were manning the teeter-totter… I mean, the stabilizer controls 
(a grueling duty if ever there was one). That left only Big Zamboola and/or the man-sized tuber to handle our countdown. Split-second precision was required if we were to make our launch window. Zamboola and tubey drew lots and, well, Zamboola won, so tubey got to do the countdown. (Don’t ask me why it works that way, because I JUST DON’T KNOW!) I handed tubey a hastily-repurposed eye chart with the relevant numbers jotted on it and told him to fire away.
Okay, I know. Tubey is non-verbal. That was part of the problem. Then there’s the part about counting backwards. Anyway, suffice to say that we’re lagging behind our planned trajectory and may miss Mars entirely. Stay tuned folks – Big Green – first band on the sun. That’s our weekend.
in the world’s most volatile region). Safe from socialized medicine or “government run healthcare” (by vetoing even the modest health care initiative passed by a spineless congress). Safe from terrorists (by terrorizing the accused and the extra-judicially detained). Don’t you feel better now? This has been another busy week for the administration, what with the launch of yet another in their long series of reasons why we invaded Iraq and why we must also confront (and perhaps attack) Iran. Yes, we are literally there to prevent World War III – that is what might happen if we back down now. This is the long awaited sequel to:
I’m certain I’ve left a few out, but you get the idea. Flavor of the week. My particular favorite is #7 – the “fight them there rather than here” bit. As if there were a finite number of terrorists in the world who would follow us to wherever we choose to fight them, then once they’ve been defeated, they’re gone for good. Safe!
Good morning, sunshine. Stop that blinking – just rub the sleep right out of your eyes and get back to work, you shiftless mo-fo. If you want me, I’ll be… in the top bunk… just up the stairs… zzzzzzz…
dealing with the day-to-day pressures of life at the top. Did I say “the top”? I meant the other end. Always get those two mixed up. Oh, sure, we’re not exactly a hit factory here on the terrestrial music scene, however much applause we garner on other planets (and asteroids… don’t forget asteroids). But then you know that – that’s why you’re here. (You are here, aren’t you? AREN’T YOU???) You don’t want the kind of pop band that plays stadiums and makes millions and shows up on your favorite television shows and on the boxes of your favorite toaster waffles. You love Big Green because you want a band that lets a man sized tuber help with the mixing console… one that lets the robot assistant drive the spacecraft every once in a while. That’s because, well, you’re special. (And I’m not pandering, so don’t look at me like that.)
to keep to the looming tour schedule our corporate paymasters at Loathsome Prick records recently handed down. But, of course, we had never assembled a spacecraft before… we had no guide for putting the pieces back together. (That sounds vaguely familiar to me.) And I have to say, it looked a little different before Marvin crashed it into the courtyard. Just possible we did something wrong, but…. ain’t no tellin’ until we hit that thruster control. (Insert dramatic tension here. Okay, that’s enough.)