Enemies without.

Back in 1980 — what seems like ten thousand years ago now — I spent a year at the State University of New York College at New Paltz, about an hour north of New York City. It was a tumultuous year, the last of the Carter presidency, with the election of Ronald Reagan, the assassination of John Lennon, and — on a more personal note — the death of my brother Mark, a very excellent jazz pianist (among numerous other things), whose car was knocked off the road by some drunk up in Maine (a blood-alcohol brother of Dubya, no doubt… but I digress). It was also a full year of the Iranian hostage crisis, during which our nation was taken by a kind of hyper-nationalism hitherto unknown to me. Some may remember (amid the soaring gas prices) the jingoistic songs on the radio, the first bloom of yellow ribbons, and the like. I can remember walking through one of the classroom buildings at New Paltz and seeing some bulletin board graffiti that read, “Who needs the Ayatollah’s oil? We’ve got 15,000 Iranian students to burn.”

Those were indeed ugly times, as are these. But the madness of 1980 set the template for much of what followed, and we are still living with its repercussions. Iran remains official enemy number one — the “Great Satan”, in the parlance of the mullahs — their crimes against the U.S. a rap sheet that usually includes support for terrorism (mostly in reference to Hezbollah), nuclear ambitions, and posing an existential threat to Israel. Pretty thin gruel, as it happens. Yes, they give money and supplies to Hezbollah, but Hezbollah wouldn’t exist if it hadn’t been for Israel’s hysterical use of firepower over their 19-year occupation of Lebanon and thereafter. Yes, Iran does seek to enrich uranium, but these activities are still within the legal parameters of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty, and they have not demonstrated the ability to produce anything approaching weapons-grade uranium… though with a consistently belligerent nuclear-armed state (Israel) threatening them from just over the horizon, I wouldn’t be surprised if they should move in that direction. As for the existential threat to Israel, see the previous sentence. The only credible existential threat is the one directed at Iran by the regional nuclear power and by the global superpower (us). Amadenijad’s fulminations about Israel carry little weight a) because he is not the supreme leader of Iran, and b) because Iran does not have the capability to even begin to destroy Israel.

Israel, on the other hand, has the capability to destroy any state in the Middle East, with hundreds of undeclared nuclear weapons in their arsenal. And while the rest of the world is transfixed on the horror we’ve created in Iraq, Israel has taken this opportunity to kick the living hell out of the slum that is Gaza, firing missiles into densely populated residential neighborhoods and following their usual tactics. The IDF has iced so many children in the occupied territories that the western press hardly bothers to report on the phenomenon any more — it’s becoming remarkably unremarkable. All the while, our government — the only one that can effectively restrain Israel — is asleep at the switch, standing aside while the blood flows in Gaza, much as we did when Lebanon was savagely attacked last summer and when Jenin and Nablus were being pounded by the IDF. We have demonstrated in a multitude of ways how little we care about the lives and livelihoods of people in that area of the world. Repairing that will take more than a cosmetic changing of the guard at the Pentagon and some high sounding rhetoric.

In any case, twenty-six years of pointless enmity is enough. It’s time to start behaving like adults and make peace with the Muslim world like we did with Russia and China. Iran is a good place to start.

luv u,

jp

Next frame empty.

What is that… a bell tower of some kind? Can’t tell. My eyes are too clouded. Must be the Zenite snuff sFshzenKlyrn left for me in my jacket pocket. Next frame. A deer… in a field. Hmmmmm…

Oh, forgive me. Just clicking through a few Viewmaster wheels from long ago. I’m freaking lost on those things without the phonograph record to tell me when to change the slide. In any case, welcome back to the house of joy — a.k.a. the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in what we euphemistically (and with great license) refer to as Sri Lanka, but which is, in fact, an undisclosed location (though not the same one where you’ll find the other Cheney in all of our lives). Anyway, me (myself) and the fellows are just settling in here, getting used to our surroundings once again, breaking the same windows that our financial manager Geet O’Reilly had repaired while we were away. (She keeps doing that. So irritating.) Got to get a little air, you know, after being cooped up in a dusty space craft for nigh on to two months. Just breathe it in, friends!

Hi-de-ho, we’ve been turning our meager attention back to the second Big Green album, now in the mixing stage and nearing completion. While everyone has his/her part to play in this process, probably the most all-around useful member of our entourage has been the indefatigable Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has obligingly offered up his services as tape operator. Sure, sure — we had the man-sized tuber twisting the dials earlier in the process, but that was before, damn it. Tubey has got other interests. Music will never come first for him… not so long as he has coin collecting and pretzel-bending to keep him occupied. (Just the other day he found a “Peace” dollar in the bottom of my shirt cupboard — which, quite coincidentally, is just where I left the fucking thing.) Someone should ‘splain to Tubey that collecting other people’s coins is just plain stealing.

Trouble is, I think the person that got him into this hobby is none other that anti-Lincoln, the nefarious doppelganger of our late Great Emancipator. Anti-Lincoln is obviously running some kind of scam here, and apparently feels that the man-sized tuber is clueless enough to play an unwitting part in it. Don’t know where he would get such an outlandish idea — why, Tubey is the sharpest root vegetable I’ve ever traversed interstellar space with. Though… apparently not sharp enough to avoid handing over his ill-gotten gains to anti-Lincoln like so much lunch money. Can’t trust anybody anymore. Next thing you know, Mitch Macaphee will be enlisting Big Zamboola as some kind of hot-air balloon for his next atmospheric experiment. Hey…. so that isn’t a strangely 3-D depiction of a rising sun in my Viewmaster! And isn’t that Marvin in the gondola?

Okay, so what the fuck — we’re not going to make a lot of progress on our album this way. For chrissake, I wish Mitch would wait until after our remix session before he sends our tape operator into the exosphere. Bloody scientific mentality!

Snap!

Whoa. Even the longest winning streaks run out one day, I guess. Prior to this last Tuesday, I was beginning to wonder if the Republicans could do anything that might lose them an election. It appears as though the voters have their limit after all. The Dems even took my local congressional district seat, which has been held by the GOP for more than fifty years. Who can doubt that there were more than a few bricks in the White House toilets come Wednesday morning? Rumsfeld immediately took the bullet, probably guessing that the Democrats would be satisfied with his departure and not drag him in front of a semi-hostile committee. (Good guess. Remember what they did after Clinton’s first election… yeah, that’s right — you can’t remember because there’s nothing to remember.) It’s distinctly possible, however, that foreign courts will be less forgiving. With universal jurisdiction on war crimes and ample evidence that Rumsfeld not only condemned but encouraged torture of detainees, he may need to plan his travel itinerary a bit more carefully from now on. (Tip: Ask Kissinger what travel agent he uses.)

So what does this Democratic victory mean, aside from the prospect of being able to say “Chairman Conyers” and “Chairwoman Lee”? Is this really a sea change, as some have suggested? Not likely. As I’ve mentioned here before in my usual haphazard way, working towards a Democratic resurgence in the House and Senate was a minimal political act — an attempt to shove a log into the juggernaut’s wheel-spokes (though it may be more akin to clipping a playing card to the forks of Bush’s bicycle). The Dems did not generate anything like a consistently progressive theme during the campaign (see Rahm Emmanuel); some talked a good game, while others mouthed the usual weasely platitudes that may easily be backed away from later on. It is during these first few weeks following an election when the betrayal of the voters typically takes place, and there are signs that such a process may be underway.

The air is thick with calls for bipartisan cooperation. Oh, sure — when the Republicans had total control of everything, it was “Fuck off an die, liberal Osama-huggers! We’ll make the laws ourselves and the president will spend his political capital as he sees fit.” Now that they’ve lost Congress, suddenly it’s time for everyone to come together for the good of the country. Something tells me that when the GOP wrenches control of the legislative branch back again, their attitude will be, “Well, we tried bipartisanship and it didn’t work, so fuck of and die, children of Saddam!” And the Dems will be shocked… shocked, as always. If they would only give as good as they get, just one time. Ah, well — it was a pleasure, at least, to see fuckers like George Allen, Rick Santorum, and Rich Pombo get the drubbing they so richly deserve. That, in itself, may have been worth the price of admission.

Now that that’s over, it’s back to pushing for an end to this lousy war, which is killing people in sickening numbers every day. So bug the shit out of that new congressmember, senator, etc. — no honeymoon!

luv u,

jp

Have a sandwich.

Where did my paring knife go? Anyone seen it? It was here just a minute ago. Hey, anti-Lincoln — have you seen my knife? You were just in here a minute ago… uh-oh…..

Oh the butt-aches of living in a communal residence! Yes, yes, it is good to be back at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill — our adopted home — after so long an absence, especially given that this may have been the most irritating Big Green tour ever. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, sure, he says that every time, right? Okay, well maybe I did say it after our Journey to the Center of the Earth tour a couple of years ago. And maybe I did say it after our last tour, when we were kidnapped and held against our will on a hostile alien planet. And I grant you — I may well say it again after our next tour, whatever kind of disaster that may turn out to be. But I’m sure I’ll be just as convinced of its suck-acity then as I have been all the previous times. (Now you’re thinking, God, what a pain in the ass this fucker is! Why do I read this blog? WHY?)

Okay, so I’m not a very good mind reader. No matter — here we are, back at the mill, having extracted ourselves from the dreaded Doo-Dah parade (where Big Zamboola was a massive hit, I should tell you). The condemned sign has been torn from our front door. Reprieve from the city? Not quite. I asked Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to pull it down. It amounts to the same thing in this city. (They won’t get around to knocking this place down for another couple of years, at the very soonest. Other fish to fry.) He will be tacking up a “do not disturb” sign in its place, in hopes that this will discourage the curious (and the creditors) from trying to gain access to the mill as we turn our attention to what has become the most monumental labor of our careers — making an Irish stew without meat or potatoes. (Oh, yeah… and then there’s that album thing we’re working on. Where the hell did we leave that, anyway?)

Great day in the morning, I know it seems like Big Green has spent way too long in production. It’s nearly possible to calculate the trajectory of our latest CD project in terms of geological time. What the fuck, we started planning the sucker shortly after the release of our first album, 2000 Years To Christmas, back in 1999. Of course, there was some slap-dash songwriting after that, then we started recording the bastard in early 2003. Here it is three years later, and we’re finally to the point of mixing / mastering. Can hardly believe it. My guess is that, in a few more of your earth time units known as months, we will actually have something to show for all of this seemingly pointless activity. (No, Mitch. Not money. That’s your day job, okay?)

So, back to the console. But first the stew. Or perhaps just a sandwich. Where the devil is that knife? No, Anti-Lincoln, I can’t use a gun. Just put it away, now. Slowly…. slowly…. (Hey, out there… somebody call the cops… I’ll have Marvin take down the “do not disturb” sign again…)

Bitter end game.

We’re just days away from the close of one of the most asinine election seasons I can remember (and trust me — I can remember quite a few). Like the Howard Dean “scream” of 2004, the media has latched onto a phrase from a John Kerry speech, the interpretation of which apparently was fed to them directly by Jack Abramoff friend Ken Melman or White House blimp Karl Rove. At this point in the game, can anyone possibly believe that this administration gives a flying shit for the fighting men and women in Iraq? Just this week it was reported that the Pentagon cannot account for thousands of guns, rocket launchers, etc., that we have sent to that sorry husk of a nation. (My guess is that our troops know what happened to them, since they’re being shot at all the time.) And yet these Bush clowns feel confident enough to actually field Kerry’s lame laugh line as a campaign issue. But that’s our corporate media — Kerry botches a joke (so what’s new?) and it’s a story. Bush lets 104 young Americans die pointlessly in Iraq during the month leading up to the election, and it’s ho-hum.

This election is very important to the party in power, and they are pulling out all the stops to keep it from being a total disaster for them. Both parties have dumped millions of dollars into mostly negative advertising here in my backwater hometown district (New York’s “fighting” 24th), but it’s worth saying that I’ve received a different glossy mailing from the Republican Congressional Campaign Committee every other day, each one attacking the Democratic candidate. As someone who’s worked in advertising and done a fair amount of direct mail, I can tell you that this represents enormous sums of (unregulated) money, to say nothing of how much they’re spending on local television air time. Where campaign law is concerned, this is considered legitimate party-building activity, but really all it is is an attempt to depress turnout and build cynicism. Cynicism helps to ensure that the powerful will not be inconvenienced by “meddlesome outsiders”, as Walter Lippman put it — that is to say, people like you and me.

Some of the ads stoop pretty low, as you probably are aware. Bogus shit about triple-X 800 lines and all that. One purports that Democratic congressional candidate Michael Arcuri pushed for the release of a convicted rapist. It features an excerpt from a letter sent to a parole board by one of Arcuri’s assistant DA’s, the text of which noted the convicted man’s role in helping prosecute a murder case, closing with: “Please consider such in your overall determining of whether Thomas should be released on parole.” The excerpt featured in the RCCC mailing? “Thomas should be released on parole.” This attributed to Arcuri. The Republicans are apparently applying the same standard of accuracy to these ads as they applied in the run-up to the Iraq invasion. Next they’ll be telling us Michael Arcuri has been building weapons of mass destruction. (They’ve probably already linked him with Osama.) Will the investment pay off? Not if I can help it. Don’t get me wrong — I think the Democrats are about as ineffectual an opposition party as can be imagined. But we need to shake up this one-party state a little bit.

So here’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Vote this repulsive Congress out of office. Then turn right around and hold the new Congress’s feet to the fire. Either way, keep at it. ‘Nuff said.

luv u,

jp

This is home?

Rubble. Dust rising. The dark silhouette of an ancient structure looms in the background. I can just barely make out its profile… something strangely familiar about it. Deep and foreboding. A frightening presence — home!

Greetings from what might euphemistically be described as “home”. Big Green here, more or less. We have arrived back at the Cheney Hammer Mill after a long, long, loooooonnnggg sojourn in the outer reaches of the galaxy, living the dream (or nightmare, perhaps) of performing for adoring fans (albeit five-legged ones with green antennae and ion-charged grappling hooks for claws). Always falls a bit short for this group, quite frankly… the excitement factor, that is. Sure, everyone thinks it’s “exciting” to be a rock performer and to travel to different planets, make them explode, and all that. Well, when you’ve seen one exploding planet, you’ve seen them all, right? But I digress. (Got to keep talk like that to a minimum — where Big Zamboola comes from, exploding planets are no laughing matter.)

Last you looked, we had somehow talked Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into dragging us over land back to our beloved homestead. It doesn’t pride me greatly to say that, yes, he did complete that task — one worthy of John Henry himself. In fact, I’ve been calling him Marvin “John Henry” (my personal robot assistant) for a couple of days now. (Probably won’t stick.) Actually, it wasn’t that bad for our atomic powered automatonic assistant. He just threw it into low gear and tugged us onto the nearest highway (about 40 miles inland, as it happens). We just scraped the rest of the way, sparks a-flying. (Marvin had to stop and take a leak at one point, but otherwise…) Probably made a curious spectacle for our fellow travelers. Reminded me of going “skitching” when we were kids — the renowned winter pass-time of hanging on to the back bumper of a car and dragging along the icy pavement with your boots. Great fun (’til you fell off in front of a logging truck). Don’t try this at home!

Yes, it took a few days, but before any of us were ready, the looming hulk of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill came into view. It was, contrary to our expectations, still standing, but the neighborhood had definitely gone downhill in the past eight weeks or so. Street fires, excavations, random acts of mayhem, some kind of carnival people were referring to as “The Doo-Dah Parade”…. shall I go on? There was so much dust rising it was kind of hard to tell what this strange ritual entailed, but it appeared as if there were three… perhaps four men on stilts. Jugglers, too. So strange was this spectacle, neither the man-sized tuber nor Big Zamboola drew any significant attention when they piled out of our space RV into the middle of the street. If anything, they looked… well… almost normal. So did Lincoln. (Not anti-Lincoln. He just doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere.)

There goes the neighborhood. For chrissake — leave town for five minutes and they choke the fucking place with doo-dah parades! And us with an album to finish… and I mean finish … in the next few months. Where’s my blindfold?

Busted?

Well, it only took two solid months for the Israeli government to admit that, yes, it had used white phosphorus bombs against what it termed Hezbollah targets — though the vast majority of targets so termed have proven to be civilian homes, apartment buildings, shelters, hospitals, family cars, etc. Of course, the admission came (to me, at least) via a small item tucked inside my Gannett daily newspaper. If memory serves, Tel Aviv’s indignant denials were displayed a bit more prominently. Now that no one’s paying attention, it’s okay to admit that you used chemical weapons in violation of international law. First law of modern warfare, I suppose. (It certainly worked for the U.S. in Fallujah, where similar weapons were enthusiastically deployed.) We live in a strange world where war crimes such as these are not taken seriously unless (a) they are committed by our enemies, or (b) they rise to the level of Nazi war atrocities. It apparently raises few eyebrows anymore to drop burning phosphorus on people and generally trash the Geneva Conventions. What next — a reality show?

Actually, it seems as though the Bush administration is actually sweating this election a bit more than previous ones, since the possibility (however remote) of investigations and prosecutions looms a bit larger should the Democrats win control of either or both houses of Congress. My illustrious brother was commenting on this the other day, and judging by the increasing shrillness of Dubya and his crew, I suspect he may be right. It’s interesting to watch the GOP slime our local Democratic congressional candidate as being “soft on crime” while their candidates consistently warn the voters that Dems will launch congressional investigations and tie up the legislative process with this foreign thing called “holding people accountable.” Apparently they’re only concerned with certain types of crime — not the kind that involves dropping bombs on people or leaving unexploded ordinance lying around where some kid can find it. For that kind of crime, it is sufficient to merely express your regret at the always unintentional deaths and injuries that result.

This last couple of weeks have seen a good many more “unintentional” deaths added to the bill of particulars against Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Blair — more civilians blown to bits in Afghanistan, more people caught up in the most recent counterinsurgency sweeps in Baghdad… to say nothing of the 2,800th U.S. soldier to die in Operation Iraqi Fiefdom. All this death and misery provides a morbid backdrop for this year’s political campaigns — few candidates speak directly to the issue that is in the back of everyone’s mind, namely, when and how is this all going to end? The response from the administration is to change their rhetoric so that they will seem more flexible, while denying (quite laughably) that Bush was ever big on the phrase “stay the course”. Fact is, they’re trying to avoid the issue as well, hoping some superficial atmospherics will help grease their way to another slender victory.

End of the road for these clowns? I’ll believe it when I see it.

luv u,

jp

Land ho-no!

Hear that scraping sound? Dragging my ass this morning. Literally. Don’t lo0k at me like that — you know what I’m talking about, that blog look you always give me. I can see you in the back there… don’t try to hide behind the fat guy!

Sorry if I came across a bit touchy just then. This has been a long hard slog, but I have no right to take it out on you — you who have stood with me every league of the way. Damn it, I’m ungrateful! But isn’t that the way it goes with pop band denizens. Anyways…. our wayward breeze did come along eventually, and pushed us on our way-ward. (Or forward, as it were.) Once we were clear of the strange psycho-miasma surrounding the dreaded Sea of the Weekly World News, we were able to navigate using something other than Trevor James’ Orgone Generator (which, with the polarity reversed, acts as a crude bio-plasmic compass. It’s a little hard to explain, actually. Okay… just drop it, all right?)

Right, right — back to my tale of woe and intrigue. We were on the high seas for several days, making fairly good time (as pops used to say), when Marvin (my personal robot assistant) spotted the silhouette of a substantial coast line to our port side. Land! But what land was it? Iceland? Greenland? Long Island? It was hard to be sure. We thought it best to send a scouting party in the long boat to check it out before attempting to land. Trouble was… no long boat. (We didn’t even have a short boat.) Matt, John and I began to roll our eyes around the ship’s cabin, searching for a gullible… I mean, workable solution. Which one of our party had the greatest natural buoyancy? The answer came quite quickly…. BIG ZAMBOOLA — a true living, breathing floatation device.

Well, friends… Zamboola went ashore and did the recon, as they say (looking more than a bit like that “Rover” critter from the sixties TV show The Prisoner), quickly determining that we had, indeed, sighted land and that — yes — it was indeed the land of our homestead, the besieged, much maligned Cheney Hammer Mill, which we call home. (Did I say that it is our home? The mill? Okay, then.) Next step: get the ship on dry land. But how to accomplish this? Though it was capable (until recently) of interstellar travel, and has of late been modified to serve as a sea-faring vessel, the imitation J-2 space cruiser has zero capability as an over-land vehicle. We needed some means of locomotion — not wind power, not ion power… something that would give us traction for the long road ahead.

When it came to a vote over who would be elected to drag the ship back to Colombo, Marvin won by three votes. (My vote was on posi-Lincoln, but that was out of bitterness… sheer bitterness.) So forward we went, propelled by the power of Marvin’s ion reactor. Hammer Mill, here we come! Giddyap!

Keep dreaming.

October is turning out to be one of the bloodiest months for U.S. troops since the war in Iraq began — their lives being expended so carelessly that even the generals on the ground are publicly re-thinking their latest pacification strategy in Baghdad. (One can only guess ho many Iraqis are dying in these operations. One can only guess because, as I mentioned last week, no one in an official capacity in the U.S. seems interested in counting them.) At the same time, we’re hearing more and more about how our leaders are “losing patience” with the Iraqi government, and there’s been some suggestion of a possible coup, martial law, etc. (see Saigon 1963). One can see a screw job in the making, for sure — a well-worn imperial gambit. Those damnable natives; they just can’t get it together! (See Saigon, pretty much any time between 1946 and 1975.) This whole Iraq thing was going great until they got in the game.

Once again I’m reminded of a comment I heard from a Canadian official a couple of years ago — something to the effect of, “When’s the last time you can recall the Americans taking responsibility for anything?” Well, it still rings true, particularly with regard to the perpetual explosion that is Iraq. Blame will be assigned to the Iraqi government, the Shi’ite militias, the Sunni insurgents, the Iranians, the Syrians, “foreign (i.e. not American) fighters,” Hezbollah, Hamas, Bill Clinton, Barbara Streisand — anybody but “me”. (That’s MBA backwards: Anybody But Me. Bush has got one of those, hasn’t he?) But no matter who is to “blame”, the game will remain the same — stay the course, get the job done, etc. That’s all Bush has now, and since he can’t run again, he’d just as soon not be one of those presidents who had to reverse their Custer decision and pull troops out from where he’d sent them, mission decidedly un-accomplished.

Correct me if I’m wrong (honest — there’s a comments form!) but I believe the mission now is to keep George W. Bush from looking bad… well, worse, let’s say. As long as we stay in Iraq, his political allies can ride around on their unicycles and tell all who will listen that Dubya is like Lincoln and Truman, taking political heat for an unpopular but necessary war, later to be vindicated by history and celebrated as strong and visionary leaders (Lincoln for saving the union; Truman for building the U.S. empire). If we leave Iraq now, that fiction evaporates. So 20, 22, 28, 35-year-old Americans are dying in combat to preserve Bush’s bogus claim to future greatness. That, at least, is what it looks like, since they appear to have no real plan behind what they’re doing. Just keep it going. Like Rumsfeld suggested last week, the War on Terror may never end. Sounds like wishful thinking to me.

If wishes were horses…

luv u,

jp

A band adrift.

What’s this I spy with my little eye? ‘Tis a man in a wee lifeboat. Soggy, nautical-looking gent with a captain’s hat on. Smoke rising lazily from the bowl of his pipe. Looks to have been out here a while…

Oh, yes… hello out there in cyberspace. It’s your old pal Bozo… I mean, Joe-zo. (Been at sea a little too long, me thinkst.) As you may have surmised from my previous utterance, we did manage to shove off last week, as the saying goes. Our dear friend Trevor James Constable cooked up a little nor’easter with that orgone generating device of his, and we were carried off to open water by a most congenial ocean breeze (12 knots, I believe — knot that that means anything to me). Around 1300 hours GMT, we crossed the tropic of Capricorn and headed into uncharted waters. Take it from someone who’s spent the better part of the last month on a desert island — if you’re going to be in uncharted waters, you’re better off keeping in motion rather than standing still. Word to the wise.

Now I don’t know how many of you have actually been to the Sargasso Sea or any of those other forgotten corners of the world that only seem to show up in naval lore, but let me tell you, friend — they exist. Oh, yes. Our nor’easter blew us into a fog-bound stretch of ocean. Aye, grim and foreboding it was, with the smell of decaying hulks hanging heavy in the air around us. Our pilot Marvin (my personal robot assistant) spotted an albatross — t’was then we knew we were in for a rough passage. Shiver me timbers, I’ll be a peg-legged polevaulter if we didn’t spy a small craft off the starboard side, its master a lone ship’s captain, his haggard features bearing a tale of many months at sea… or perhaps years. Aye, an eternity in the doldrums, perhaps. His pipe still lit, he gave a jaunty little dance… and I knew. T’was the captain of the Titanic. We had entered the dreaded Sea of the Weekly World News.

What lay ahead for us? Bat boy? Bigfoot? The space alien who plays presidential kingmaker? We had to get out of here fast. But nay, there was a strange dampening field at work, a peculiar miasma that kept the orgone generating machine from functioning as our weather-maker. If we wanted to avoid being trapped in supermarket checkout lines for all eternity, we needed to find an alternative source of power — one strong enough to push us clear through to the subcontinent. There was only one option: Big Zamboola. But would he do it? We formed an ad hoc delegation and brought the proposal to our beachball-sized planetoid companion. (He’s been hovering in the power core for the last week or two, pining for the Pleiades).

Well, it was more complicated than you might have imagined. Zamboola wasn’t hot on the idea. And as they say, you can lead a planet to water, but you can’t make him blow. (That didn’t come out the way I meant it to, but let it pass… let it pass….) See you in the checkout!

Official site of the band Big Green