After burner.

What was that? You want more? Already? No chance, Jack. I'm shutting you off. This little watering hole has dried up, my friend.

WTF, followers of Big Green's meandering life story - since when am I the flapjack nazi, anyway? Am I not every bit the addict that my various colleagues have shown themselves to be over the last few years? I should say so. (And, in fact, I did.) Even now, as lame made-for-television-commercial emo music wafts up from the living room downstairs, I am pouring grade A Patagonian pancake batter into the frying pan, the glorious golden circles of nutrition spreading out from the stream, spattering hot butter in every direction. Total abandon, my friends - isn't that what you expect out of your pop musicians? Total, aimless, sputtering self-abandon, yea unto self-destruction. I have embarked upon that grimly seductive road. If I'm less than generous with the fruit of my skillet, it is out of conscience, not selfishness. DON'T FOLLOW ME HERE! SAVE YOURSELVES!!!

Whew! Forgive me. Flapjacks tend to bring out the melodrama in all of us. Just last night, posi-Lincoln got a bellyful and started spouting Shakespeare - Henry VI - Part II, I believe, though I'm no scholar, as I'm sure you know. (Keeps calling himself "York" and me "Gloucester," then galloping off amid some unintelligible utterance. Strange, strange man.) Then, of course, there's Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who is technically immune to the effects of flapjack consumption, but who is so anxious to be included in everything that he mimics the worst of us. And damn. does he overdo it! First he insists upon taking part in Lincoln's performance. Then, after nearly a week of pulling our spacecraft together in preparation for our trip to Mars, Marvin, overcome with imagined euphoria, took the sucker up into the airspace above the mill and crashed it into a nearby bean field. Most impressive display.

I could go on about our failings, but you probably want to save some of that for later. What really irks me, though, is that this latest binge has set us back considerably in fulfillment of our deal with our record label, Loathsome Prick, which has demanded a string of gigs on the red planet in exchange for an extension on our album release date. We've got a pile of repair work to do now. What we really need is some expert assistance from our mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee... or perhaps a little coaxing from Trevor James Constable's orgone generating device. Unfortunately, both of the more knowledgeable members of our contingent are now plowing much richer pastures in Europe and South America. Yes, friends... Mitch is in Brazil, shaking a casaba right now, most likely, while Trevor James has repaired to the south of France for some kind of bio-etheric conference. Where are they when you need them, eh? (I think I just answered that question.)

Well, more than anything else, we need one of those smart guys to repair over to the Hammer Mill and repair our damaged space vehicle. Mitch.... Trevor... if you are reading this you can find me here:

Behind this enormous stack of flapjacks
Downstairs kitchen
Cheney Hammer Mill
Little Falls, NY

So don't say you can't find us, 'cause you can.