Chutes and ladders, dead legs, a fog, a tunnel. These have been drinking days, disoriented days, curious days. Not particularly different than previous days, in that respect I guess. We sailors on the HMSRT are used to the derangement of the senses, truly a fine sport and noble endeavor. Why, some say the sailors of the HMSRT must be cockeyed to truly see, and that's a fact. Twenty-seven percent cockeyed at least. Thirty-four percent is good. Indeed, one starts to get good at things. Forty-six percent...Well, that just won't do. Far too much, I'm afraid. Use some discretion, please. What are you, an animal?
Of course, there are so very many ways to brow-beat the brain. Slap the brain around a little. A little shakedown because, really, when did the brain become so arrogant? Such an entitled fatcat, the brain. Well, you know what? The brain's late on its payment. This is a rough neighborhood and the brain's gonna need a little protection. Next time the brain might not be so lucky. This is a real nice place you got here, brain. It'd be a shame if something were to happen to it...
Alright grabbing hands, reach for those tiny implements of oblivion! Tiny bottles of sweet smelling gases, tiny rivers of Robitussin. You must follow those rivers to the sea, my friend. Tiny pills washed down with flower beer will make you weak in the knees, will make you slack jawed, will make you lose your quarters at Ms. Pacman. Ms. Pacman...Such a tease, what with the bow and the heels and the marching pretzel and all. Sorry, what? Tiny arrows that start in the brain and work their way out the mouth. Yes, you have been running your mouth off lately. Time to be quiet. Time to close that mouth.
Here's a tip: Tell your friends to go on ahead. If, whilst on your gin-soaked journey, you happen upon a magical Velcro House, it's cool. The Velcro House welcomes you. The Velcro House knows that times are tough. The Velcro House forgives you for not calling and not writing. The Velcro House knows that you are forever reaching just beyond your grasp. The Velcro House is not here to judge. The Velcro House thinks those pants make you look taller. The Velcro House- well then, there, now, you get the idea...

The HMS Royal Tears. I say, I say, The HMSRoyalTears! Aye, what has become of her? Run to ground? Tripped up? Stuttering? The mouth is gone, but the brain, with its affectations, remains. The heart is beating until late June, when it will then set out for parts unknown, leaving the shoulders and wrists behind. Not much of a body left, the shoulders and the wrists. But, again I say, you know what? The shoulders and the wrists are super, thanks for asking.
New songs are coming, but we need a singer. And a practice space (again) and your infinite patience and fantastic goodwill. We'll take jealousy too and all repressed attractions. Thinly-veiled contempt is also welcome. We'd be remiss to exclude blind lust and obvious disdain. Aversions can find a home here, but leave your grudging acceptance on the back porch. Ladies and gentlemen please put your hands together! Once again with feeling.

My favorite picture of you is the one I never took in London, on the street we've never been. You sat between The Men. Formidable figures, made more so by metal and yet, looking back at it now...they seem less metal and more like chocolate pudding, barely reigned in by greasy wax paper. Yes.
Despite never going, we did get home all right. I passed the time writing stories about you in TextEdit and then making the computer read them back to me. When I tired of this, I selected particularly opaque passages for my computer voice and left them on friends' voicemail.

Now it is January and I've adopted the familiar phrase- "What Would( Blank) Do?" (What would I DOOO-OOOO!? PosMens!)-to more effectively guide myself through the rest of the year. There will be less virtual picture taking and, dare I say, no chocolate-pudding-diplomacy. No, these days, the question is: WWNCD? What Would Nick/and/or/Nora Charles Do? Undoubtedly something smart and foxy, with scotch and a champagne chaser. Ah, words to live by.
It doesn't always work. I'm pretty sure Nora Charles wouldn't drunkenly text belligerent messages to a long-ago-paramour, whilst speeding away from a Del Taco drive-thru at 2 am. I'm pretty sure Nick Charles wouldn't be found extolling the virtues of go-cart racing in some anonymous warehouse in Anaheim. It's merely a guideline. Currently, I'm both Nick to my Nora and Nora to my Nick and now and then Asta even chimes in with his two cents. Actually, my Asta is just a wadded-up towel I put on the floor under my window to soak up excess rainwater...Inexplicably zoomorphized in a moment of sheer lunacy, ostensibly so I could direct my shouts of "Asta!" when I'm at home alone drinking rye in the dark. Asta is overrated, anyway. By the second film he's hopelessly annoying and also boring and weirdly sexualized by the introduction of a doggy wife.

Where was I? Ah, yes, well, Royal Tears practice will commence in February. Thanks to everyone that came out to see us in August...Five months ago? Yikes. 2008 is the year we will play frequent, consecutive shows. We will come to your town. We will charm you. In the meantime bring me scotch, dear friends, and Myrna Loy.

Michel Legrand get into my smart car*! Please, let me drive you around in my smart car*! Twenty-five miles per hour and powered only by anger! Mon Amour! Je t'aime! Mon Amour! Je t'aime! Je t'aime! Was it only last week I sat drunkenly on the couch and asked you through the television: Why Michel? Why, when my tiny heart can take no more- why must you burn me with your lazer-fat-rainbow melodies?! I'm crying ice cream Michel!!! Is that what you want?!?! That IS what you want, I know. You and your charming eyebrows riding around in my smart car*.

Meryl Streep get into my smart car*! Please, let me drive you around in my smart car*! Twenty-five miles per hour, I car-jacked the lollipop guild! It's funny because they're small, see? And the smart car* is small. The lollipop guild, right? Anyway, Sophie, I want you to know that when you went to the library and tried to find the poems of Emily Dickinson and were met by that total jerk in the glasses that made fun of you for asking for Charles Dickens in the American author section, even though you clearly said 'Emile Dickens' which anyone who WORKS in a library would have interpreted as Emily Dickinson, I want you to know Sophie, that if you want...I'll kill him for you. I really will. But why Sophie? Was it only last week that I sat drunkenly on the couch and asked you through the television: Why? When my tiny heart can take no more-why must your hair be so golden, your skin as alabaster? Why must you speak perfect Polish accented German? Why am I thinking that even in the work camp you look hot? I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for that one, thanks. The emoting is too much- my heart is breaking for you, Sophie. Is that what you want?! That IS what you want, I know. You and your perfect skin and your great actressness riding around in my smart car*.

*I do not, in fact, own a smart car in which to drive around my drunken loves.

It's Summer in my room - time for a little hallucination- association brought on by titration, oh, and probably a large coca-cola. By the way, I have a Coca-cola preference: The ratio of CO2 to syrup must be just right. For me, this means heavy on the syrup. If made properly, you should feel that first sip out the back of your neck and down your spine. If made incorrectly, the experience is similar to that of ingesting a spicy balloon. Sugar, shiver and spine - better than the spicy balloon.
Anyway, I'm listening to this Papercuts record and it's having the same effect that Galaxie 500 usually has on me - sort of convincing me it's summer at night, summer in my house, summer in my room. So much so, that I saw this portrait of Gudrun Ensslin and thought: 'Summer!' And it's inspiring embarrassing feelings of wistfulness and overly sentimental writing. The severe grating noise my car brakes are making has become dear. Time has become slow and globular. I imagine my arms stretching out like taffy and traveling of their own accord. My eyelashes fall out and gather like old leaves. See? I told you it was embarrassing. Oh, I know, this must be the same spot in my brain that's triggered by puppies and marzipan and that Debbie Reynolds song 'Tammy.' And the Baader-Meinhof gang, apparently.

I think my first memory is of the MASH theme song. My bedroom was adjacent to the living room and MASH was a staple (My Dad being a diehard TV fan and ex-military). It wasn't until later that I finally heard the words to "Suicide Is Painless" - which is another epiphany worthy of it's own posting - the MASH theme song has WORDS!? (Ok, maybe not). But I'm sure this show's proximity to my brain in the dream state is directly responsible for what I'm about to tell you.
I have long had a re-occurring fantasy of living in MASH, the TV show. Now, I'm sure I qualify for some sad, post-modern TV kid-divorced from reality, war-as-entertainment blah-diddy-blah award, but I'm totally serious. MASH is my cave.
Of course, I wanted to be Hawkeye. I think it's down to the fact that we both had black hair and that his name was
Hawkeye Pierce - pretty much the name that every eight year old would pick for themselves. Was it a parallel to my broken home? A sparkling, jovial wit in the face of serious chaos? I think I just really liked the uniforms. (I've always, basically been an adolescent boy, though Nat Turner insists I'm essentially an aging gentleman.) So, the uniforms, the cavalier attitudes, the make-shift living quarters and extended family. You're a surgeon, but you always have time for poker, drinking, and hijinks, and who knows, after this crazy thing is all over you might just make it back home.
If you lived in MASH, you could have scandalous, gay love with B.J. Hunnicut (ahem) 'cause Hot Lips? Really not my thing...
You could run to and from helicopters, drive jeeps, and buy things on the black market. What things? Just things.
Oh, well. The Royal Tears are still practicing if you're still interested, with eyes on a show at Summer's End or Fall's Begin. What? What was that B.J.? Korean war fatigues? Who? Get your mind out of the gutter.

Also, heartfelt apologies to Kate Lee for missing her fantabulous Birthday...Much love and homemade, post-birthday cupcakes at the hobbit house hermitage?

Alchemy, The Shadow World, and a drive through Orean Vegetarian Shack.
I now have three memories of Pasadena.
The first: Sunday Brunch at Burger Continental. Of course, this little gem needs no introduction. Let's just say that day included passing out on a random lawn (which later turned out to be the house of a friend) and an unforgettable rendition of the Godfather theme on electric violin.
The second: A long,happy, walking journey following a trail of discarded toiletries and lunch meat, culminating in a feast at Pie'n'Burger.
And lastly: Yesterday, Nat Turner and I decided that Orean was the perfect place to discuss our opinions regarding the collective unconscious, voodoo, the spirit world, and making gold. (We also witnessed someone trying to pay for sex in front of the 'coffee stop' which resulted in a shouting match between the sex customer and the 'coffee stop' manager. Why do people often resort to 'old-timey' sayings when confronted with violence? Nat heard something like "bursting...Bottle of courage" which seems like an unholy amalgam of 'open up a can of whoop-ass' and "liquid courage" to these ears.)

The point is- as June wears on, the Royal Tears would like to explore the paranormal and unseen parts of our world. Excursions in musical trance states, psychic drawing parties, evocation of archetypical demons, and what have you. We're also looking for a bassist. And I'm writing a television pilot about the daily operations of a second rate zoo, if you'd like to help with that.

The Back Alley Butcher. This past Saturday at Fort Royal Tears we witnessed, perhaps, the shadiest of back alley meat sales. A straight up meat deal going down right under our noses. Pausing practice momentarily, we Tears were drawn to the doorway by excited exclamations of: ' You won't find this cheaper anywhere else! Go online and see what I'm talking about!' (if any of you readers regularly purchase meat online, I am interested to speak with you), 'T-Bones, pork chops, rack of lamb, I've got it all in here.' It seems that Meat Man had snagged a passer by and was busy working his magic. I spied him. A slim fellow in his thirties wearing short pants, commandeering a rather official looking truck with large, high quality decals of various animals in their ready-to-consume state. A giant lobster stretched across the drivers side door and out towards the front fender. I did not, however, hear mention of the possibility of fresh lobster in the conversation.
Already in a somewhat giddy state, I sank to my knees in laughter. I was crying with laughter at the absurdity of it all. And then my happy moment on the floor was interrupted by a tone which my reptile brain identified as dangerous. 'You said if I took the time to open this up you'd buy some!'--'Yes, you did!'--'Why would I take the time to go through this and show you the meat if you were never going to buy some!' We reconvened in the doorway only in time to see an agitated man driving away in a meat truck spitting a very caustic 'God Bless You!' to his somewhat bewildered almost-patron.
Kids, don't rat on your friends and please, keep your eyes peeled for the Meat Man.