Tag Archives: interstellar tour

Usual Rubbish

Event horizon.


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.

Usual Rubbish

Lunch plus 5.

No sandwich? No matter. Open another can. Try one of those square ones. What’s inside that one? I’ll be damned. We must have taken the wrong cans. Domage!

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.)

Well, as you can see, we are bobbing through space in our rented space craft, foraging for sustenance, flipping through superannuated star charts, hoping for a break in our navigational quandary. Sadly, Big Green didn’t have the budget for a proper navigator, so once again, we have pressed Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, into the pilot’s couch. (Stool, actually. As I said, this is a cheap rental.) Our first destination? Neptune. Back to Neptune once again, where the bars are always open, the streets are always molten, and the sun is always obscured by deadly clouds of methane gas. Kind of like L.A., actually.

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.

Well, I apologize. I may be a bit space happy. (Or space not-so-happy, more likely.) Our destination is a small, white dot that gets a wee bit larger with each passing hour. That’s potentially a good thing, depending upon what that dot becomes when it’s large enough to see in detail. Will it become Neptune, or perhaps a white dwarf star? I know not. Ask Matt, he knows. I … know … not.

Man oh man, I hope one of these cans has a sandwich in it. I’m about to freaking pass out. Try the triangular one – it might be one of those automat egg salad jobs.

Usual Rubbish

Week that was.


Here is the week that was:

Sunday evening, 6:37 p.m. – Mitch Macaphee test-fires the main engine on our ramshackle space craft; the one that will supposedly carry us to many a far-flung rock venue in the galaxy. Based on what I heard, I have my doubts about this vehicle. It took Mitch about fifteen pulls of that rip cord to get the thing smoking, and that’s about all it did… smoke. No lift. Matt just looked on and shook his head. I saw that and shook my head. Whole lot of shakin’ going on ’round here.

Monday afternoon, 12:45 p.m. – Sumptuous lunch of cheese doodles and expired raisins. Did I say sumptuous? I meant nauseating. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) is practicing his galley skills. He has volunteered to be our ship’s cook. Lincoln refuses to call him “cookie” (as Marvin has asked to be called). Anti-Lincoln vehemently disagrees with that refusal. We shake our heads, yet again.

Monday night, 10:30 p.m. – Oh, great – now there’s drinking. No, not the band. (I’m on the wagon, for one, after that last tour.) I mean the man-sized tuber. He’s chugging great gobs of Miracle Grow in hopes of making himself too big to fit into his interstellar terrarium. Apparently he has come to despise that thing, as he does any object that resembles a pot. Fortunately, he’s on wheels, so no matter how large he gets, we can push him along. Or pull him behind. Do plants breathe?

Wednesday morning, 3:00 a.m. – This isn’t a legitimate entry… it’s just the name of a Simon and Garfunkel album. Pretend you didn’t read this.

Thursday afternoon, 2:45 p.m. – Fuel shipment arrives from Madagascar. (Don’t ask me. Mitch found the vendor.) Not sure how our spacecraft is supposed to run on compact alfalfa pellets. This shit looks like rabbit food to me. Mitch assures us that this will carry us from one end of the galaxy to the other. And there is much rejoicing.

Friday night, just past 7:00 p.m. – I finally find that ballpoint pen I lost last week. Was scribbling a threatening note to my creditors, and in my incandescent rage, the thing flipped out of my hand and rolled away. Oh… and we started our countdown to liftoff, by the way. I won’t tell you how far we’ve gotten.