Event horizon.
Cold fingers? Rub them together. I know we're in a trackless void with temperatures approaching absolute zero - just rub a little harder.
Just coming off of a ripping good string of performances on Neptune, mother of all Big Green fans in the outer rings of our solar system. (Good to know we're still loved by someone... or some THING.) When I say "ripping good", I mean it certainly seemed that way to us. As some of you may know, however, the atmosphere on Neptune contains many elements not prevalent in our own sweet Earth-bound air, so frankly, after a couple of sets breathing that stuff, I get a little punchy. You could tell me iron is chocolate and I'd believe you. You could tell me Carl Paladino is sane, and I'd buy it. It's just that crazy. So... we may have played well, but possibly not. Or "splunge", as Monty Python would put it.Some of you may remember the distinctly terrestrial phenomenon we encountered on Neptune last time out of people chucking things at us while we play. Now, this is bad enough at home, as many a rock circuit veteran will tell you. Bottles, bricks, ice, you name it. Playing QE2 in Albany? Bring a riot shield! Well, out here it's similar, except that
many of the objects are molten or flaming. Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, developed flame resistant suits for us to wear on stage, but they are less than comfortable. Suffice to say, we are good duckers. I've also programmed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to emit a robotian cry every time some projectile is header our way. "INCOMING!" he shouts, and we know just what to do.Well, that's as it may be. But once we moved along towards our second venue, things started happening. Ominous things. Our rented space craft - I'm convinced it's a converted garbage scow (either that or the mansized tuber has started to go off a bit) - must have sprung a leak somewhere on Neptune. It's cold as freaking hell in here. And as Dante scholars know, hell is really all about cold at its very core. Nippy, to say the least. Where the hell is that draft coming from, Lincoln? Did you leave your portside window open again?
Off to the galley for nice warm cup of grog. Hopefully