No, no… don’t run. I won’t go there. Just humming quietly to myself. World of my own. Did I hear a whistle just then? Passing bobolink, perhaps? Perhaps not. Did I say something? Did you?
So much for twenty questions. (Always hated that game!) Well, here we are in deep, deep shit… I mean, space, trying to feel our way from solar system to solar system without the benefit of anything even resembling a trained spacecraft pilot. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) keeps insisting that he knows how to drive this thing, but quite honestly… I can’t understand a word he’s saying, and unless he makes himself a bit clearer, I simply cannot risk putting all of our lives in his “hands” (actually claws, but you get me). Mitch Macaphee, our chief science advisor, claims to have a master’s license, and he has actually piloted us through this “middle passage” between solar systems before, but…. well…. he’s having a bit of a bender this week. Got his hands on some Neptunian schnapps during our showcase on Uranus and, well… the rest is history (or should I say nausea). Anyway, not a chance of letting him have the tiller.
Of course, that leaves us quite literally rudderless. I mean, I don’t know how to fly this thing. And much as I have every confidence in Trevor James Constable as an expert in etheric or bioplasmic energy, piloting interstellar RV’s is a little beyond his ken. And sFshzenKlyrn… don’t even get me started 
on him. The last time we let our Zenite guitarist take the reins, he took us on a scrape ’round the galaxy none of us are likely to forget. (As a pan-dimensional being of no fixed shoe size, sFshzenKlyrn regards conventional scientific devices like space ships as nothing more than cheap carnival rides.) So ultimately I’ve resorted to just snapping a little toggle switch on our control console that’s marked “Auto Pilot”. (Actually, it has an engraved plate that reads “Hatch Light”, but that’s crossed out and “Auto Pilot” is written over it in crayon.) Up to now, we haven’t crashed into anything… but then I don’t think we’re any closer to Kaztropharius 137b, either. It’s probably too soon in our meanderings to ask Big Zamboola if he knows how to drive this thing. (After him, it’s the man-sized tuber.
How have our gigs gone so far? Glad you asked. This is interesting, actually. The Neptune jobs were actually quite well attended, though because of the poisonous atmosphere, we were unable to really connect with the crowd… or even see them through the vapors. So how did I know anyone was out there? Could see the glowing ends of their fancy panatela cigars, that’s how. The rest was just simple arithmetic. (Big favorite up there on Neptune, those stogies – if you ever want to make friends there, just flick your little oxygen lighter and fire one of those babies up. They’ll treat you like their old uncle scaly.) The showcase thing on Uranus didn’t go so hot, frankly. I told you about Mitch’s little… well… issue. Then the stage, for Christ’s sake, was made of molten nickel. (We have a stipulation 
written into our standard contract that magma-based performance surfaces are not acceptable – John White insisted on that, and with good reason!) To top it all off, it turned out that the representative from Loathsome Prick Records was a real… well… loathsome prick. Who woulda thunk it? (You woulda? Hmmmmm….)
So we’re essentially two for three on this GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE SUMMER TOUR 2006. Not too shabby. That is, if you don’t count the fact that we’re drifting aimlessly at this particular juncture. At least now posi-Lincoln has an opportunity to catch up with some of those club owners, and he has been working the wireless relentlessly since we executed our trans-stellar injection. I think he’s hoping to get us into the Hard Rock Cafe on Polaris, but don’t hold your breath. (Hmmm… Maybe we should give Marvin a crack at that astrogator….
