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.

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…

Yes, exchanges like that take place regularly here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, where your friends in the Big Green collective are now warehousing themselves. When we’re not discussing anarcho-syndicalist theory, we’re making onion dip using sour cream and that cheap-shelf powdered soup mix. (You know, the kind with the crispy onion bits… mmmm, boy!) Then there are the 6-hour meditation sessions over a ceremonial plate of Ramen noodles. (The one who doesn’t fall asleep gets to eat the noodles. If you stay awake two sessions in a row, you can even boil them before you eat ’em.) So don’t think we’re an undisciplined gang of louts over here – we know how to keep the rabble amongst us in line, yessir. (It’s sorting out the rabble from the worthy that gets me confused…. so confused!)

When we are not testing ourselves physically, mentally, or spiritually, we are… well… 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.)

Speaking of which… as you may recall, we did, in fact, let Marvin (my personal robot assistant) drive the spacecraft last week. And as a reward for our broad-mindedness, he crashed the son of a bitch. (To be fair, Marvin was just trying to get into the spirit of our flapjack-fueled saturnalia, so he shouldn’t be saddled with all of the blame. Fucker.) In the absence of our scientific contingent, we undertook the task of repairing the vehicle, desperately trying 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.)

Anyway, another week will tell the story. The countdown to Mars (or Armageddon) has begun. T-minus one six days and counting. Now it’s six days, eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds. Now it’s…..

What was that? You want more? Already? No chance, Jack. I’m shutting you off. This little watering hole has dried up, my friend.

WTF, followers of Big Green’s meandering life story – since when am I the flapjack nazi, anyway? Am I not every bit the addict that my various colleagues have shown themselves to be over the last few years? I should say so. (And, in fact, I did.) Even now, as lame made-for-television-commercial emo music wafts up from the living room downstairs, I am pouring grade A Patagonian pancake batter into the frying pan, the glorious golden circles of nutrition spreading out from the stream, spattering hot butter in every direction. Total abandon, my friends – isn’t that what you expect out of your pop musicians? Total, aimless, sputtering self-abandon, yea unto self-destruction. I have embarked upon that grimly seductive road. If I’m less than generous with the fruit of my skillet, it is out of conscience, not selfishness. DON’T FOLLOW ME HERE! SAVE YOURSELVES!!!

Whew! Forgive me. Flapjacks tend to bring out the melodrama in all of us. Just last night, posi-Lincoln got a bellyful and started spouting Shakespeare – Henry VI – Part II, I believe, though I’m no scholar, as I’m sure you know. (Keeps calling himself “York” and me “Gloucester,” then galloping off amid some unintelligible utterance. Strange, strange man.) Then, of course, there’s Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who is technically immune to the effects of flapjack consumption, but who is so anxious to be included in everything that he mimics the worst of us. And damn. does he overdo it! First he insists upon taking part in Lincoln’s performance. Then, after nearly a week of pulling our spacecraft together in preparation for our trip to Mars, Marvin, overcome with imagined euphoria, took the sucker up into the airspace above the mill and crashed it into a nearby bean field. Most impressive display.

I could go on about our failings, but you probably want to save some of that for later. What really irks me, though, is that this latest binge has set us back considerably in fulfillment of our deal with our record label, Loathsome Prick, which has demanded a string of gigs on the red planet in exchange for an extension on our album release date. We’ve got a pile of repair work to do now. What we really need is some expert assistance from our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee… or perhaps a little coaxing from Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating device. Unfortunately, both of the more knowledgeable members of our contingent are now plowing much richer pastures in Europe and South America. Yes, friends… Mitch is in Brazil, shaking a casaba right now, most likely, while Trevor James has repaired to the south of France for some kind of bio-etheric conference. Where are they when you need them, eh? (I think I just answered that question.)

Well, more than anything else, we need one of those smart guys to repair over to the Hammer Mill and repair our damaged space vehicle. Mitch…. Trevor… if you are reading this you can find me here:

Behind this enormous stack of flapjacks
Downstairs kitchen
Cheney Hammer Mill
Little Falls, NY

So don’t say you can’t find us, ’cause you can.