Freakend.

I'm sure that wasn't right, tubey. No, no... I'm telling you. Countdowns start with larger numbers and end with the smaller ones. What part of that do you not understand? Freaking root vegetables!

Hello, Big Green-a-zoids... and may I also say, GREETINGS FROM OUTER SPAAAACCE!! Yes indeed, since we last spoke (or exchanged cyber glimpses) we have taken the plunge into deep interstellar space - a somewhat limited ship's complement of band members and available crew. Limited how, you may well ask. And well you may. My answer to that would be, well.... limited in terms of, oh, non-musical skills, like the ability to pilot a space craft, the ability to repair a space craft, the ability to navigate through interplanetary space, and so on. Not core skills for most alternative / indie / discorporate rock bands, but positively essential for this one. And yet here we are, after a somewhat rocky start. They say any lift off you survive is a good one. (But then, what the hell do THEY know?)

What went wrong? Well, it started with the ship. Our rebuild was less than optimal, let's say (charitably). The resulting interplanetary conveyance resembles more something in the way of playground equipment than space-worthy vehicle. That is not exactly a metaphorical comparison - with our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee AWOL in Argentina (or was it Madagascar? Can't recall) we were left to our own devices. So Matt and I scavenged the parts from junkyards, rubbish tips, and - yes - abandoned playgrounds (though most playgrounds are abandoned at 2:00 a.m., I'll wager) and, under John's able guidance, we cobbed together the makeshift crate that will whisk us from Earth to Mars and back... hopefully. Sure there are holes. Sure it's held together with duct tape. But damnit, she's yar. She's extremely yaaarrrrr....

Whoops - slipped into pirate mode there for a second. Where was I? Ah, yes. What's gone wrong so far. Yeah, well... there was the ship, problematic at best. Then there was the countdown. Now mind you, John is the only one amongst us competent enough to sit in the helmsman's chair. I chose Marvin (my personal assistant) to serve as navigator, since... well... since his memory banks include autographed portraits of famous navigators. (Hey, that's more than I've got!) Matt and I were manning the teeter-totter... I mean, the stabilizer controls (a grueling duty if ever there was one). That left only Big Zamboola and/or the man-sized tuber to handle our countdown. Split-second precision was required if we were to make our launch window. Zamboola and tubey drew lots and, well, Zamboola won, so tubey got to do the countdown. (Don't ask me why it works that way, because I JUST DON'T KNOW!) I handed tubey a hastily-repurposed eye chart with the relevant numbers jotted on it and told him to fire away.

Okay, I know. Tubey is non-verbal. That was part of the problem. Then there's the part about counting backwards. Anyway, suffice to say that we're lagging behind our planned trajectory and may miss Mars entirely. Stay tuned folks - Big Green - first band on the sun. That's our weekend.

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