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NASA recently approached me about recording the first full-length music album in space. They claim it’s to generate good PR for the space program, but I’ve been briefed on their real motive. They want to definitively determine whether it’s any cooler if your dad sings to you from space. In other words, to produce conclusive results, my three adult children will have to lose their minds to their father singing NASA-approved songs from the ISS. There will be scientists on the ground measuring factors like dungaree moisture levels and the presence of "Dad Sweats".My initial reaction was that this was both frivolous and perverse, and would probably not help the program director reconcile with his estranged family. But I do have my own motive for going along with the project, in addition to all the literally star-struck land poon I’ll be getting after I land. An acoustic guitar, you see, is the perfect way to smuggle a penis pump and furtively test its properties in space, away from the prying eyes of our Earth's Lord, and in brazen defiance of his iron-fisted genital theocracy. I got the idea from Glenn Frey’s short-lived TV Miami Vice spinoff Smuggler’s Wild.The purpose of this log will be to record my own findings, as well as keep track of the process of making an album that I have little to no interest in. Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 002
NASA is thrilled with my suggestion of a collaboration with Ed from the Barenaked Ladies. They love the Canadian angle and the beyond-inoffensive music. What they don’t know is that Ed is my partner in collecting penis pump data. His stinkstick is as similar to mine as anyone I could find given the time constraints, so he’ll be serving as my control back on Earth.
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NASA waited till I was up here to tell me that the album will be all covers. I was the first Canadian to walk in space. Now I'm the first Canadian to memorize Foreigner lyrics in a vehicle over $8,000 in value.Also, I’ve been told the Queen of England has sent me her “best wishes.” What a thoughtful, heartfelt sentiment. I’m sending her back “regards” from my “undermustache” (a signed headshot of my star-taint).
I'm going off book. This can't be entirely covers. I'm not representing our galaxy with a fucking novelty record. Like it or not, they're getting something straight from this Spaceman's universe-sized heart. Here are some of the originals I started penning as soon as we launched:"Blastoff Your Ass Off"
"The Space Between Our Groins"
"I Swear I'll Make You Mrs. Cosmos"
"Saturn Smiled at Me"
"Backseat of my Astrowagon"Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 005
I should mention that the rest of the crew is mostly made up of session musicians (they’ll be billed as Marsman Mitch and the All-Mars All-Stars) and hit-making producer Don Was (“Walk the Dinosaur”, the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge). They’re having a hard time adjusting to the diet up here, which mainly consists of astronaut ice cream, astronaut semen (rich in protein and testosterone to intimidate alien parasites), astronaut meat, astronaut Cheetos (ice cream flavor), and astronaut Vitamin Water. Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 006
It turns out space cures cancer. Well, back to miking this amp.
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NASA heard the first demos and is livid over the lack of covers. They want to hear an established hit by tomorrow or they’re going to start “fucking with the oxygen.” I said I’d throw them a bone by including a version of “Spaceman” by Babylon Zoo, but they turned it down on the grounds that it “sucks major shit.”Turn down the oxygen all you want, you shitheel cowards. You think I need air to deliver the greatest album in NASA history? All I need is an acoustic guitar, this filthy mustache, and the courage to say what every astronaut is thinking. Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 008
As promised, they’re making the air harder to breathe. The band is concerned about delirium, but I told them not to worry. I’m maintaining a sane public face for all of us by sending down videos of how I clip my nails and brush my teeth in zero gravity. I’m saving the three-hour feature on our plastic piss-sacks for an emergency. In other news, my own penis pump testing is proving inconclusive. To be honest, this was the result I was hoping for. I mean, I can't come out here every single time I need to upbeef my meat.
Instead of complaining about the “lack of oxygen” and “reduced brain function,” I’m making the best of things. Going to try using my pump as a guitar slide, like a penis-obsessed Jeff Healey, which might have been Regular Jeff Healey had he been able to see his own dink.
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I suppose my greatest fear is falling endlessly through the infinite void of space and I can't open my spacesuit to change the song I have on repeat to learn it for the record and the song in question is "Sunset Grill" by Don Henley. But it would be a small price to pay for pushing the limits of human accomplishment to the limit.Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 011
The program director’s insisting on Bowie’s “Space Oddity.” I’m going along with it for the sake of the men’s morale; it may be the only thing that gets them to stop hiding in the astro-crawlspace.It’s a shitty, obvious choice, but I’m not a prima donna. I’m a simple guy; I was married in a Reebok tuxedo, for Christ’s sake. Unfortunately, Don Was just suffocated in the airlock. I told him it wouldn’t be “great for vocals.” He’ll be producing “Butt Town” in heaven tonight…Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 012
These Bowie lyrics are pretty fucking depressing. I do not love my wife very much. She knows.Commander’s Jam-Log: Entry 013
Despite seemingly everyone turning on me, the recording’s finished. Things started moving along once I got to use the arrangement I wanted. All I had to do was convince the band to get into the escape pod, which was really just the compartment we use to jettison garbage. They’re in a better place right now, a place I like to call “off my bozak.”
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