Dry spell.

Okay, boys - let's dig a bit deeper. Matt, it's your turn with the post-holer. Marvin (my personal robot assistant), you've got the pick axe this time. I'll occupy myself with this dime novel. (KLANG!) Oowwww!!!

Dissent in the ranks. Happens every time you try to get some work out of this crew. Though telling Matt to dig is kind of like bossing your boss around. (He euphemistically directed me to engage in autosex with myself. I, of course, refused.) Still, you would think Marvin, at least, would do what I ask, and yet he's worse than most of the others, tossing his tools into the drainage ditch, muttering to himself in that robotian way of his. He's still surly over the space robot Dextre thing - another obsession that, thus far, Mitch Macaphee has been unable to program out of the poor boy. For his own part (and don't ask which part I'm referring to), Mitch has been keeping far away from the work zone as well. Not that I would expect him to use those magnificently skilled hands of his for something as crude as digging for drinking water. (Yes, drinking water! Talk about basics.)

Okay, so why are we digging for water, here in the somewhat distressed urban paradise known as post-industrial upstate New York? Well, it's those damnable tubers I was telling you about before. Our entertainment was not up to their high standards, apparently - not enough musicality, I'm told - so they began taking on more and more precious water. Pretty soon our well was dry, and in light of the fact that we have been cut off from municipal water supplies ever since we started squatting here (I think it's some kind of sanction, but would have to consult with a lawyer to be certain), this was becoming a problem. I mean, no showers. No coffee, tea, etc. No water for the garden. Getting a little sticky around here, I can tell you. So, faced with the unattractive alternative of either paying our water bill or learning to drink air, we grabbed mining implements and started heading south.... way south... assuming you think of skyward as "north" (as I do).

How has our luck been thus far? Um, not so good. This is a bit like hard rock mining - first you get through the tarmac, then through the ancient cobblestones, perhaps a layer or two of loose shale, and then you get to something really impenetrable - bedrock, perhaps. Don't know - I'm not a geologist (though I play one on T.V.), but it seems to me that the water table around here is made of freaking granite. (Three or four water-chairs and we've got ourselves a dining room set.) Like on every occasion when we need scientific advice of some kind, we consulted Mitch Macaphee on the matter, but he was of little value. You see, his solutions always tend towards the mad-scientist bag of tricks. You know - blow a hole in it with a high-powered neutron laser, or harness the power of Rigelian lava ants... that sort of thing. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but what the hell... these things take time, and I'm freaking thirsty, man!

So what are we resorting to? Something more instantaneous - magical spells. Kind of like a virtual divining rod. Powders and liquids to conjure with. Ala-kazam!