I'm still here at wall-2-wall-vommit.com and we're taking turns mopping Jason's chin. Grant is busily sampling bits of lint near the dryer, whilst Jerry, "as if an increase in appetite had grown by what it fed on" is busily smoking everything in sight, including Cleo. He has also made an "accessory" out of Jenny's Concertina and is stomping around like the Godfather on ketamine. Don has just begun to channel a 37,000 year-old Tibetan witch-doctor with a hypertext fixation and Greg (more sober than any man alive in the post-industrial age has any right to be) is instructing a group of inebriates in the Arts of the Perpendicular and the Parallel. Mark Mothersbaugh is watching, devolution is in the air along with a whole bunch of other shit. I'm licking my headphones and and talking about "red-stuffed green ones", and some overenthusiastic fan has shoved my guitar two feet up my asshole. Jenny, on a couch in San Francisco, is feeling a "strange disturbance in the force - as if a handful of rocky voices said "huh?" all at once". You guys'll show up in what - eleven days? Do me a favor and bring some soothing ointment and extra sponges.