Are You the Captain?

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Sat, 31 May 2008 17:27:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 21:14:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Fri, 01 Jun 2007 06:15:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Tue, 27 Feb 2007 05:02:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 20:58:00 +0000

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?

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Fri, 16 Jun 2006 19:03:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Tue, 16 May 2006 15:59:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Wed, 12 Apr 2006 01:38:00 +0000

The Joy Report and Public Service Announcement or After School Special depending on who you ask.
All I want to do is wear jackets and quote T.S. Eliot all day long. The order came down and some changes were made. From this day forward the H.M.S. Royal Tears will work tirelessly to compile our unflinching report on the nature and practice of joy.
I would like to say I was musing on the beauty of naturally occurring fractals as I peeled myself off the bathroom floor this morning. This, however, would be a lie. In truth, sacred geometry was far from my mind. I met my own eyes in the mirror. I squirted some toothpaste into my mouth. I began to seperate the past few months of my experience into categories of 'joy' and 'no joy.' There were fair amounts of each and some moments overlapped. Joy in getting up off the floor. Joy in the way my aching legs protested. Good. Still alive. Quite alive. No joy when I saw my phone carelessly scattered by the toilet. Had I called someone last night? Joy when I got home and lifted a cold orange to my feverish head. What else do I remember? Music and driving and friends, a big, old, red dog, the floor. Joy, joy, joy, joy, and no joy, respectively. What is the point, you ask? Well, it's this: In one of the very first H.M.S. RT postings, I believe I said that we were going on a mission 'in search of the miraculous.' Now, knowing that the miraculous has changing properties, we expected to wander - we expected to roam, unsure at times of where we were headed. We expected to be confronted with smoke and brick walls and oozing fluids. But then we got lost. Really lost. The hull was up, the sky was down...we dressed our hands in socks and buttoned our shirts up the back. We looked without seeing and heard without listening. We forgot about joy and no joy. And the it happened - as soon as we remembered that we had forgotten we were set right again.
Pick yourself up off the bathroom floor. Wear your drunk dials like a crown. Show your badges of joy and no joy. Some fond memories of our time up a tree: Naturally occurring fractals, swimming, blood oranges, ridiculous manga synopses, existential short stories, friends in familiar clothes, TV on DVD, rolling a good joint, Serpico, the repetition of nonsense phrases and an endless parade of vegan chicken nuggets. Let the new era commence.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 05:51:00 +0000

"My eyes are dry and my nose won't run, I'm a cardboard box, baby, dressed like a man!"

Won't you come in? Yes, please sit down by the fire. It's that time again. Why, it seems to come faster each year, doesn't it? Those are the same clothes you were wearing the last time we met. I too am wearing the same clothes! What a coincidence! This is too much.
I save this special whisky for when we are together. Well, it's silly, I know. And sentimental...and not a little melodramatic, but what can I say? It still fits. It still works, doesn't it? Yes, it does. Alright, I know you should be on your way. Say it with me now until next time.

"When a child, certain skies sharpened my vision: all their characters were reflected in my face.The Phenomena were roused.
-At present, the eternal inflection of moments and the infinity of mathematics drives me through this world where I meet with every civil honor, respected by strange children and prodigious affections. -I dream of a War of right and of might, of
unlooked-for logic.
It is as simple as a musical phrase."

Well, you're off the hook for another year. Go ahead. I know, I know, you are easily embarrassed.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Mon, 20 Feb 2006 04:05:00 +0000

Oh Television! You ARE a sly one. These heady days I have most certainly succumb to your charms. Not only have I been recently, physically, moved to purchase by a commercial ( as in I saw the commercial and promptly left my house cash in hand), but I have more disturbingly realized my extreme attraction to the generic implements of crime scene investigation. I blame this on you Television. I blame this on your careful and ubiquitous message: Forensics is hot. You aren't even trying to hide it anymore. With your ten versions of CSI, your Cold Case, your Cold Case Files, your Forensics Files, your Bones (Let us not, of course, forget the X-files, oh no, we wouldn't...If ever I wanted to blame something - nay, someONE for my extreme fetishizing of the banal). Why are you doing this? Are your many shows sponsored by law enforcement hoping to snag a generation of hopefuls in to your deep, dark world of vehicle requisition forms and tiny labeled plastic bags? Well, it worked Television. It worked. My sailor's heart is not made of stone. I heard the siren call of your glass and metal labs, perfectly styled hair and white, white overgarments. It's all about the accessories isn't it, Television? Even the danger of the job can be tossed off as just one more carefully draped accessory - file it away with my fictitious sixty hour work week and my myriad tension filled glances at the other hot, hot forensics investigators on my team. Why, if I'm injured on the job I'll only be taken to an emergency room likewise staffed to the brim with foxiness. Oh Television, you win. You've made the ordinary exotic and the exotic ordinary. Kudos to you.
The Royal Tears pledge to Television our undying love and eternal disgust.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Sat, 28 Jan 2006 03:50:00 +0000

I am unemployed. Photo shoot at my house! Now inviting friends, non-friends, favorites and enemies to my house for portraits. One at a time, please. Extra points if you can morph back into childhood versions of yourself. Sign up here or email me. Tell others, bring drugs.

noreply@blogger.com (BLOOD AMBITION 2008) — Tue, 20 Dec 2005 10:43:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Mon, 05 Dec 2005 07:00:00 +0000

Thank You Leapy Lee. Thank you for your little arrows. You have given us hope. A brand new Royal Tears recording - why, the only Royal Tears recording! "Little Arrows in your clothing! Little Arrows in your hair!" Please stop me on the street and ask me about this. I want to know you. Come to my house. We'll have a visit, make a drawing, watch some foxy long form improv comedy. The world is open to us. The world is ours.

By the way - the word on the street is that I am free. I've broken out. My days are full of color. "Let crazy be crazy!! Let the orphans find their Dads!"

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Thu, 13 Oct 2005 23:33:00 +0000

Thoreau Was A Hack. Will Working Keep Me Honest?
I made my cabin in the woods built of the fruits of my day labor. Two tiny rooms set aside for leisure and for pondering - a sacred cone of silence! into which I retreat from the hustle and bustle. Each day goes by and I dream of pixelations, of beautiful noise songs turned into sculptures. I hoarde my office supplies. I measure out my enthusiasm. I lie on my space foam bed, eat sour patch kids, and take myself very seriously.
Sometimes I wish I could roam around untethered, collecting wonderful memories of faraway sand dunes and natural parks...I wish I could leave my house with a backpack full of only sculpy and magic markers and never look back. And sometimes, I am very happy to tinker in my hobbit bunker, smoke, eat frozen pizza and play make shift ping pong on my make shift ping pong table. I don't know what I'm making and I don't know what I'm missing, but I'm sure it's there. I'm sure what's there, you ask? My small H.M.S. birth mark that swirls out a dark navy blue. Etched and expertly formed in a hidden place - like the Omen! but not nearly as special as the Omen! and no snarling dogs or Gregory Peck like the Omen! No, this mark is far more ordinary, why, you have one on your own self.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Wed, 28 Sep 2005 17:24:00 +0000

My Chubby Blue body is full of love. I decided to join the Royal Tears after many faithful years in another branch of Her Majesty's service. I am now the same height as my bandmates. I love the sailor's life.

noreply@blogger.com (BLOOD AMBITION 2008) — Tue, 13 Sep 2005 01:25:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Mon, 29 Aug 2005 21:53:00 +0000

'I am completely serious when I tell you that dolphin jumped out of the water, did a 360 degree spin, cocked its head, and started laughing. I saw pure, unmistakable joy in that dolphin's eye and it has changed my life.' The Royal Tears went on vacation. The Royal Tears never go on vacation. There is no vacation for the Royal Tears!

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Thu, 18 Aug 2005 00:57:00 +0000

S.O.S! The Royal Tears are trapped!!! We're stuck. Civilian life is a demanding mistress. Jobs and moving and broken limbs and mysterious disappearances and episodic television on DVD. S.O.S! Please do your part: Talk to the leg and encourage him to inquire as to the whereabouts of the hand. The foot needs some gentle coaxing, but the hip's just an attention whore. Resurrect the Body!!! That lego model of a Turing machine can wait! Put that short story with incestuous twins on the back burner! Kindly explain to your neighbor that the H.M.S. is a perishable jewel. Take up thy stethoscope and walk!

More tomfoolery will follow shortly.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Mon, 01 Aug 2005 03:29:00 +0000

H.M.S. Royal Tears want nothing.
Not love, nor hate, nor sweet sweet candy.
If the H.M.S. want something, then we want this: Stop us on the street and turn out your pockets, pat us on the back and say: 'Everything belongs to me because I am poor.' Not in a literal sense, mind you, because everybody knows really being poor, a member of the working poor doesn't leave idle time for whimsical philosophizing. This is probably mid- twenties poor, or even college poor. Stop us on the street. 'Everything goes away from me now...everything belongs to me because I am poor.' And we'll share a starry-eyed chuckle. 'Ah, Jack Kerouac, now HE was a Captain', we'll say...'before the red wine, before the phlebitis, before we were seduced by intricate structures and artful forms...First thought, best thought!, yes, indeed.'
H.M.S. Royal Tears want nothing. Or if we want something else, it's for you to want nothing. To come together in a room with us and to sing at the top of our lungs, to sing loud enough and often enough, that someday we may want nothing together.
Today is Sunday, July 31st. Don't think too hard about it. Today there is no Captain.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Fri, 29 Jul 2005 19:14:00 +0000

The Hobbit House, or How I Learned to Hate Frank Gehry and love the Geodesic Dome.
One of my favorite things to do is corner architecture students at parties or bars and blather on about my hatred of Frank Gehry and my love for the Geodesic Dome. Being acquainted with someone in architecture school was great. Drunk, and with a healthy dose of bravado, I would see him from across the room and slowly make my way over. Seeing the gleam in my eye, my hair plastered to my forehead with the sweat born of dancing, there was no question as to what I wanted. This ever gracious architecture student suffered me with patience and kindness, always listening and nodding attentively. It was bliss.
And then - he dropped out. 'I quit', he said. 'The drawings and the models and the sleeping on the floor of the studio...I can't design shopping malls...I just won't do it.' I was confused and dismayed...'What will I do now?', I thought.
- And if you're thinking - This has nothing to do with the H.M.S. Royal Tears!! You are wrong, wrong, wrong...SO wrong. Frank Gehry vs. the Geodesic Dome is the crux of what the H.M.S. is all about. Whenever, wherever a team of brilliant engineers gather to consider tons of undulating stainless steel and how to hide a building under it, we will be far away in another corner of the world ready to play! If we could figure out the frequency at which these excessive cock rock structures would tumble, believe me we would. The grass roof 'Hobbit Home' is the future, at least, that's our opinion. Join the Royal Revolution!!

Today, 29th July 2005, Buckminster Fuller is the Captain. Look, it's not pretentious, it'sjust TRUE!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Thu, 21 Jul 2005 22:45:00 +0000

Two nights ago I woke up with fragments of a dream fresh in my mind. In the dream, I had heard the voice of one of my co-workers. It was strange, somehow I had managed to perfectly recreate this sound memory - everything was the same - pitch, tone, and cadence. How can the brain recreate these things so perfectly? This voice, familiar to me, but not necessarily dear - not my father's voice or my favorite singer or my tiny dog's bark - perfectly reassembled in my mind, left me lying there a little lost in thought.
What I really wanted to see was where in the brain sound activity occurs. What I wanted to know was how memory, perception, and physiology came together to stage the show. I decided, in my darkened room, in the absence of textbooks and diagrams, a tiny, miniature version of my co-worker sent to whisper in my ear, seemed most probable. What if there are tiny, miniature versions of the Royal Tears, set sail on the stormy waters of your dreams?! We will crawl in through the cracks in the houses and climb into your pockets and lie in wait for those moments when you are most suggestible...warm and drifting off - our voices humming - the cilia bouncing. All working to bring you a magic sound. A magic sound to untie all the ribbons. A siren call. If the call lures you out to sea! or towards the rocks! or under your covers! why not stop and look around?

Today, 21 July 2005 His Master's Voice is the Captain.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Wed, 20 Jul 2005 00:21:00 +0000

A buffalo, miss-matched socks, and Horatio Nelson underneath a rainbow. My bandmate is emailing me good, uplifting oratory and pictures of actresses that play doctors on TV. I think in another life, I would like to play a doctor on TV.
I wonder, if in the final moments before battle, Lord Nelson's thoughts turned to doctors on TV. It doesn't matter, really. Once again from the forest of magical specialness comes a hobbit-in-arms to rescue me out of the depths of despair. Multi-colored lights shoot from his eyes, ice cream recoils at his sweetness, he whispers in resonant frequencies. Today, 19th July 2005: Oscar Santos is the Captain.

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Fri, 15 Jul 2005 01:04:00 +0000

"Clark realized immediately that the Teignmouth Electron, abandoned in apparently excellent order, presented a complete mystery. The Cabin was untidy. Two days' dirty dishes were in the sink. Three radio receivers, two of them disembowelled, stood on the tables and shelf, and radio parts were strewn in confusion everywhere. To one side a soldering iron was balanced precariously on an old milk tin - evidence that the boat had not been hit by any sudden wave or storm. An old, dirty sleeping bag lay on the forward bunk. The supplies of food and water seemed to be adequate. The boat's equipment was in reasonable order, but the chronometer case was empty. The smell in the cabin, clearly indicated to an experienced seaman, that no one had been living there for several days. On deck the life-raft was still firmly lashed in place, the helm was swinging freely. The lowered sails were neatly folded, ready to be raised, and nothing on deck gave any clue to an accident."

Join the Royal Tears 'in search of the miraculous.' We follow in the footsteps of those who have searched before us.
Today, 14th July 2005, Mr. Crowhurst and Mr. Ader are our bravest and dearest Co-Captains!

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Wed, 13 Jul 2005 21:51:00 +0000

"The Bass Micro Synthesizer reissue has the same incredible features as the Micro Synthesizer with a filter sweep range tailored for lower frequencies. From percussive sounds to backwards sounding bowed sounds, the Bass Micro Synthesizer, with its four completely mixable voices (bass, octave above, sub-octave, and square wave or distortion) and adjustable filter sweep section lets the bass player create those fat vintage analog synthesizer sounds heard on records by everyone from Bootsy Collins to the Chemical Brothers."

I just purchased this pedal from a good samaritan named 'Mike.' Mike lives in Venice Beach, California and is going to New Zealand to work on Visual Effects for Peter Jackson's 'King Kong.' Mike was lovely and has performed dutifully in his service to
H.M.S. Royal Tears. Mike is the Captain for today, 13th July 2005.

xo

noreply@blogger.com (Royal Tears) — Tue, 28 Jun 2005 00:27:00 +0000

Meep.