Cold fingers? Rub them together. I know we’re in a trackless void with temperatures approaching absolute zero – just rub a little harder.
Just coming off of a ripping good string of performances on Neptune, mother of all Big Green fans in the outer rings of our solar system. (Good to know we’re still loved by someone… or some THING.) When I say “ripping good”, I mean it certainly seemed that way to us. As some of you may know, however, the atmosphere on Neptune contains many elements not prevalent in our own sweet Earth-bound air, so frankly, after a couple of sets breathing that stuff, I get a little punchy. You could tell me iron is chocolate and I’d believe you. You could tell me Carl Paladino is sane, and I’d buy it. It’s just that crazy. So… we may have played well, but possibly not. Or “splunge”, as Monty Python would put it.
Some of you may remember the distinctly terrestrial phenomenon we encountered on Neptune last time out of people chucking things at us while we play. Now, this is bad enough at home, as many a rock circuit veteran will tell you. Bottles, bricks, ice, you name it. Playing QE2 in Albany? Bring a riot shield! Well, out here it’s similar, except that 
many of the objects are molten or flaming. Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, developed flame resistant suits for us to wear on stage, but they are less than comfortable. Suffice to say, we are good duckers. I’ve also programmed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to emit a robotian cry every time some projectile is header our way. “INCOMING!” he shouts, and we know just what to do.
Well, that’s as it may be. But once we moved along towards our second venue, things started happening. Ominous things. Our rented space craft – I’m convinced it’s a converted garbage scow (either that or the mansized tuber has started to go off a bit) – must have sprung a leak somewhere on Neptune. It’s cold as freaking hell in here. And as Dante scholars know, hell is really all about cold at its very core. Nippy, to say the least. Where the hell is that draft coming from, Lincoln? Did you leave your portside window open again?
Off to the galley for nice warm cup of grog. Hopefully sFshzenKlyrn will spike it with a bit of Zenite snuff. I’ll let you know.
Imperial Prerogatives. There has been a lot of reporting on Pakistan the last couple of weeks. Their military closed a crossing to U.S. convoys on the Af-Pak border in response to a range of disagreements, not least of which are disputes over U.S. and NATO (essentially U.S.) incursions into Pakistani national territory. There is a kind of impatience to the reporting, communicating the administration’s and the military’s frustration with Pakistan’s failure to adequately support their seemingly endless war in Afghanistan. It’s reminiscent of the official line during the Vietnam war, when American officials would complain about “sanctuaries” in Cambodia and Laos, while they confidently flew devastating bombing runs out of their own “sanctuaries” in Thailand and elsewhere.
Okay, so we don’t have any Domage. What the hell are we supposed to eat up here in the middle of nowhere? NO MORE CHESSE-BASED SNACK FOODS! I’VE HAD IT WITH THAT GARBAGE! (Hopefully the Cheese-It people don’t read this blog – I’d hate like hell to loose that endorsement money.)
Okay, so here I am in deep space, sitting back, strumming on my beat-up Martin, waiting for someone to open a can of something edible, and I start hearing alarm bells. My first thought is, “Meteor storm!” The very thought sends Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into the automatonic version of cardiac arrest. He scrambles to a random control panel and starts throwing switches. Expecting the worst, I don the nearest empty beer ball and hold my breath. The alarm sounds again. Out of the galley walks Lincoln with a microwave burrito. Cancel red alert. I SAID CANCEL!!! Thank you.