Week that was.
Sunday evening, 6:37 p.m. - Mitch Macaphee test-fires the main engine on our ramshackle space craft; the one that will supposedly carry us to many a far-flung rock venue in the galaxy. Based on what I heard, I have my doubts about this vehicle. It took Mitch about fifteen pulls of that rip cord to get the thing smoking, and that's about all it did... smoke. No lift. Matt just looked on and shook his head. I saw that and shook my head. Whole lot of shakin' going on 'round here. Monday afternoon, 12:45 p.m. - Sumptuous lunch of cheese doodles and expired raisins. Did I say sumptuous? I meant nauseating. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) is practicing his galley skills. He has volunteered to be our ship's cook. Lincoln refuses to call him "cookie" (as Marvin has asked to be called). Anti-Lincoln vehemently disagrees with that refusal. We shake our heads, yet again. Monday night, 10:30 p.m. - Oh, great - now there's drinking. No, not the band. (I'm ...