As a boy, The Passenger had dreams of becoming an astronaut. It seemed a reasonable enough choice; one of my earliest memories is of the Apollo / Soyuz mission, and I remember thinking something to the effect of, "If they can afford to send up a bunch of guys for a freakin' Tupperware party, they can afford to send a 7-year-old into orbit." Oh, how wrong I was. I still think John Glenn blackballed me because I bought the books containing the "Bloom County" strips that capped on his ass, but naturally, I can't prove a damn thing.

Now, at age 32, I've decided to learn the art of being a club DJ. I love dance beats, I love making mix tapes, and Bangkok is in dire need of decent club DJs. It may not get me into orbit, but as the folks at Schwa have (allegedly) said, space is in the head. Sasha, Norman, Carl, Mr. Oakenfold, Mr. Digweed: if you're out there, my dear friends, I need some advice.

Oh, if only it were merely a Fly in the Soup. According to this highly amusing site - created almost entirely from user content - that dubious substance could be anything from hot sauce to rat turds and everything in-between. The procedure is as follows: experienced users submit their horror stories (admittedly, there's a few stories of redemption, too) from their time in that yowling, turbulent hell that is the food service industry. Readers vote for their favorite stories, and the winners can receive anything from a Gap gift certificate to a Volkswagen Beetle ("The official bird of Waitressland," Tom Robbins once wrote). Some of the stories pay off sweetly - check out "Evil Old Broad Saves a Buck" under the "Worst Thing I Ever Did to a Customer" heading - and many evoke sympathy, particularly in the "Fat Tip / Got Stiffed" section. Having said that, I cannot bring myself to appreciate - or even believe - in the stories that feature burger patties dragged on the floor, or pizzas being lightly anointed with urine. Maybe it's the old man in me, or maybe I saw "Fight Club" one time too many, but these sick freaking bastards ought to be locked up. No tip.
 

Those of you who have subscribed to the Passenger's newsletter, "Postcards from Paradise" (does anyone remember Flesh For Lulu? Anyone?), know these pertinent facts about it: I forget to send it out sometimes, and every letter includes the "Fortune Cookie Fortune of the Week." I look to fortune cookies for the truths denied me by mysticism and metaphysics; why, just last night I got a fortune that read "You need to send out the newsletter more often." Wow, man. So insightful. And once I add the suffix "in bed" --fuggedaboutit. Now, thanks to the magic of web technology, I don't have to wait until my next order of Mandarin Chicken for a sweet and concise shot of eastern wisdom. Send a Fortune allows me to send myself - or others, if I'm in the mood - an affirmation an hour, complete with lucky numbers. Visiting this site may not answer all your questions, but it should give you a warm, gratified feeling, akin to polishing off a tray of Mandarin Duck in anticipation of your sweet reward. In bed.
 

Note: The day after this edition of the Passenger went up, Gene Rayburn died at age 82. Much respect to Gene's eternal spirit.
 

Some call Pink Floyd "the first band in space." It's a fine title; if self-appointed David Gilmour and Roger Waters should be spared the grisly ends I wished upon them after hearing "Learning to Fly" and "What God Wants." And - if Pink Floyd was the first band in space, having sprayed the works with their turgid (yet catchy) doom and boom, I'd rather like to think of Apollo 440 as the last band in space. Better still, imagine the band as the Walkman'd, endearingly bellicose Cockney janitor sent to clean up the mess made by their forebears, in the wake of the latter's momentary lapse of reason. "Getting' High on Your Own Supply," the new record from @440 (ooh, cyber-punky!), is one raucous lightspeed trip - a whiplash ride fueled by an even mix of programming, live instrumentation and adrenaline. Not quite hard rock or club pop, "Supply" flies in the rare air - if you went nuts for the big beat pastiche of Fatboy Slim, you should make ready to go nuts to the nth power. And who knows? Perhaps, in the process of soaring into orbit, @440 will accidentally puncture that damn flying pig.

Hey, kids... Just in case I haven't said it enough lately, thanks for flying with us. I get fabulous mail and site picks in the mail from those of you who have been with the column since takeoff, and I get a genuine kick out of seeing new subscribers joining the cult ... er, circle. At any rate, thanks for adding my column to your regular rounds of Salon, Drudge, Brunching, Breszny. Now get more friends to subscribe, so that I may gain enough clout to force a raise in pay. Cheers!