What time is it? Say what? Can’t be that yet, can it? Seems like we just got up… and now it’s night fall. Oh, right. Small planet. Fast rotation. Got it.
Trouble with being on the road is you never know what town you’re waking up in. Or what planet. That’s bad enough when you have a set itinerary, but with Big Green… mother of pearl! Even when you’ve got your wits about you, it’s hard to figure out where the hell you’re playing. Like this little planetoid Urich our pilot drove us into. It’s not on any astronomical charts. It’s as yet undiscovered and unacknowledged by the scientific community. So, when we walk out on stage to do a few numbers, what the hell do we shout out to the crowd of hideously misshapen extraterrestrial concert-goers? “Helllooooooooo……. whatever!” Got any suggestions? Let us know, damn it. It’s disorienting, and I’m about as disorientated as anyone needs to be. (Except maybe the man-sized tuber… only he’s got a terrarium.)
Well, we did manage to find an opportunity to perform here on the mysterious planet Neuton. The inhabitants seem particularly fond of early 20th century calliope music and something they call “juggling”, which is a kind of anti-gravity technique involving multiple objects that don’t ordinarily float in mid-air without encouragement. But that’s 
just culture shock, I guess. There are more practical concerns. For instance, transportation is a serious issue. About the only way you can get anywhere on this planet is either by cramming into a tiny vehicle with about 20 Neutonians in full traditional garb, or getting on a tiny one-wheeled conveyance and riding to your destination across a stretched cable. (They throw a spotlight on you while you’re doing it. It’s very unnerving.) And since when are there elephants on other planets? I’ve always thought of them as the quintessential Earth animal, but I guess I’m wrong. (Here they do tricks. Curious thing.)
We performed in this large canvas enclosure propped up with enormous poles. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) didn’t like this at all – in fact, he refused to step inside, apparently taken with the impression that it might fall 
down on his polished brass head. We finally convinced him to join us on stage, though he would only agree if we gave him a barrel to stand on and a small theatrical umbrella to hold absurdly over his head. (Only tubey seemed to enjoy the spotlight.) Later that evening, we were invited to the local magistrate’s home for what was ostensibly a “meet and greet” event, during which an appalling assortment of Neutonians came up to us in their absurdly oversized footwear and performed their traditional greeting ritual, which involves shoving a sacred custard pie in each of our faces, then baptizing us with purified holy water sprayed out of a decorative lapel flower. This gets a little old… especially when the magistrate invites his entire extended family.
Hey – you got to pay to play, right? Just ask Blagojevich. And now that we’ve divested ourselves of all custard, perhaps Urich will be so kind as to GET US THE HELL OUT OF HERE…….!
