Settle down, now. That’s right. Keep calm. (Zamboola – grab the net!) That’s right, nobody’s gonna’ harm you. (Not that net, you idiot… the fishing net!) Nice monster….

Whoops, sorry. Didn’t mean to ignore you. Just kind of got our hands full over here in Big Green-land. (No, not Greenland…. Big Green land. Just a turn of phrase – let it pass, let it pass). Not that we’re incapable of coping, lord no. Why, we’ve got some truly unique talent to work with over here. Hell, Big Zamboola himself is an entire planet of wisdom, substantially reduced in size, but still… And Marvin (my personal robot assistant) holds all the knowledge of the ages within his somewhat threadbare memory banks. (It would be helpful if he would just let a little of it out once in a long while, but there you have it.) So sure, we can handle just about anything. Though if any of you have any experience working with giant sea creatures – particularly the more belligerent varieties – please do chime in.

Right – so, as some of you will recall, we were steaming along the N.Y. state Barge Canal, heading westward towards the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill at a respectable four knots (respectable, that is, if you are fighting gale force winds… which we were knot… I mean, not), when we elected to cast off our bonds (we were informal galley slaves, or “temps” as they’re sometimes called) and storm our way to the command deck to confront our captors. It was then that we were faced with… well, I can only describe it as a large, snake-like object. Oh, foul it was, with a… ahem… I mean, this fucker was easily fifty feet high, and it was all neck. And, unlike the rest of us, it probably never had to settle for the low-hanging fruit. In spite of that fact, it seemed jolly well interested in our little vessel… or something therein. So the monster loomed above us. And it looked very, very hungry.

Hell of a time for them to open the luncheon buffet! What is it with these gaming cruises, anyway? Can’t they just let people eat when they want to (i.e. when they run out of money at the baccarat table)? Lord no! So what the hell, some bastard rings a bell and the folks start lining up. Then that sea creature, mannerless lout that he (or she) is, cuts ahead in line and starts scooping up all of the crab salad. This drew the attention of the ship’s executive officer, who inserted himself between the comestibles and the sea monster, demanding that the beast find another source of sustenance. To give credit where credit is due, that critter did alter its dining plan, helping itself to the hapless lieutenant. (You need to be careful what you ask for.)

It may or may not surprise you to learn that people are a lot like potato chips. Once you eat one, it’s hard to stop. Ask any sea monster. Just ask them quickly, and don’t wait for an answer. Got to go. I just can’t type and run (and scream) at the same time.

Above us it loomed, its great bulk blocking the early afternoon sun. Oh, foul it was, with a stench that recalled many a dormitory morning back at S.U.N.Y. New Paltz (Gaige Hall). Queasy…. so queasy…

Oh, Jeebus…. my mistake, friends, sorry. I didn’t know I was posting that last bit. Just getting a bit ahead of myself, that’s all – some of my contemporaneous impressions during the strange events that befell us this week, as we made our way westward along the N.Y. State Barge Canal (successor to the Erie Canal) towards the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our adopted home (squat house). Some of you (or perhaps all of you) may remember our decision to surreptitiously board a riverboat, which had obligingly docked near the spot where we had made our precipitous exit from the Thruway. Not the wisest decision, as it turned out. Ever seen Ben-Hur? Not the chariot race – the part where the guy is counting cadence below decks with a big drum. Well, we were surprised to find that fucker still in action. (OSHA needs to take a closer look at these riverboats, damn it.)

Okay, so anyway… row, row, row, goes the galley; boom, boom, boom goes the drum. After a couple of days of this, we’re getting a little, well, tired. So I encourage Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to sneak upstairs during his bathroom break (not entirely necessary in his case, anyway… Marvin’s leaks all involve machine oil) and have a look around. Well, he came back with a couple of interesting discoveries. First, the ship appears to have an engine and a great paddle wheel… which suggests to my mind that they’re making us row purely out of meanness and nastiness, and not for any locomotive purposes. Second, there’s gambling going on up there at practically all hours of the day and night. So this barge turned out to be one of those riverboat casinos (either that, or the captain has a bit of an issue with certain compulsive behaviors). On top of that, Marvin was, quite frankly, sent away with a bee in his ear by the captain’s imperious wife. There was only one thing for it – mutiny!

On Big Zamboola’s signal (a slight northward shift in his primary magnetic field – subtle, yes, but noticeable), we all dropped our oars and marched up the stairs, deaf to the belligerent calls of our overseer, with the intent of confronting our captain. I felt the spray from the canal as we broke through the bulkhead doors and climbed up on deck for the first time in four days. It was then that we saw it. Oh, foul it was, with a stench that recalled…. oh, right, you’ve heard that bit. We saw what looked like an enormous garden hose stretching straight up into the sky. Closer to the water, you could see the outlines of some kind of Diplodocus-like body. No doubt about it – this was the real thing. The lock 17 monster. I’d heard legends, but never… never did I suppose they were true.

So, I don’t know, what do you say to an enormous prehistoric creature as it towers over you with something akin to hunger in its eyes? There’s only one thing you can say, and friends… its starts with *GULP*

Low bridge, everybody down. Low bridge, ’cause our driver is a clown! Man, don’t you just love those old work songs! Just the thing to take the ache out of my sorry ass.

Oh, yes… greetings from your friends in Big Green; keepers of the flame of slovenliness, protectors of the weak-minded, masters of procrastination, and the one and only cereal that comes in the shape of animals. (Yes, we’re Crispy Critters, all right.) When last you saw us, we were chugging along the New York State Thruway on foot, pulling disdainful glances (and more than one determined scowl) from those who wear the state’s uniform and carry the state’s water. (Yes, our state has water, too.) Admittedly, we must have made quite a sight, pacing down the center of that august and still-not-paid-for thoroughfare, making our way somewhat nervously over the Schoharie Bridge where several travelers lost their lives some years back (subject of Matt’s song Just Five Seconds, a recording of which I will post at some point in the not so distant future). Hell, if we were to let fear stop us from doing what we need to do, we would have stopped doing anything meaningful years and years ago. So….wait a minute… maybe we are a-feared after all!

Well, heck… that’s a revelation. Anyway… yes, we were conspicuous as hell trooping down the Thruway, and, yes, we got kicked off by the Thruway Authority, the State Police, and some engineers from the DMV who thought Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was some kind of automated road surveying device or a white-stripe painter or something. (Actually, if you dip his casters in paint, he can do a passable job of the latter function. Regarding the former… I just don’t know.) We were unceremoniously dumped off onto the public roads in an area of upstate New York with which none of us are terribly familiar — somewhere near the Auriesville Shrine, I believe. Not a red cent between us. No credit cards. No luncheon vouchers. And hell, Big Zamboola hadn’t eaten a single thing since that last cup of overpriced tea down on the island of Manna-hatt-a-hun. (Don’t travel with a hungry planet. Just. Don’t.)

Well, geez-Louise, or as Mitch Macaphee’s grandmother used to say, “fuck a duck, Gertrude,” how the hell do you get over land with a motley band if you don’t have conveyance? (Perhaps with a séance?) We puzzled over this for quite a while before fortune smiled down upon us (as it always does) and placed the means of transport within our grasp. The Barge Canal! (formerly known as the Erie Canal, eighth wonder of the world… back when there were probably only about seven wonders). We made our way to the nearest marina and negotiated passage on a somewhat tired looking riverboat. (That’s right, that’s right… we didn’t have any money, so the negotiation mainly involved sneaking on board while the crew was below deck drinking their wages. Don’t look at me like that…. I’m freaking sensitive, okay?) It’s not the kind of barge you would expect to see on this superannuated waterway, but…. it’ll do, and it’s headed in the right direction.

Before you ask, let me just disclose that, yes, we did get caught and were compelled to renegotiate the price of our passage from “free – stowaway” to “free – galley slave”. Didn’t know those paddle-wheels were driven by brute force, eh? Well… now you know. Just remember – poor Zamboola doesn’t even have arms!