The Calliope Lives On!

Well, dear readers, it has been at least some five cycles of the Earth's moon since the Calliope has been whole, and, indeed, we have all had our own sets of adventures and misadventures, close encounters, harrowing escapes, trials and tribulations, and so on in that fashion. As you might well know, half of the Calliope is now long returned to our ancestral citadel of Denver, whilst the others are stuck, stranded as it were on this accursed isle of the United Kingdom, where the frills and thrills of the once-birthplace of Victorianism is just a hare too attractive to let our remaining expatriates escape from its vile steam-driven clutches. You might well ask, is there not one among you who is in actuality native to that accursed isle? And ask you might, for yes, indeed, it is not a myth, but Tim themostenglishpersonweevermet, despite being the most english person we've ever met, is an American expatriate. But, dear readers, I must decline the slough of infuriated questioning you are now conceptually barraging me with, for that is a story for another day. And I digress...

For despite the ten thousand and some mile gulf that now separates your dear Calliope, we are yet playing shows and telling stories in your friend's basement, or your friend's Grandma's basement, or your friend's cousin's mother's parlour room, whether it's in the shadow of the majestic Rocky Mountains or the (slightly less majestic, sorry England) South Downs in Sussex, for, like the steam-driven locomotives that once magnanimously criss-crossed this land, we shall continue to plough onwards, seperated as we may be, until the day whence our TALL BIKE WORLD TOUR is destined to begin. But, again, that is a tale for another day.