Man or Astro-Man?
Fall Ô95 East Coast/Cramps Tour 11/19/95 - 11/26/95

with Birdstuff as Your Journalistic Witness to Events of the Usual Unbelievable Nature

Tour diary for East Coast Reiteration/Support for the Immortal Cramps


November 19
Venue: CatÕs Cradle
City: Chapel Hill, NC

Back into the great outercosmic music adventure once again and this time as Lux and IvyÕs whipping boys. But of course this is a position in which we take great pride. However, the first point of human interaction was with Supernova, Dexter XÕs old star unit. Now, donÕt misread the printout on this one, because if human emotions were figured in as a factor between Dexter and the band, IÕm sure there are weird feelings all around. After all, without entering inside the heinous realm of space gossip, the Supernova/Hank exodus was not at all properly handled. However, this night everyone seemed to turn on the maturity breaker and just allow everything to take place in survivable fashion.
I really thought Supernova put on a fine, tight, well-presented performance. They have a simple equation that hits immediately and is completely memorable. However much credit the current members are due is a very interesting questions to pose. Regardless, their show was great. The Man or Astro-Man? flip side of the evening was a lot of fun for yours truly, except for getting Little Debbie goo all over my converse one spotters - this makes it extremely difficult to hit the kick pedal without my foot sliding everywhere. Dexter spent about 1/4 of the eveningÕs rock adventure on his back. The Gravity Reversal in effect must have been cause for the unsure footing.
The ÒPrinciples UnknownÓ finale was intense. Star Crunch put the neck of his guitar into my mouth, so that after the show I got that wonderful inner lip burning sensation. At the end of the night, Dexter X played ÒCalling Hong KongÓ in nothing but boxers. I donÕt think anyone knew what to think, but that was sort of the point of it. Sorry earth savages, no laser blows between civilized space people with superior intellect.


November 20
Venue: Twisters
City: Richmond, VA

After arriving early and hitting various forms of eye hand coordination enhancement such as Galaga and Tempest, we set in for Soundcheck Function. We were mind scouting various methods to patch a new set together so we check with ÒThe Powerful, Fully Transistorized Dick Tracy Two-Way Wrist RadioÓ and ÒWayward Meteor,Ó two songs we had just recorded in Alabama with Steve Albini. The session was a definite Astro High. It was cool to have Albini in the deep Alabama backwoods at our secret studio lab (Zero Return outside of Wetumpka). Steve got a free ticket from New York to Atlanta, so the recording expense was nearly negligible. Unlike most recording costs that resemble mortgage payments, we still remained inside the budget that the Federation of Sonic Space Endeavors allows. For an earthman, Steve is one of the most respected among the Astro-Clan? Any professional engineer that would take care of his own travel expense to work with 4 cosmospazzes and sleep on a dusty couch in a country cabin must either love music or be beyond psychotic, but actually both are probably a fitting Albini description. The songs came out very smooth and we got to eat BBQ at a place that had a cow skull with Bear Byrant and Alabama College Football images painted on it - all with Mr. Shellac himself.
Anyway, point being we decided to try to add some of these newly recorded songs into the outer galactic set list. The only problem was that every Astro-Dweeb likes and hates completely different melody units. We decided to do the Òrandom closed ballot/no questions asked/get the Lounge Lizard to drawÓ method. Well, this still didnÕt work. Aimless arguments of inane opinions till flourished. So much for earth to ground diplomacy. Just print it out and IÕll engage in whatever form our little space opera takes.
An earth Livation Dispersion person looked me straight into the optic network and told me the music battle would be waged at 12:30, so I went with a befriended homosapien to see ÒGoldeneye,Ó the new James Bond film. Returning, I learned that everyone, including the audience had been waiting on me for over 1/2 hour. Ooops. Well, I kind of thought that it was neat that 250 people sat around bored for half an hour just because I was checking out Pierce BrosnonÕs moves on the Big Screen. Okay, B-Stuff keep that ego on line with the space turd that you really are. The Òset of the futureÓ went over with flying jet streams of country air fair standards. The only stutter step was Dexter X getting his astro-wear locked in a laundry mat, causing the robot suit to have no legs.
After the show, everyone went to David Lowery (of CrackerÕs) studio to listen to their track on the Residents tribute record and to see the mechanical violin playing raccoon. Hey, how come we didnÕt think of Stradivarius-wielding coons!


November 21
Day Off in Richmond, VA

I was split off from the mothership for the previous night. We were supposed to meet at 2:30 back outside the club, but of course I found only an empty sidewalk waiting for me. Finally, the loyal, dependable Branock Device came to my rescue. I guess the Birdstuff Retrieval Mission wasnÕt among top priorities with the other Astro-Men.
After seeing Ashley Atomica off, I restocked on headphone batteries, obviously because the orbital power grid was currently down. Branock and I headed back to our temporary operations HQ and waiting to unite with the other Astro-Savants. It seems that everyone else had a dandy little bout with capitalism, finding a rather sufficient stock of sci-fi lobby cards, paper backs and out-of-date mechanic/science magazines. Well, at least Scout Party B was in the success column.
I spent the majority of the afternoon on liner note patrol, working on both the new Astro 7Ó and the Birdstuff/Dexter X Robotic side project, Servotron, 7Ó. Then being on lock-in sequence, we set out to eat Indian cuisine. At the restaurant, we ended up in another falsely elated, highly pretentious, pseudo-intellectual Astro-Discussion of personal quirks (Contrived or Uncontrollable?). Spawned by S. CrunchÕs phobia of non-hamburger/pizza food be also delved into the great Birdstuff Penny Conspiracy and sizzling Coco Cinnamon Smell Fear. The basic conclusion was that none of us have a psychology degree and that Dexter X was peculiar for being the only normal, unphobic member of the Astro-Factory of the Utterly Dysfunctional.
Back at Temp. Op. HQ we endured BowieÕs ÒThe Man Who Fell to EarthÓ only after deciding that ÒReal GeniusÓ was a decent proportion more humorous when we were thirteen. Still, I donÕt think they should have ever given Major Tom an entertainment license.


November 22
Venue: Trocadero
City: Philadelphia, PA

It was a late ignition sequence that caused initial takeoff to be far behind the accustomed Man or Astro-Man? Òshow up at the club playing the first song as you step out of the vanÓ arrival. Additionally, the Astro-Undependable Ground Transport Vehicle psyched us out long enough for us to waste a two block walk to call Triple A. Somehow that Star Crunch Òunknowledgable, yet magical power over all things mechanicalÓ got the Eagle 1 onto go mode. At the gas station our sweaty traveling chamber of death experiences coughed up a coagulated, pukey gray chug of dust and automotive diaherrea. The Man or Astro-Man? solution: High Octane Gaso-Juice and Some of That There Slick 50 Oil Stuff.
Finally moving in a forward direction, we learned quicker than Coco could muffler cook instant grits that the day before Thanksgiving is a fairly decent day for traffic. BranockÕs top speed bypassing Washington, D.C. was a whopping 35 m.p.h. Halfway through the nerve demolishing trip, Coco woke up and said, Ò I canÕt believe I havenÕt lost my fucking mind in this van yet. They should do some kind of study on the effects this has had on my brain waves. I sit here listening to the high frequency bleed-through of three different hi-hit patterns. Multiply in the factor that it is probably three of the most obnoxious forms of music conceived on planet earth. I mean this in itself (referring to The Fall blaring out of the front, van speakers...BranockÕs choice) is okay, but if youÕre not listening to it yourself, that British pop crap can be really annoying. And heÕs (gesturing to the Lounge Lizard) always listening to some cartoony Raymond Scott jazz crap. And youÕre (staring in the direction of yours truly) are always listening to some electronic Kraftwerk sounding crap.Ó We all got a requisite laugh out of it just from the utter verisimilitude of the situation.
On hitting target Trocadero, we entered into guerrilla set-up mode because opening band, Jonathan Fire*Eater, was about to hit the elevated audio-assault platform. A year ago, they actually played our lovely nuclear cess pool of a point of origin, Auburn, AL so we were kind of acquainted through that experience. They were wonderfully melodramatic and I enjoyed the set as much as a space boy without his infrared goggles trying to set up in the dark could.
Our show miraculously came together in finely-tuned serendipity. I really thought everyone held not an ounce of space kinetic energy back. Dexter even veered out of Robot sequence for a fair amount of ÒYouth BrigadeÓ-style punk rock jumps. The only drawback was our habitual Little Debbie snack cakes were replaced with local boys, Philadelphia Tasty Cakes. Well, I guess hometown flavor does have a loyalty appeal.
Right after the show, we did our rescheduled Australian interviews courtesy of the future Òunexplainable $30 phone calls to AustraliaÓ Trocadero phone fund. After that, I checked out what destruction The Cramps were causing. I had definitely seen them with more energy, but they still looked and sounded great. After the showÕs rubble was cleared, Coco was hanging out with some earth-bound relatives when a ÒBig RockÓ Club Jerkoid said ÒAh, you guys got to split.Ó To which Coco replied, ÒItÕs okay, theyÕre my family.Ó ÒI donÕt care,Ó the burly failed...well, at everything flesh mound retorted. ÒSorry, we donÕt have our rock ÔnÕ roll lamenents,Ó Coco said. ÒYeah, well thatÕs because you guys donÕt have the clout.Ó Well, maybe heÕs right, but we donÕt need that kind of clout ya Mag-Lite Toting Maggot!


November 23
Venue: Memory Lane
City: Baltimore, MD

Ah yes, Thanksgiving Day spent on the glorious road to Baltimore. A stop at a roadside service area in Newark, Delaware provided that ever essential and traditional Sbarro spaghetti Thanksgiving dinner. As opposed to our normal system of operations, we were nearly five hours early showing up in the target city. Time for another one of those Bored or Astro-Boredom cinema adventures...
Everyone except for drummer dork supreme went to see ÒGoldeneye.Ó Having already seen it in Richmond, I opted for the artistically overflowing Big Screen Fountain known as ÒMoney TrainÓ starring Wesley Snipes and thespian supreme, Woody Harrelson. The film seemed to have a hard-hitting social reality that displayed a modern sense of quasi-perceptual...okay, it was the only fucking thing playing within half an hour of ÒGoldeneye.Ó
After reinsertion of Astro-Unity, we headed to Memory Lane. Dexter had played here once before with Supernova so this allowed us to only get partially, as opposed to completely, lost. Eric, drummer of Liquor Bike and Memory Lane promoter, was a super-friendly lumberjack of a punk rocker. There ended up being four bands on the bill instead of three in order to help out Truck Stop Love who was on tour and were in need of a gig due to a canceled date. Normally, Astro-Philosopjy maintains that four or more bands get to be lame ÒletÕs put my brotherÕs punk rock band on the bill,Ó but at this the plethora of live entertainment happened because of a good cause. Both Truck Stop Love and Stanely were great sounding and maxi-friendly. Then it was time for the Matt Clark Five. To forewarn you with a description, the Matt Clark Five are kind of like a street clothed, overweight local yocal version of The mummies. Guess what?? They really fucking sucked! They almost sucked so bad it was cool; itÕs just that IÕve seen that ÒFuck ya if ya donÕt like itÓ shtick about a zillion and a half times by now it mostly just initiates yawning sequences.
Earlier in the night, Star Crunch was using a mystery drum case as an ottoman when the ÒDick Suck 5Ó drummer freaked out and exclaimed, ÒWhatÕs up with you man?!! ThatÕs my drum! Be careful!Ó Pretty lame maneuver on his part, but the supreme part of it was that after he left Star Crunch proceeded to go off on the guy to none other than the ÒAss Bite 4ÕsÓ female bass player who just happened to be standing in the vicinity. Whoops.
We came out with laser guns set for kill and the first four songs were a sonic space assault of precise computation. However, Coco then shorted his bass cable so we, so we were plagued with bass drop out problems from then on. Get ready for that ÒCoco on a Rampage, Punk Rock Monkey RevengeÓ style. The show was nuttier than that new ReeseÕs Nutrageous bar. The ÒNut Scratch 3Ó singer jumped up on stage and grabbed Star Crunch only to get blindsided by a TV-helmeted Coco. Rolling directionlessly on the stage floor, Coco got the guy close enough so that I could empty a 64 oz. water bottle in his face. Good clean (especially after my big gulp-sized H2O baptismal ceremony) fun for everybody involved.
The grand finale was disorderly dark anarchy just like before the universe came into existence. Well, maybe not quite that, but Star Crunch did knock his amp upside down and I really did fall off the back monitor getting glass inside my hand as I broke my fall on a beer bottle. Sounds like $5 worth of entertainment for a night. Hey, itÕs got to be better than ÒMoney Train!Ó


November 24
Venue: The Academy
City: New York, NY

We were all dreading this show. The ticket price was $26 fucking dollars! In all honesty IÕd say the Astro-Variety Show Team is worth $3 and The Cramps Camp is worth $5, so basically people were getting screwed in the wallet for about 18 smackeroos by Birdstuff math.
The only downers in touring with The Cramps was A) Comically Exuberant ticket prices and B) Having to sell our merch within Òrelative rangeÓ of theirs. IÕm sorry, but if you buy a Man or Astro-Man? or any bandÕs t-shirt for over twelve dollars then youÕre a complete imbecilic earth booby! No band is worth it.
Anyway, the preceding night from Baltimore we headed straight to New York. Upon getting there, we realized we had no accommodations and no where to go. The Branock Device had propelled our Star Wagon all night and was rather grumpy at our indecisiveness to say the least. After being woken up to ÒWhatÕs up ass munch?Ó from the Lounge LizardÕs newly acquired Beavis and Butthead book of sounds, we reverted into loser ultimo fashion and got a hotel for the day. Newly recharged body cells allowed us to get to the club, and you can even ask Mr. Ripley, EARLY! We did a Touch and Go photo shoot for seemingly four times longer than the actual time it took.
This evening we actually got to spend time with Lux and Ivy. They were rather approachable and were highly complementary of us lowly Astro-Slugs.
We had a compact, slackless set that hit direct at the humanÕs cerebral bullseye. The Cramps really put out the hometown crowd. Mr. Interior even made a fountain sculpture out of a bent mic stand, two stage monitors, and a water bottle. Who ever said that The Cramps werenÕt truly filled with high artistic pursuits!


November 25
Venue: Mama Ken Music Hall
City: Boston, MA

On arrival at the Mama Ken we all sensed a certain air that usually comes with that ole proverbial rock and roll toilet. I mean, after all, the joint was owned by a member of Aerosmith, so we knew the aroma of cheap hair spray would be a constant source of asphyxiation. In complete reverse of our expectations, everyone was very friendly and accommodating. Because there was only one dressing room, a girl at the club even made special arrangements to set us up with a lush, makeshift setting in the emptied upstairs dance room which everyone called ÒThe Playhouse.Ó This room would ultimately become the crux of our fatal demise.
The Cramps were running behind so we decided to soundcheck. Everyone did their own individual tasks and passed the space/time continuum in various ways. I went out record shopping with our friend Punk Rock Paul from Providence and picked up a couple cool platters for a singular earth dollar, including the ResidentsÕ composer series album where they cover Hank Williams on one side and John Philip Sousa on the other. Most of the eveningÕs remainder was spent reading my ÒMeet the ResidentsÓ biography. Geeze, if I donÕt cut this out, IÕm going to end up with a giant eyeball in the middle of my forehead. Unfortunately for our future well being, the other Astro-Gold dancers had not only found, but pretty much taken control of and mastered, the disco room in The Playhouse.
Our show was slightly burdened by the inevitable constant of electronic fallibility that looms over the Man or Astro-Man? collective like a Radio Shack Share Holding Satan. Yet, the energy injection definitely came across. Dexter somehow managed to swing from the rafters and hang on to the E string during ÒEric Estrotica.Ó After the show there was a mad dash of tube rolling and co-ax cable organizing in order to make the red carpet space for them zombified rock fiends.
Upstairs in that soon be infamous Playhouse, I realized I had lost my rock star pass sticker, so there was no need trying to go back down and convince the Door-Guarding Meat Heads that I was Birdstuff from Outer Space and that I was in the opening band. Shortly thereafter, Coco, Dexter and Mr. S. Crunch all came out relating that it was way too crowded to catch any visual perception of LuxÕs mic stand/axe chopping antics. Unfortunately this meant...Time for Disco!!
While half concentrating on the written account of ÒMole ShowÓ-era Residents happenings, my curiosity was strangely peaked by the horrid sounds of Sister SledgeÕs ÒWe Are FamilyÓ and no...that couldnÕt have been Star Crunch on the PA system imploring that he wanted ÒTo see everyoneÕs feet movinÕ on this next one.Ó Too late, they had taken hold of the command panel and declared themselves captain and co-pilot of the Boogie Woogie Ship.
After The Cramps concluded with the nightly, opus freakout of ÒSurfinÕ Bird,Ó it was clean up time. A wrinkley foreheaded bouncer machine was not at all pleased with the mess of snack cakes and total back-stage mess that Jonathan Fire*Eater and we Astro-People had worked so hard to make.
ÒWhat do you guys think I am, some little cleaning bitch?Ó
To which Dexter replied, ÒWell youÕre obviously upset about this.Ó
ÒFuck yes, IÕm pissed about this.Ó
Dexter: ÒWell, weÕre sorry. ThereÕs no need to get angry about it.Ó
ÒAnd what the fuck were you guys doing in the dance hall? We let you little fucks up here and you go and fuck with shit thatÕs worth 10,000 dollars thatÕs got nothing to fucking do with you. If any of that shit is broken, itÕs my ass.Ó
Again Dexter (who at this point should have probably realized that the guyÕs Òregion above the neckÓ was void of any problem-solving skills and that a group think tank to appease matters was unlikely to say the least): ÒLook, you donÕt have to be so threatening.Ó
ÒFuck you, you little fuck.Ó
At this point, skinny Mr. ÒIÕve got a walkie-talkieÓ comes up and is ready to release the anguish of 16 years of getting bullied by jocks and ignored by girls on harmless Mr. Dexter X.
ÒYou guys have got a serious attitude problem. (ThatÕs got to be my rhetorical kryptonite.) Because of you guys, IÕm going to tell every band that comes here that Man or Astro-Whatever-the-fuck-you-are are the reason why opening bands donÕt have a dressing room.Ó
At this juncture, it was purely humorous, like some kind of Man or Astro-Man? sitcom - the episode where we battle the ÒCrystal Meth-Taking, High School Drop Out Evil Club Managers.Ó I went downstairs to initiate loud out. However, my surface level write off of the situation soon proved to be an overly naive assessment of the proceedings. Coco came downstairs and announced, ÒAh, I think we might want to go check on Dexter...heÕs half naked and about to get is ass beat by a dozen bouncers.Ó
Well, it seems in the interim of my journey to the stage area, the disturbance had somewhat escalated as DexterÕs lack of a Òknowing when to shut upÓ gland and the bouncersÕ Òutter savage lust for the blood of all living creaturesÓ was not the most stable combination of chemicals to mix. However, in retrospect, I thought it neared genius levels that Mr. X thought that he had a good chance of not getting a country convenience store tall boy of whoop ass by being naked. The strategy was that the supertestosterone-driven mentality of the rock guardians would not allow them to break homophobic stride and touch and unclothed male, and secondly if he was going to get his ass kicked, he might as well be wearing his birthday suit. The latter concept I havenÕt quite digested.
By the time we had arrived to rescue a.k.a. potentially getting our space bodies contorted into new, visually defying shapes by hulking, paid warlords of civic rejection, everything had calmed down and the calamity wave machine seemed at least temporarily unplugged. So, with an orderly sense of ÒLetÕs get the fuck out of here,Ó we started the retrieval and insertion of the Astro-Gear. Outside, ready to blow rocket exhaust in the face of ÒBig Hair Rock,Ó we were approached by this hippie-looking walkie-talkie carrier. He came up and began to transmit more negative vibrations about the incident. Coco, Dexter and to my knowledge, everyone standing around thought that the guy was joking, but in direct correspondence with Coco commenting to the guy that he was way out of control, he went into a massive fit and shortly after got his hand punched by DexterÕs face. Suddenly a swarm of Mama Kin bouncers swooped in like drone bee workers for a little of that old fashioned earth-style lynching. The loyal Branock Device blew through Star Crunch and myself to serve as personal body guard to Dexter. Star Crunch and I hesitantly ran after the group that by now looked like a Òcartoon character tornado fight,Ó but merely got stiff-armed by a rather large mound of moving meat. Eventually a few level-headed security people broke up the tag team on DexterÕs skull. Dexter came out semi-unscathed, but in ultra-lame-o fashion, the guy who initially started the most recent round of championship boxing ran off and Mr. Skinny Walkie-Talkie got several cheap shot kicks in. Rest assured, vengeance was on the side of the Astro-Men. Without going into it, during the melee, we made off with a rather interesting piece of club property. Right after the finial skirmish a guy ran by screaming, ÒThatÕs my car! ThatÕs my fucking car!!Ó A sound-barrier-breaking automobile that was about 20 yards ahead stopped, opened its doors, giving the perception that it was going to let the owner in, and then suddenly took off. Now thatÕs fucking mean. Stealing a car is enough of an extreme, but the act of Grand Theft Auto Teasing is enough to give you that digi-read key card to room 666 at Hotel Hell. I told everyone that I thought that this was very likely our sign to clear out.
Inside the van, under the near silent din of Astro-wound licking, Star Crunch turned to Coco and said, ÒYou never did get that middle disco light working, did you?Ó
Coco: ÒNo, I donÕt know why I couldnÕt figure that fucking thing out.Ó


November 26
Venue: LupoÕs
City: Providence, RI

Recapping after last episodeÕs skirmish, we decided to put as much orbit space between us and Aerosmith territory as possible. Can you believe Run DMC would work with those guys? So anyway, we thus rocketed toward Providence, and upon hitting ground zero on PaulÕs floor, we all quickly ebbed into unconsciousness to the dark, deep bio-rhythmic swell of the Branock DeviceÕs snoring. The next day we took control of the record/comic store division of town and then went back to the ground base center to check out a video tape featuring the Emergency Broadcast Network (who, if you donÕt know, are kind of like a techno version of Negativeland with visual accompaniment).
The juxtaposition of numerous, distinct pop culture and political samples is absolutely over the edge hilarious. From televangelist hypocrisy to political scandal to silly cinematic references (one of the dance loops was centered against a frantic Harrison FordÕs scream of, ÒGet down!Ó from Clear and Present Danger).
After our cathode ray overload, we went to LupoÕs and got autographs from Lux and Ivy. Star Crunch got his yo-yo signed, Coco got his TV helmet monickered and I now bear the gruesome twosomeÕs John HancockÕs on my snare drum. We all have been keen Cramps fans and are still in awe from just getting to watch them perform nightly. Poison Ivy is an ageless goddess and we were constantly in gawking desire of her donning of Òthe flames.Ó Actually, some guy in the audience at the dreaded Boston show masturbated right in front of her, so maybe our teenage dribblings seemed rather mild to what sheÕs grown accustomed to.
Later, nearing sound blast initiation, we met the opening, opening band, The Royal Crowns. They were really hip, with flamboyant flair and had enough hair grease to put Turtle Wax out of business. I really got into their show; it was stylistic rockabilly fronted by Black Flag-era Rollins antics. Our set was strangely dramatic, everyone especially Dexter and myself retained our Òwe outer space men, you simple earth menÓ personas. At the setÕs noisy termination, someone in the crowd grabbed Star CrunchÕs Mosrite and then several other moronic members of the homosapien congregation began dueling over this irreplaceable Astro-Tool. Breaking suddenly onto stage and knocking Coco out of the way, the Branock Device leapt into the front barrier section, dexterously snatched the guitar from the evil-doers, and all the while he made a Òdisapproving motherÕsÓ frown to the culprits. By this point, Star Crunch was holding his back up Gretsch like a Tommy Gun-wielding mobster and extended the neck back over the grasping hands of the crowd. A myriad of human didjits raised again to obtain the new guitar, when suddenly Mr. Crunch swiftly swung back and slapped a half-dozen or so knuckles with the GretschÕs headstock in obvious unappreciation of their motley attempts at thievery. ItÕs all right. With a broken finger you get that cool metal cast and blue foam. Them grabbers will heal just fine.
After this symbolic intergalactic hearing of the guilty, we changed back into earth disguises and watched The Cramps. They were great. Stoic, scary, and without having mentioned it before - loud as shit! They are by no means a mere parody of themselves. They are rock ÔnÕ roll legends who have re-introduced great music to the countless uneducated. Mind you, who would dare stop them anyway - for all we found out about their extracurricular activities, theyÕre still the guitar-toting unburied dead who would rather not be fucked with!
The Cramps were super cordial after the show, restating their admiration of our dorky little space pop outfit as they had done earlier to the Providence crowd. This was a great bill for us to be on and maybe if they ever get the snack cake muck off the bottoms of their patent leather boots, theyÕll invite us to do it again some time.

AFTERMATH

Currently, itÕs tomorrow from yesterdayÕs dreary eyes and weÕre stuck in an immovable traffic jam just outside of Washington, D.C. If we ever escape this simple-minded fossil-fuel based earth transportation hell, weÕll meet you back in the Astro-Diary pages within two days from where else, but the land where Men at Work got a bit of that vegemite sandwich. Our goal: ÒTo get good in the bush!Ó
Birdstuff over and sent, really sent.