Is that a southern moon or a northern one? Little hard to tell from this perspective. Everything is relative, relatively speaking. I even have relatives in my band. Matt Perry – my brother. Little known fact. Oh, and John White… brother-in-law. Kazow – now you know.
Okay, so anyway. Big Green has embarked on its very special GET ME THE HELL OUTA HERE Tour 2006, after much discussion of logistical considerations, much debate, much… too much… pain in the ass nattering over every detail, our great space cruiser finally lifted off, hours behind schedule. Like 400 hours. (That’s actually days behind schedule, but we’ll call it hours.) Well, like I said, there was a lot of preliminary bullshit. Ship’s manifests to manifest. An entire complement to compliment. Orders to be put in order…. I’m telling you, these things take time. The important thing is, we sailed off into the heavens with all of us on board, and just minutes behind the arrival of the bailiffs at the door of the semi-deconstructed Cheney Hammer Mill. (Close shave!)
Many people have asked (don’t ask how many… just trust me) about the spacecraft we use (I’m telling you, it’s more than a few people… lots of people, okay?) when we go on these interstellar tours — how does it work, what are its origins, etc.? Well, for those of you who are just dying to know (and you know who you are), we drive a reconstituted stunt model for the original Jupiter 2 spacecraft used in the Lost In Space television series of the 1960s. No, it doesn’t run on “deutronium” fuel, as that ridiculous show 
suggested, any more than Dick Nixon ran on cottage cheese and ketchup (beyond a certain point). Thanks to the efforts of our chief science advisor, Mitch Macaphee, the phony J-2 is propelled by an eludium positron star-drive with a maximum range of 7500 light years between refuelings. Now that’s economy. Don’t know how it works exactly, but when it’s idling it sounds like this:
….Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa Pocketa….
Yeah, I know. Mitch says they all do that. It gets us where we need to go, that’s the point.
But there are more reasons for using the J-2 than mere economy. Frankly, it’s jolly comfortable – like an RV in space. What’s more, it’s supremely robot-friendly. What with Marvin (my personal robot assistant) as an important member of our contingent (as far as the cyborgs of the galaxy are concerned), this is a prime consideration. The J-2 has a customized magnetic “lock” pedestal built for automatons – old Marvin just steps in there, throws a switch, and he can stand through 40 g’s of forward thrust 
without pegging a single dial. (That’s how a robot spells comfort, my friend.) The man-sized tuber has his customized terrarium on the lower deck, and even Big Zamboola finds plenty of room to bounce around in the engine room / power core area. What the hell, we’ve got a crew that defies simple definition, if you catch my meaning. Not just any interstellar craft will accommodate them all.
Anyway, so here’s the plan: We arrive on Neptune this weekend for a couple of pick-up performances, booked at the last minute by Posi-Lincoln, followed by a showcase on Uranus sponsored by Loathsome Prick Records, then it’s off to Kaztropharius 137b for our triumphant return. By that time, hopefully, we will know where the hell else we’re going. (Keep watching that FAX machine, Lincoln – those signed contracts should be coming through any time now!)
Even if that long-range missile worked, they couldn’t put their nukes on it… and even if they could, firing one at us or our allies would be like firing a pistol at a machine gun nest — a “suicide weapon” in the truest sense of the phrase. It is strange that we tend to behave as though we are threatened by these impoverished societies when, in fact, it is we who pose an existential threat to them. And we’ve demonstrated our willingness to attack without provocation.
Trouble is, she really believes that trash she’s talking, aging Goldwater girl that she is. 
Whoops. Didn’t know you were copying all that. Just practicing my ship-board jargon. Getting a little bit rusty, what with having spent the last year on solid ground. My pirate words are getting all tangled up with one another. (Hard enough to understand those scurvy fuckers to begin with without putting their ravings through a scrambler.) We’re getting awfully close to launch time (it’s about noon right now, and I’m getting peckish) … launch time, and if I’m going to be scuffling around in zero gravity environments, I want to talk the talk as well as walk the walk, you follow me? Arrrgghh.
large swaths of the language they have appropriated to their own dark purposes… just TRY. Okay, I’m a bit on edge – I admit. This trip is looming, and I’m just not ready. Not packed, not rehearsed, no house-sitter. I haven’t even gotten Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to agree to sign an appearance contract so that he can join us on stage without charging extra money later on. (Oh, he learns QUICKLY.)
I’m not sure where they found out about 
effectively cutting off electricity and water to entire communities. No small matter in such a place. Civilian casualties have been reported to be minimal, even non-existent, up to this writing, but are they checking the hospitals? People on respirators? Old folks who need meds, heart monitors, etc.? 
This is all about keeping the conflict in the military sphere, where the Israelis have an insurmountable advantage, as opposed to the diplomatic/political sphere, where they haven’t a legitimate leg to stand on. If nothing else, the events of this week illustrate what a sham this Gaza “disengagement” policy has been. The place is completely under the control of the Israelis. They control all the exits and entrances. Their massive air force flies over at will, and they lob tank shells and fire missiles into the strip at every opportunity. This is the kind of sovereignty Palestinians on the West Bank can look forward to as well. It is the fulfillment of the vision articulated by an Israeli politician some years back, that the Palestinians should be made to exist like “drugged roaches in a bottle.” An apt description of the quality of life in Gaza, to be sure. 
I’m sitting on the landing gear of our rent-a-spacecraft, killing time as my cohorts continue their preparations for the upcoming 
base out yonder. (So if you’re listening out there… he’s coming, damn it! Stop e-mailing me, you obsessive cyborgs!) Yes, we will have the full complement on board the imitation J-2 space cruiser; a regular who’s who of Notes From Sri Lanka lore. We got your man sized tuber, your 
Not sure. Fact is, we set them up before really thinking through what the effect of doing so would be. So rather than let all that good work go to waste…. we left them there. And we mounted one outside the front viewing port of our space craft. Call it a hood ornament… or a baby monitor.
them there so we don’t have to fight them here. It’s America or Al Qaida. When the Iraqis stand up, we’ll stand down. The ludicrous John McCain was on a morning show, using words like “frustratingly slow” and “painful”, and claiming “No one said this was going to be easy.” (Uh… yeah, they did. And you agreed. 
Then there was the dreaded North Koreans and their mighty missile of death. The way the administration talks, you’d think it was the only ICBM on the planet. Jesus, how many times have we test-launched missiles capable of reaching North Korea? And while you’re working on that one, think about the likelihood that more than a few of our thousands of nuclear tipped ICBMs (all on launch-ready status) are targeted on Pyongyang. This is not idle speculation or paranoia — this is a very real danger from their perspective, made worse by 1.) our general bellicosity 2.) our deployment of “missile defense” batteries around the Pacific rim, and 3.) the fact that we flattened North Korea entirely once before within living memory. Pyongyang’s nuclear arsenal, on the other hand, consists of maybe one or more bombs (and maybe none at all), plus a missile the last version of which failed during a test in 1998. 
Okinawa! (Another island entirely.) We are getting closer to the goal of launching our ad hoc interplanetary tour. How much closer? Well… I’ve got a hat, a baseball hat, and it says 
chrissake. We need to make hay, gentlemen, make hay. Cause as we’ve learned from Edward G. Robinson during Israel’s captivity in Egypt… can’t make bricks without straw. Nyeaah. Where’s your Moses now….? 
the usual venues, mailing out contracts. He’s actually pretty good at it, though he does tend to write everything down on ancient pieces of paper that have already been written on. One of them had his old address on it – guess he lived in Gettysburg once. Who knew? Damn his habits of thrift! Not the most efficient filing system, but hell… it’s better than mine. (Mine was bombed out with the mill, thankfully.)
with the new Iraqi Prime Minister. A little theater for the folks back home, whose attention need not be drawn to the fact that Baghdad remains so dangerous after 3 years of “nation building” that the President of the United States still has to scurry in and out of there like a rat. That’s progress.
Israeli prime minister Olmert says Israel will not go back to its 1967 borders because they are “indefensible.” Funny – that’s just the word I would use to describe almost forty years of denying an entire people national rights, basic dignity, and in many cases, life itself.
Guess we’ve got that old travelin’ blues. Ain’t that how the song goes? (There seem to be a lot of old songs on my mind these days, I must admit. Please forgive me.) Anyway, you’d have them too if somebody blew a big hole in YOUR squat-house. Crikey, the whole place smells like charcoal and old hammer-stock splinters. Old anti-Lincoln can’t even make himself a plate of anti-matter toaster waffles without nearly yakking all over his stew. Intolerable, I tell you. Just the sort of situation that would drive normally reasonable derelicts such as ourselves to thoughts of the road… of performing before throngs of adoring fans (many of which have two or even THREE heads)… of visiting exotic ports of call in undiscovered galaxies. Of… of…. of escape, damn it, escape!
Robots of Marvin’s general classification don’t frown, exactly, but they do have subtle ways of letting you know that they are not too pleased with what you’re demanding of them. Lookit — when professor Mitch Macaphee builds a robot, it’s bound to be more than just a soulless servo-mechanism. Our Marvin has feelings, you know? And opinions, lots of opinions. Only thing is, he’s programmed to be somewhat reticent, in an automatonic sort of way. (I keep thinking one of these days he’s just going to EXPLODE. Or join “
musician, as such, though he does pick up an instrument every once in a while – banjos, guitars, drums, the occasional bagpipes, etc. As you might imagine, out in the great beyond there isn’t always a whole lot of difference between holding an instrument and actually doing something with it. (Yeah, that’s right. It’s a lot like planet Earth.)