All posts by Joe

Our favorite general.

Last year it was Pinochet. This year, Suharto meets his maker, though what demon fashioned him I shudder to speculate on. More than mass murder and dictatorship united them; they also share the posthumous praise of pundits and political leaders the world over, some of whom have every reason to know better. One can only assume these apologists hold a cynical appreciate of the blood-soaked Indonesian general’s ability to provide wealthy westerners with favorable investment opportunities in what was once seen as the super-domino of U.S. southeast Asia policy. Whatever the truth may be, news articles about Suharto’s passing referred to him as a “modernizer” who brought his country into the global market, though with some level of brutality. His rule was “controversial” due in part to his having eliminated as many as 1 million “alleged communists” during his 35-year rule (not to mention the perhaps 200,000 killed in East Timor). This, according to new Australian Labor prime minister Kevin Rudd, amid “a period of significant growth and expansion,” though Rudd admits, “many have disagreed with his approach.” Including, presumably, the 1.2 million dead and their families. Can you imagine Pol Pot being so eulogized? (At least the syndicated article in my hometown newspaper compared Indonesia’s mass killings with those of Cambodia – a comparison that once drew howls of derision.)

Pinochet enjoyed similar courtesies upon his departure – praise for the firm (if somewhat larcenous) hand on the tiller of the good ship Neoliberalism. One might almost forget that these creatures were cut from the same murderous cloth as Saddam Hussein (and quite frankly, Suharto made Hussein look like a choir boy). The trajectory of Saddam’s career was similar to those of Suharto and Pinochet: a timely assist early on with military coups (Suharto and Pinochet) and botched assassination attempts (Saddam), culminating in full U.S. support through the worst of their atrocities. (In Suharto’s case, this included CIA-supplied lists of names to be eliminated.) This is why, as reported on 60 Minutes last Sunday, Saddam apparently remembered Reagan quite fondly. 1981-89 was Saddam’s bloodiest period cumulatively, and he got nothing but help from us the whole way through.

A simple twist of fate would have had the corporate media and world leaders praising “Saddam the modernizer” at his graveside as well, were it not for his fateful transgression in 1990 (i.e. invading a country we’re friendly with). Instead, he alone of the three is condemned unconditionally as a mass murderer, though perhaps his worst crimes – deadly attacks against the Iranians, whose county he invaded – typically go unmentioned, despite the extensive use of chemical weapons. Clearly, neither mass murder, nor unprovoked invasion, nor the use of non-conventional weapons, is a problem for our leaders, since they have committed (in our names) crimes just as serious over the past few decades. Not surprisingly, British researchers have completed a study that estimates the number of dead in Iraq at around 1 million. That more or less comports with Les Roberts’ study of 18 months ago. The Bush administration and its supporters on both sides of the mainstream political divide are definitely in Suharto-Rwanda land, having long since moved past Pinochet and Saddam.

What’s next? John McCain, who sounds like he’s undergoing anger management training every time he reads a speech? More bodies to come, looks like.

luv u,

jp

Crashing on the couch.

Through the glass darkly. That was our trip home. Better believe it, my friend. (Jesus freaking Christ…. if I say “my friends” again, I’ll turn into John McCain. And we can’t have that… not with all these Lincolns around.)

Okay, well, so I’m not such a good pilot. I kind of already knew that – that’s why we of Big Green made common cause with the likes of Mitch Macaphee, our sometimes-resident mad science advisor. But when Mitch ain’t available, we improvise and… well… things don’t always turn out the way you hope. It hurts my pride to say so, but I did push the stick when I should have pulled it, and our rented space craft went into a dramatic nose-dive. We were dropping faster than the S&P 500 during the dot-com bust (forgive the metaphor). How could I tell? Well, things on the ground were getting awfully big, awfully fast. I was just opening my mouth to say “Marvin (my personal robot assistant)!!!” when the Cheney Hammer Mill got big enough to crack our windshield.

I won’t tell you what came out of my mouth next. (My guess is that you’ve heard the word once or twice, but fuck it… this is a FAMILY blog!) It’s the kind of utterance that comes of driving someone else’s vehicle through one of the only unbroken windows in your squat house – namely, the one right over where I sleep. (Rather, slept.) Glass all over my best bedspread, glass in the water fountain, glass ground into the floor. Worse than that, high-explosive spacecraft fuel had spewed all over the walls (and my bedroom couch) and ignited, reducing my humble domicile to a somewhat more humble state. It was ugly… very ugly. (In fact, it still is ugly, as this catastrophe is compounded by the fact that I am not at all a good housekeeper.)

Were there any injuries? (Thanks for asking, actually.) The most serious one was sustained by John, who laughed so hard at my inept piloting that he was grasping his sides in pain. Big Zamboola caught some shards of windshield glass, but in as much as he possesses his own atmosphere, the shards burned up in re-entry. Moments before the crash, the man-sized tuber scrambled off for his specially designed, climate-controlled, shock-mounted terrarium and strapped himself in. I’m not sure how my brother Matt or the Lincolns managed to emerge unscathed, but it could have something to do with their common interest in avian biology. Yes, they were bird watching in our moment of sheer terror. Callous and uncaring? You might think so. But anti-Lincoln’s lifetime list of birds is getting longer every day. (Between us, I’ve seen the list, and there are at least six or seven chickens on there, entered by name. I’m just saying.)

Okay, well…. so we’re home anyway. I, for one, am glad to have my feet firmly planted on the ancient planks of this august old squathouse once again. It feels good… even if I have to sleep with an umbrella (and a hazmat suit).

Pay off.

It’s an election year and who’s back to visit but Pappy Tax Cut? That’s right – with the financial markets reeling from imploding mortgage-based securities and record high energy prices, the duopoly of federal office holders has decided to cut some checks and pass them out to us proles. Guess they figure we’re pissed off enough to warrant bribery at this point. In any case, a recession during an election year is bad news for either party in a divided government, so you are seeing the kind of “bipartisanship” that in another might be considered a mild form of totalitarianism. Sure, we’re blowing billions of dollars a month (to say nothing of lives lost) trying to hold on to our imperial stake in Iraq and perpetuating astounding economic inequality through a tax system heavily skewed in favor of the hyper-rich, but we’ll borrow even more money now for a one-shot payoff to the American people in hopes they’ll go out and shop and forget about how fucked up everything is.

This is a bit like having a boss that never gives raises but passes out the occasional bonus when he’s feeling magnanimous (trust me, I’ve been there). It doesn’t raise your standard of living… or even maintain it in an environment of rising costs. It just buys temporary quiescence and gives the master a good end-of-year write-off. It keeps our mind off the fact that, for many of us, this “job” doesn’t include health coverage and that the minimal retirement plan is under threat of being dismantled and sold off, Pinochet-style. Even worse, the money they’re sending us is being borrowed from… us. Future us, that is. It’s like they’re Citibank or someone, offering us an extension on our credit line. Write yourself a check and take a much needed vacation! Pay nothing until next April! Kind of freakish. I suppose perhaps the most remarkable thing about the “stimulus” package, as currently proposed, is the fact that it extends something to low and middle income people at all. Sure, they boned the poor and the unemployed on extended benefits, but for this crew of Halliburton Republicans and Eisenhower Democrats, this plan is practically socialism.

Doing this must gall Bush no end. He’s been going around for years repeating the same hackneyed talking points about the U.S. economy, about its “strong fundamentals” and its “resilience”, and never was heard a discouraging word. As recently as this week, his drone Condi “Supertanker” Rice was praising our economic strength at Davos. Lord knows, Bush despises having to reverse himself, like the Custer character in Little Big Man. (I wonder if his father and the old man’s somewhat embarrassing friend had to shame Dubya into it? Hmmmmm….) Whatever its genesis, this half-measure Keynesianism can be seen as the ownership class’s bulwark against much more meaningful adjustments, like restoring some measure of taxation to the extremely rich (i.e. those few who have benefited tremendously from the economic order of the past 25 years), or slapping an excess profits tax on the oil companies, or re-regulating the financial/banking sector, or dismantling the so-called “free trade” investors’ rights agreements. Not that any leading candidates from the nominal left are advocating this, but there’s always a chance someone will if people get mad enough.

For right now, we’ll be expected to subsist on the bone they throw us… and on the cheap spectacle of Bill and Hillary Clinton ripping up what’s left of the Democratic party to advance their careers (all they’ve ever done, really).

luv u,

jp

Downsville.

Electrodes to power, turbines to speed, wind in the willows, egg on your face. What the hell – why can’t we get lift? We need lift, man, lift! Arrrgh! Where the hell is Mitch Macaphee when you need him?

Answer: Buenos Aires, at a mad scientist conference. You know as well as I do, don’t you?

Well, friends and countrymen (and countrywomen, as well… and, well, city men and women… and dogs and cats and….. oooooohhhh!), your associates in Big Green have finally arrived in the environs of the small marbled greenish-blue planet we know as Earth. And when I say “environs,” I mean atmosphere; straight down the chute in our rented spacecraft, nose pointed towards the upstate New York industrial ruin we know as the Cheney Hammer Mill. As John and the others are otherwise occupied, I have taken it upon myself to man the helm, with Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and the man-sized tuber (see his Facebook page) handling the navigation console. (Yes, it takes both of them to do that… and there’s only one chair.) And as you may have gathered from my previous utterance, it’s not going real well. Not real well at all.

Okay, full disclosure: I’ve actually never piloted a spacecraft of any kind before, let alone a rented one. And as many may already know, I don’t have any practical experience in the driver’s seat of any manner of flying machine. Oh, sure… I’ve dabbled from time to time – when a band spends as much of its working life in the icy void between worlds as we do, you tend to pick things up – but there’s nothing that resembles skill in my method… nothing at all. In fact, we’re in the midst of what might be described as an “unpowered descent” and I haven’t the foggiest idea how I initiated it. (I pressed some pretty buttons, pulled a lanyard or two, and heard a strange crunching noise… that’s all I remember, officer. Swear to Jesus or Moses or any of them saints.)

Ahead of me I can see the North American continent growing larger and larger. Pretty soon it fills the viewing screen. I point the rented space cruiser towards the dotted outline of New York State and begin looking for the inscriptions for “Little Falls”. 100,000…. 75,000… 45,000 feet and still nothing! Then it strikes me… ouch! Damn lanyard hit me right in the face! (Rat bastard.) There was also something else… this must be a topographical continent, not a political one. No wonder there’s no type, no little target-like symbol over Albany, no heavy lines for major thoroughfares. Looks like I’ll have to land without those subtle cues. Marvin points to a fat-looking peak – could this be Bear Mountain? Need a map, damnit. Tubey – Look in the glove compartment. Good vegetable.

What’s this…. the lights are going out. The sun has gone behind the horizon. I’ve got to fly this thing in the DARK? And my navigator is back on Facebook? Jeeezus.

Winners and losers.

As of this writing, there have been 3 “major” primary contests on the Republican side – Iowa, New Hampshire, and Michigan – and just as many winners. Good grief. One might only hope that it would continue along these lines, right up to their caveman convention. Still, I’m certain they’ll congeal around one of those disgusting blisters and proceed with their usual (and often successful) attempt to race-bait, terror-scam, and otherwise bluster their way into the White House for another term. Hardly matters who the actual candidate will be – whichever one takes his party’s grisly mantle, he will no doubt benefit enormously from television ads that open with an ominous low note and a blurry photograph of their opponent. Just hold out for a few more weeks, folks, then it’ll be open season. (They’re loading up the slime cannons right now.) And whoever emerges from the fray with the most votes this November… well, their savaged remains will take up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Okay, so what are the Democrats doing? Well, they’re busily generating ammunition for the Republicans to use in their Fall campaign. Expect to hear familiar themes being sounded across the airwaves this fall, to say nothing of what will arrive in your mailbox (and inbox). During the 2006 congressional race – a hotly contested one up in my neck of the woods – the national Republican party was airing T.V. ads and sending out glossy fliers depicting pole dancers that they inferred had some tenuous connection with Democratic candidate (now congressman) Michael Arcuri. That was just plain low, sure, but what impressed me most was the sheer volume of advertising. If nothing else, it gives you a sense of what it’s like to live in a contested state – something New York has not been since maybe 1984, with respect to the general election. So pretty much any negative campaigning during primary season will be recycled and amplified by the opposition come September.

In one sense, this is the dynamic that drove Democratic support for the Iraq war authorization resolution back in 2002. Many war supporters wanted to inoculate themselves from being attacked as “soft on Saddam” and, more generally, “soft on terror”. I don’t believe for a moment that it was any great moral leap for Hillary Clinton to vote with the president on that. She practically out-Cheneyed Cheney on the Senate floor as they debated that ridiculous resolution. And my feeling is that she will take ownership of that vote again if circumstances allow her (and the administration) to act as though there’s something to celebrate in our Iraq policy. That’s why John McCain is strutting around like a turkey… because he feels like his brick-brained support for the invasion of Iraq is finally paying off. Hillary may end up playing that card as well. Never mind that their support for the war has led to the deaths of probably 750,000 to 1 million people and created 4 million refugees. That’s Rwanda territory, far outstripping Saddam’s record… and they can stack that atop the probably 500,000 who died as a result of U.S./U.K. -driven sanctions during the 1990s. And I don’t hear any convincing talk of withdrawal from either side, so it’s likely to add up to even more.

Bottom line: whoever wins, Iraq loses. You can take that to the bank.

luv u,

jp

Put out.

Hmmm… thought I shut that thing down. Lincoln – have you been using this computer again? How ’bout you, Anti-Lincoln? Big Zamboola? Right. Must’ve been the other ones. Man god damn.

Oh, hi. Lucky thing you’re reading this, really. Some of our Big Green travel associates have been monopolizing our one reliable connection to the “Internets”, as Stephen Colbert calls it, for their own evil purposes. No, I don’t mean Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been cavorting with his fellows in Captured By Robots, or that the man-sized tuber is plotting with his co-religionists in some kind of anti-animal jihad (I believe the are Unitarians, but don’t quote me on that). Nay, I refer to their recent obsession with so-called “social networking” sites – your MySpaces, your FaceBooks, your Linkedins (though one might have thought that the Lincolns would be all over that last one…. it is for the more mature amongst us, after all….)

So… how, you may ask, can these strange tag-alongs feed their new-found obsession whilst we are bobbing aimlessly in space on a rented interstellar craft? Well, I’m gon’ tell yuh. This here cream puff of a space ship we borrowed has got one hell of a wireless connection. I mean, this sucker can connect from a distance of 3.5 light years, without losing any bandwidth. Crikey – I can watch that freaking guy screaming about Britney Spears all the way from Aldebron! Okay, so you’re probably thinking, “Hey, fucker, there’s only one Web-connected terminal on board… why can’t you keep them off of it?” (Not thinking that? All right then. What was I thinking?) The truth is, I can’t really tell these guys anything. Now they only communicate through virtual groups and friend lists and other strange methods for avoiding conversation. (Did I say that?)

That’s not the only thing holding me back. I mean, you have to do something with your time during these long treks across the trackless wastes of outer space. Tubey and Marvin soak up the hours in front of a computer screen. Matt fills in tablets with imaginary bird sightings (he conducted his own personal Christmas Bird Count en route to Proxima Centauri, where there’s nary a pigeon to be counted). John builds model volcanoes and juggles the disembodied heads of ventriloquist dummies (gotta have a hobby). Big Zamboola practices his gravity phenomena, while the Lincolns catch up on their history (140+ years of catching up to do, and posi-Lincoln is only up to the progressive era). Me, I’ve got my distractions, most of which involve sleeping. I’ve been known to yawn a bit in my free time, and I’m a semi-professional dreamer. Not much on snoring, but I dabble.

Matt thinks I should put my foot down. Not with respect to the on-board Web surfing, you understand… he just wants me to get my feet off the furniture. I’ve got an answer for him, but he’s going to have to look at my Facebook page. (Gawd… not me too!)

Peace tank.

Has George W. Bush finally decided he needs some kind of positive legacy, if only to strengthen his “brand” as a defense / oil industry consultant in the near future? Perhaps. Though one could hardly imagine a more flaccid and lackluster initiative than the one he has set in motion with the Annapolis conference. It took some real effort to sustain the delusion that the United States was some kind of honest broker in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through Reagan, Bush I, and Clinton; with the current administration, the suggestion is merely laughable. For almost seven years, Bush has aligned himself with some of the most reactionary political forces in Israel. He called Sharon a “man of peace” even as he was smashing the life out of hundreds of Palestinians during the dark days of Spring 2002 (I recall a Newsday article by Ed Gargan from that time describing how IDF soldiers even vandalized a girl’s school, smashing windows, stealing musical instruments, and scrawling obscenities on blackboards). He backed that killer whale with arms, diplomatic support, and cash as settlements in the West Bank and East Jerusalem expanded and multiplied and the infrastructure of apartheid broke the Palestinian nation into a hundred pieces.

Now Dubya has taken it into his tiny head to visit some of the rubble that he so gleefully helped to generate over his two grisly terms. I’m sure he would be glad to see a peace agreement signed before next January. The fact is, they may well push Abbas to sign some piece of paper in the next year, but it’s not likely to address even the most minimal concerns of the suffering populations in Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem. As weak and unpopular a leader as Olmert is, he at least has the resources of a functioning state with well established institutions and a military that rivals those of the most powerful of our NATO allies. Abbas is a Palestinian leader chosen by Israel, elected under occupation with no meaningful opposition allowed, and “presiding” over a divided rump state effectively controlled by an invader and superimposed by the ever-expanding footprint of colonialism. Is the world supposed to view this as a negotiation between equals?

In any case, since when is an occupied people expected to negotiate their liberty from the power that illegally invaded and colonized them? Would this have been expected of Poland in the 1940s? Of Hungary in 1956? Shouldn’t we find the very idea morally repugnant, in addition to being a grave breach of international law? For chrissake, even if you could argue with any justice that the Israelis needed to occupy the territories beyond their pre-June 1967 borders for these forty years (a dubious notion), how can anybody… anybody justify the official policy of incentivizing Jewish-only settlements on those lands – a practice that has been in effect from the very beginning of the occupation? If Israelis feel that the very presence of Palestinians poses a danger to them, why do they insist on building colonial outposts in their midst? Palestinians would have to be utter morons to think that the state of Israel had no designs on their land… or that they had any serious intention of giving it back at some point. They would have to be insane to think that the U.S. – and particularly this president – which has financed, at least indirectly, the expansion of Israeli settlements and related infrastructure, will ever act as an honest broker.

If Bush wants “peace” on his resume, he should face facts. Real peace will only come when Israel packs up its settlements and returns to its internationally recognized borders. That’s where negotiations should begin.

luv u,

jp

Them is us.

I heard a Washington Post columnist on NPR (yes, I listen from time to time, gnashing my teeth) talking about his latest book – an extended satirical essay on how our national political leaders in Washington D.C. are a kind of species unto themselves, with their own language, culture, and value systems completely distinct from those of the rest of the country. I know he’s playing this for laughs, but this is the sort of fable that nourishes the very manner of political beast he parodies. I ask you – who runs for national office without attacking some aspect of Washington D.C.? Isn’t that the horse that Dubya rode into town on, as well as nearly all of his predecessors for the past 30 years? They all embark on this mission to clean up the mess in our nation’s capital. Even after seven years in the White House, junior is still reading from that same tired “outsider” script. The reason is simple – people don’t see their desires or priorities reflected in federal policies, so Washington itself is painted as the problem… and a damned convenient one at that.

Well, there is a problem, but it’s not just in Washington. Fact is, it’s in us. We all drink the Kool-Aid that these folks serve up every two years. They tell us we can have roads, bridges, schools, retirement, and a bottomless military budget without paying higher taxes, and many of us believe. They tell us we invaded Iraq to help the Iraqi people (by giving them a one-way ticket to perdition, it turns out), and many of us believe. They tell us our nation can do practically anything it wants in the world and never be wrong, and that sounds good to us, too. We believe because we want to believe… we want to feel good about who and what we are, and not feel guilty about what we’ve done to other people around the world (to say nothing of our fellow citizens, including those unfortunate enough to be stuck in Iraq or Afghanistan). So we give politicians our votes. And if there’s a problem, it’s Washington’s fault.

I know you already know this, but I’ll say it anyway just to remind myself. Those people in Washington D.C. we so revile were sent there by us. They do what they do because they feel confident that between election days we’ll be too busy, too distracted, and too disengaged to have anything to do with the actual process of national governance. They assume (based on experience) that we can be bought off with a few pleasing tales (or by slinging a guitar and talking folksy), while they almost unfailingly serve the interests of those centers of concentrated wealth that own this country. And to a large extent, they are correct. The only way we can stand against those powerful institutions is by building our own popular institutions, by organizing and acting in our own common interests. Corporate America has nothing but money, and we have nothing but numbers – we can prevail if we are willing to abandon the notion that progress comes in a glossy package.

The bought and paid-for politicians will try to convince you that Washington is the enemy. Don’t buy it. Washington will change when we change ourselves and not before.

luv u,

jp

Well, there’s rice.

I hear rocks… rocks bubbling. Or is that something else. Wait a tick, wait a tick… could be… Yes, by god it is. It’s… the man-sized tuber cooking dinner. Again.

I suppose it probably comes as no surprise to those of you who have known Big Green for more than a week or two that an oversized vegetable does much of our cooking. Yeah, we’re vegetarians, and I think that particularly resonates with the man-sized tuber – my guess is that he thinks the safest place for a vegetable around here is on the handle-end of the ladle. Fact is, we don’t eat a lot of root vegetables, and the man-sized tuber is far too tough to roast, far to fibrous to fry, far too husky to boil. He’s just plain inedible, that’s what it comes down to. (Though with a handful of shallots and a splash of merlot, he might respond to an overnight marinade. Mmmmmm-boy.) Wait, tubey, wait…. just kidding, man! Aw, put the pot down. Put it DOWN. No. NO. NOOOOOOOO…

Oh, okay – he’s just moving it to the back burner. Can’t hear real well, our tubey. I keep forgetting. Well, what the hell else is new? Oh, yeah. We’re hurtling through space in our new ride. Yessir, the cobbed together playground equipment we’ve been using to traverse interstellar space finally proved itself unworthy of even terrestrial travel, so we broke down (quite literally) and scraped together enough scratch to rent ourselves a ship… a proper ship. Not the kind that comes in a bottle, mind you – a space vessel, with functioning navigational controls, living quarters, and a hull that will hold atmosphere. But where… where would we find such a conveyance out here in the void between Cancri 55 and Earth? Actually, not that much of a problem. Hey… every shit town has its commercial strip, with gas stations and used car lots, right? Well, this interstellar backwater is no different. We just followed the neon lights and pulled into Proxima Centaurii Motor Rentals and South Asian Grocery. (Take exit 452a, just past the companion star – can’t miss it.)

I’ve never been any good at haggling, so I left the negotiations to John, and he came away with a sharp looking little unit for a one-way rental back to Earth. All we had to do was, well, hand over the licensing proceeds to our recordings for a radius of three light-years around Proxima Centaurii for the next three years – not too shabby, since we’ve yet to sell a single disc out here. (Don’t say anything!) That and whatever else we had in our pockets, including the last of our Cancri 55 currency. Got to tell you, it’s a relief to stand on a solid deck once again, instead of monkey bars… particularly when you’re traveling at 65% light velocity. And crew cabins, for chrissake! Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was immediately tasked with setting up the galley for the man-sized tuber.

So here we are, cruising along towards home, rice on the boil. Why rice? It’s cheap, that’s why. We blew the bankroll on this ship. Sure, it would be nice if we had a few vegetables to sauté;…. nice… root…. vegetables…..

Happy what-ness.

Did you hear what I heard? Was that… sleigh bells? That can only mean one thing. That’s right, children… it’s the sound of jolly old fire alarm. The engines are burning up.

Yes, yes… Christmas freaking day. Don’t you just love this time of year? (Judging by your reaction, perhaps “love” was the wrong word.) Don’t you just fireplug this time of year? (That’s a bit better.) Over here in Big Green land, we have a reputation for keeping Christmas better than any virtual pop band you can name that traverses interstellar space and has a robot friend (and hangs out with Lincoln). Sure, that’s mostly down to our first album, 2000 Years To Christmas, now a venerable nine holidays old and still available for purchase and/or download at a retailer near you (or not so near you … check us out on the Russian mp3 download site Yanga.ru, which ranks us among “Best Artists” under Psychedelic Rock… and whose url sounds strangely like “kangaroo”, of which there are few in mother Russia). Yes, it’s hard to think of “Christmas” and “obscure indie alternative psychedelic (in Russia) rock” in the same breath without thinking Big Green. (So far, that’s the legacy. Don’t spend it all in one place.)

But our holiday isn’t just about the music. No, no… we follow tradition over here. Every Christmas, we break out the crackers and start passing out gifts, just like any normal band. And friends, this year is certainly no exception, even though we are bobbing here in space, directionless, our controls replaced by discarded vegetables, our navigation effectively disabled. No matter – the man-sized tuber donned his garish Christmas sweater and led a somewhat enfeebled rendition of “Oh, Holy Night” (which degenerated into “Oh, Holy Shit!” when the fire alarm went off). Due to limited shopping opportunities in deep space, we did a sort of round-robin gift exchange, a secret Santa type deal, drawing straws for gifts.

Who did I pick? Well, as it happened, I got Big Zamboola. He’s a little hard to shop for, but I got my hands on something I always felt he needed – head covering. Unlike full-sized planets, Zamboola doesn’t benefit from active weather patterns, mainly because he is no longer orbiting a star, so his delicate surface is virtually unprotected by cloud cover. (Sounds practical, eh? WTF – it was all I could think of, frankly.) My “secret Santa” was Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who handed me something that might have been a battleship or an enormous Chicklet, but was, in fact, a humble kitchen sponge. (Marvin went a little overboard on the wrapping this year. Could have knocked me over with a feather when I opened that sucker.) Our shipboard penury notwithstanding, it was a holiday celebration very much in the spirit of previous years. Lincoln made punch. (And that punch had a kick – thank you, great emancipator.)

So whoever you are, whatever you are, Big Green sends its best from its flying yurt. See you back on Earth…. assuming we arrive sometime this century. (Are the primaries over yet?)