Did you call room service? Well, I sure as hell didn’t. And what is this glorp, anyway? It looks like it’s… it’s…. IT’S ALIVE!

Greetings from Titan, a dry alien moon orbiting the planet Saturn. We’re taking a little break out here on what’s described as “The Riviera of the Gas Giants” in all the travel brochures (my ass!) as we wait for the start of a second string of performances on Jupiter. I have to say, the accommodations are less than what we were encouraged to believe. For one thing, the hotel has no oxygen – it’s bring your own here on Titan. That’s probably because of the methane atmosphere – indeed, on this godforsaken rock they use bottled oxygen for blow torches. Freaky turnaround, dude. And the waterskiing! Not at all like the promotional DVD! They were showing black sand beaches and azure blue waters, and what do we find on the actual, non-promotional Titan? Liquid methane pools. Aromatic, to say the least. I am depressed.

Still, a break is a break. And with the grueling schedule mapped out by our corporate overlords at Loathsome Prick records, any break is welcome… even if not as advertised. After our somewhat troubled passage through the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter – Marvin (my personal robot assistant) took the helm for that leg of the trip, god help us – we pulled into the newly energized atmosphere of the solar system’s largest planet, still roiling from the impact of what was supposed to be a comet (but may, in fact, have been a test rocket launched by our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee). Whatever the cause, that fearsome impact has really lit a fire under practically everyone on this airless void of a planet. In fact, I was getting a bit nervous as we waited for our perennial sit-in guitarist from the planet Zenon, sFshzenKlyrn, to arrive – he was running late, and the natives were getting restless. These are hardcore fans we’re talking about on Saturn. Down there, either you get them banging their heads or they start banging yours. Just a little tip from Uncle Joe – no charge.

Anyhow, when sFshzenKlyrn finally got there, we launched right into our heaviest numbers. Nutcracker Suite, Primitive, Why Not Call It George?, and others. Thrashing away, we actually got those shapeless globs of protoplasm bouncing all over the joint. (Indeed, what gig can truly be called successful absent the sight of bouncing globs of protoplasm?) I should say here that the man-sized tuber does deserve some credit for running the sound console during our first set. I should also say that, well, it’s an automated console, pre-programmed by someone more competent than a root vegetable, so his was not a particularly remarkable accomplishment. (He also had some kibitzing from Marvin, who may have thought he was still driving the spacecraft.) What other stand-out memories from that first performance? Well…. John throwing one of his sticks into low orbit. (Gravitational anomaly – happens all the time out here.) And then there was the fruit cup. Very delicious.

Well, got to get back to fighting my breakfast for dear life. Just want to leave you with this brief advisory: If you play Jupiter’s second spot anytime soon, be sure to bring some shin guards. I won’t elaborate… just do it.

One and a half G’s. Holding steady. Watch that panel, Mitch. Watch it… watch it…. Two G’s. Two and a half. Fuel consumption ratio rising. Damn it, Mitch – the panel, man… keep watching!

Oh, hi, reader(s). What’s up? Not so much, what’s up with you? Yep, just another one of those days. You’ve had ’em. Piling all your gear into a space ship, strapping the man-sized tuber into his humidity controlled terrarium, pumping the tank full of highly-explosive fuel, and then hurtling headlong into space… all this before it dawns on you that you need a qualified pilot. Oh, sure… I know we have our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee. Big Green relies on him for just about everything these days… even things that he can’t, well…. do very well… like piloting a spacecraft. What the fuck – we’ve used him before. But I swear to you, five minutes after we clear the gantry, Mitch turns to me and says, “Okay, so you’re taking it from here, right?” And I’m like, WHAT? And he’s like, “OH, YEAH!” And I’m like….

Oh, hell… I’m like nothing. And when it comes to flying spacecraft, I got nothing. So don’t even ask how the rest of our ascent went… don’t even ask. It was shaky, it was blistering, it was loud, mega-loud. Couldn’t even hear myself sweat. We topped out at eleven G’s…. that’s a lot of gravity, kids. That’s like having all of your Facebook friends stand on your sternum at the same time (and I mean all your friends, not all mine… who, while they may have greater average mass, number far less than yours).  After moments of being paper-thin (a new experience for most of us), that’s when the turbulence began. My trajectory was a bit shallow, I’m told, and even worse, there were asteroids all around us. Big, mean looking asteroids, like an interplanetary motorcycle gang, gunning their engines as if to tell us, if you steer that ship…. that achy breaky ship… it might blow up and kill this band.

Now, it’s one thing to have your life threatened in low Earth orbit. It’s quite another to be taunted with Billy Ray Cyrus lyrics. We all have our limit, and I reached it at that moment.  I grabbed the controls and yanked them wildly from side to side, determined to sell our lives dearly in the face of this menace. Nothing happened. I yanked them wildly another time. Still nothing. Dumbfounded, I turned to Marvin (my personal robot assistant), whose metallic features are, well, permanently indicative of dumbfoundedness…. so I turned to my other companions. Apparently they had rigged up some phony controls for my amusement; a “Captain Peachfuzz” bridge, as it were, with pilot controls connected to nothing. (Well, actually, I think they ran the blender and the microwave down in the galley, because dinner was waiting for us when we went below.)

There’s a vote of confidence for you. And a decidedly reality based one, as well. What’s next? A keyboard that’s midi’d into a toaster? We’ll see on Jupiter.

Oxygen supply? Go! Inert substances containers? Check! Highly explosive fuel cells? Gotcha – right over there, on top of that stack of souvenir cigarette lighters.  

Well, I shudder to say it… because it usually ends up not being true… but I really think we’re ready to lift off this time. We’ve got the ship all loaded up. We’ve got anti-Lincoln bailed out of jail and sober as a cowbird. We’ve got our maps unfolded and our compasses oriented true north. We’ve got our tent-pitchin’ gear, our bottles of sterno, our pots and pans, our paper plates. Then there are a stack of pic-a-nic baskets, just in case Yogi drops by. Actually, Mitch Macaphee had ordered Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to load up a couple of cases of Spaghetti and meatballs, but my illustrious brother – no big fan of Chef Boyardee objected. And around here, what Matt says goes. (Unless he complains about my Rice A Roni. Then, fuck ‘im. )

Hey, you know what it’s like any time you go on a long trip. What to take, what to leave behind, right? Well, it’s no different here in Big Green land. I swear, if we had room in our rented, randomly-ventilated spacecraft, we’d take the whole freaking Cheney Hammer Mill with us, lock, stock, and hammer. That would just be indulging our worst impulses, though, and lawd knows, we never, ever, EVER do that. (If I could get anti-Lincoln away from his Jack Daniels long enough, he’d tell you himself.) So we take essentials and as many hangers-on as we can squeeze into the somewhat limited cabin space our interstellar ride affords. This time around, we’ve got a fairly lean passenger list, given the state of the economy and such. (No one can afford to leave their hovel for six weeks… it’s just an economic reality.) But I’d say we have a quorum.

Who’s going? Well, the three Big Green band members, of course. John, Matt, and… and… who’s the other guy? Then there’s our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee, and his invention, Marvin. (We need Mitch to keep us on course to perdition.) I sent out invitations to Trevor James Constable and several other tag-alongs from previous tours, but most of those returned unopened, postage due. (Are stamps still 34 cents or did they go up?) Big Zamboola will be staying behind to keep an eye on the mill…. that’s just a practical consideration (he takes up a bit of space). The man-sized tuber has agreed to come along as well, not that he has a whole lot to say about it. We just load him into the terrarium and he’s ready to fly. (I think that’s what they used to call getting “crimped” back in the day.) Of course, we made the mistake of having everyone sign ship’s articles this time out, so now John has taken to calling himself admiral and the rest of us midshipmen. I think we need to talk.

Hey, but all in all, we’re ready to launch. Countdown has begun. Look out Jupiter – we’re going to turn that great red spot green. Just watch us!