The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Friday, March 25, 2005
There’s Always Music In The Air
Buddhas and Brahmas,
Ah, where to start. I haven’t written in a small while... I’ve been a bit distracted to say the least.
Last Friday I was to go camping with my allies, the Caroling Canuck and the Red Rightwing. I excitedly packed up my clothes in preparation for the journey; I lined Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage with fresh newspaper and filled his serving-dish with a few days’ worth of monkey-chow. I checked upon the status of the evil-DNA culture I’d been growing in my laboratory, and made sure that my cryo-chamber was operating at peak efficiency, and that Jesse James, Richard Nixon, and Hitler were still nothing more than a batch of powerless popsicles. Everything was set for a fine adventure in the wilderness. Oh, how excited was I!
Unfortunately, rain was looming as a threat in the weather forecast, and quickly the trip was called off. I suppose it should be mentioned that the Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck have never participated in a "fellowship of the drunks" alongside myself and my friends from the Genius Society of America. If they had, they’d know just how minor a concern the rain can really be. (I’ve lost a lot of hats out there in the hills.)
Being that I didn’t want to go from having plans for the weekend to doing nothing on a Friday night, I quickly regrouped. The Irish blood that runs through me left me desiring to party down in the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, and I had a strong craving for some Irish whiskey; it’d been a long time since I’d had any. Fortunately for me, my friend Beckman was having a St. Patrick’s Day party that very night!
I put my time in on the old cosmic-treadmill, showered, shaved, and dressed in my finest suit of clover-colored finery. (I do find that clover and lilac never seem to fail.) I grabbed my trusty old trench-coat from the dryer, and fastened my Mr. Mxyzptlk button to my lapel, as if to make a clear warning to all others I might encounter that my primary pursuits on this particular evening were fun, mirth, and merriment themselves. I grabbed a bottle of John Jameson’s fine Irish whiskey so that I might celebrate the holiday properly. I avoided bringing Bushmills so that I might further impress and endear myself to the many Irish Catholics I knew would most likely be attending the festivities. The second I had divined the way to reach the party, I was out the door and on my way to the bus stop. In my haste I had forgotten to grab my sack of potatoes.
I ran out into the wind and rain in my trench-coat, puffing casually on a stogie I’d had stored in a cigar-tube in my right pocket. I walked hurriedly, as the internet had given me flawed directions and I wanted to make sure I was at the bus stop long before my bus, the last bus of the night, arrived. Once I was seated securely aboard the vessel which served as my means of transportation towards the party, I was content merely to read from the flawed works of Simon Furman and check occasionally on the road.
So happily I cradled my bottle of whiskey (a much finer brand than I’d allowed myself to have in a long time, and one I looked very much forward to shooting, sipping, drinking, and eventually, chugging from) and five of my finest compact discs (both Shatner albums, my Sifl & Olly soundtrack, my Japanese import Panjabi MC album, and, of course, DEVO’s golden, first album, all of which I knew the Beckman would want to hear, and most likely duplicate onto his computer; we enthusiasts of the rare and unusual are few in number and must stick together, if only to avoid being smothered out by the overwhelming legions of brain-dead Prince and Madonna fans- so very trite, so dreadfully bland) as I walked through the streets of San Francisco looking for the next bus stop which would point me towards the abode of the magnificent Beckman. (Wow, can you believe all that was one sentence?) After a small bit of confusion, and a bit of mucking about in the rain, I had made it. I had arrived at the site of the St. Patrick’s party to be, and with me there, certainly it WOULD be a party. And I was ready to get down, get on up, and get funky. The time for joy was at hand.
It was only a little after 10:00 PM and I was the first guest to arrive, much to my surprise. And like all previous parties I had attended with the Beckman, again the Beckman and I were the only two well-dressed men in attendance; the rest of the evening’s party-goers were a mass of t-shirt-clad, slack-happy, fast-food-munchers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My first actions upon entering the lair of festivities was to offer the Beckman some fine Irish whiskey (which he declined, good alcohol is wasted on the young) and to present him with the cream of my music collection, so that he might impress himself with the majesty of Shatner. The Beckman, in turn, presented me with a manual he’d bought on the topic of surviving zombie attacks. This led to a rather drawn-out conversation on the many unholy monsters of the dark, and our chosen survival techniques.
I can’t remember when it was that people I knew started showing up; I’d been too invested in the party to truly notice. The next several hours are little more than a blur of tapped beer-kegs, overactive fog machines, loud rock music, a constant stream of fresh faces, and the occasional socially-smoked cigarette. Before I knew it, I was in a packed house surrounded by an endless crowd of faces, be they feminine, fresh, or furry. I kept my throat well-moistened with a constantly stirring mixture of water and Jamesons, which certainly helped to grant me the wide, Irish smile for which I am best known. In my most jovial state, I even shared a duet with the Beckman to the tune of Sifl & Olly’s Prostitute Laundry, a performance, which I can proudly state with no exaggeration, that went over quite well with all the guests then in attendance, and within audible range.
I quickly made friends with a young lad of six languages (two of which were among my favorites, Farsi and Russian), and after a few short language lessons, and after he’d taught me how to say a particularly crippling phrase in Hungarian, I was quickly made acquainted with his friend, a larger man with a much thicker Russian accent. We spoke briefly, though he seemed to hang on me, and he first asked me if more girls would be arriving to the party, before then telling me his two favorite things in his thick Russian accent.
“I like to drink, and I like to fight,” he told me while making a motion with his fist. Very shortly thereafter he’d left the party with several of his friends, looking to find some street-hoods that had earlier annoyed him.
My Russian friend of six languages soon called his battle-happy pal to see what had become of him. After the phone call (which was all in Russian, as I recall) was over, I was informed that we might not be seeing the big guy again. Somewhere in the city bullets were flying. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, that someone I had spoken to just minutes prior was being shot at, or that he’d had a gun with him while we were speaking. Fortunately, he later returned with his friends, all were living and blessed with flesh unpierced by hot lead slugs. I was happy to see him well, though I made more of a point to limit my conversations with him from that point on.
It wasn’t long before I’d ventured out into the kitchen and two Irish boys in Guinness shirts asked me if I was from Cork.
“Nay,” I told them with just the slightest hint of regret, “I’m a Mayflower baby, born here, the product of many fine Americans before me.”
I suppose perhaps my suit of clover and the whiskey on my breath had made me seem even more authentically Irish than usual. Regardless, we quickly hit it off, and shared a lengthy and amusing conversation on all things Irish before somehow drifting into a long discussion on the political systems of the world, the decline of American government, and how Canada would quickly follow due to the culture’s own self-delusion and denial of the truth. It was refreshing to share a conversation with another as eloquent and thoughtful as myself on the topics of the state of the world and American government. I’ve gotten far too used to having to deal with people with shallow and limited views, and long-since begrudgingly resigned myself to accept the multitude of sheep among the populous.
Being that the shorter Irish lad, with whom I’d mostly spoken, was born of Ireland, and had visited there several times since, I had a strong feeling he would appreciate the fact that I’d brought a fine Irish Catholic whiskey with me to the party (just as I knew he’d more than likely also comment that the Protestant Bushmills was indeed a finer brand) and so I told him of my bottle upstairs and asked him if he’d care to have a drink or three with me. Though I believe the reply was something along the lines of, “Good shit!” or more likely, “Good man!” I have never before witnessed a response so enthusiastic and appreciative. It made me feel quite well to see my efforts in bringing a fine whiskey hadn’t gone unappreciated.
After we knocked back a few shots, and my short Irish pal had started to feel a bit buzzed and dizzy, another Irish friend of mine, a lass I’ve known for a few years now, joined in our conversation. We discussed all things Irish, including the pricks that work at the Bushmills factory, though I was decidedly less knowledgeable on the subject, being a born Yankee and descended from nothing but the finest Quakers that Britain had to kick out. Before long I’d found another acquaintance who’s name I couldn’t even recall, but who had been with me at the party that resulted in the Lusty Lascivian’s eviction, and he too took me up on my offer of fine Irish whiskey, which gave me cause to return to the loveliest bottle in the house. It seems to me in order to appreciate a good whiskey one needs either be a few years past drinking age, or Irish.
A short while later a fight broke out on the street in front of the house we’d been partying in, and I caught several of my friends, the Lusty Lascivian and the Crackbrained Columbian included, trying fearfully to hop over the fence in the backyard in order to escape from the party without having to use the front door. The police arrived swiftly, and my cowardly pals instead left with them out the front, but quickly returned inside once they realized the fight was long over. A friend of mine from my days at the theatre had been outside, and had been hit in the mouth as he tried to break up the fight. Though he was fine, I felt most awful for him and the ordeal he'd endured which had left him with a bloody lip, and so I shared the last of my Jamesons whiskey with him. I thought there had been plenty left, but I assume my many Irish friends in attendance had all started draining the bottle once they realized the liquid gold available for consumption at the party.
I somehow ended up downstairs in the backyard again, I don’t recall the how or why, but I was chatting up the battle-happy Russian again. After he and his friends left, I found myself chatting with a lone female in the backyard that had come over to me for a light and begun engaging me in conversation. We stayed out there, alone, for quite a while, and when we returned inside we found that most of the party-goers had left, still we continued talking, mostly about the business of former loves, and migrating towards the front porch. We bummed and shared a cigarette or two, and I spent what must have been an entire hour of excruciating self-control chatting, before finally I grabbed the girl by my side and kissed her. From then on, the night is a blur, people came and people left, but for the most part I mostly made out with the girl I’d met, for what I must guess was roughly 7 hours until we both left together, sometime after 9 in the morning the next day. Even the Virgin Prince is human. Somewhat.
After I’d napped for a few hours and the headache I’d gotten from too much whiskey and too little sleep had long-since turned into a faded memory, I trekked down into the wild-lands of Pacifica to have dinner with my friend Mr. Mystere, the prude from New England. I wandered along in a pair of blessed sunglasses given to me by my father, an item suddenly deemed by me to be quite useful in the aftermath of a rockin’ and roarin’ St. Patrick’s Day party. I was still dressed in my suit of green, having left in a hurry, but was in a fresh shirt of alabaster and I looked ever the Irishman, complete with dark bags under my eyes and the lazy grin of a prior night spent in excess. I drank the single most delicious iced green tea my dehydrated tongue had ever tasted, while singing to myself the lyrics of The Landlord’s Daughter in a thick Gaelic accent.
I arrived at the door too tired to sing a song, and swiftly thereafter we sat down to a meal of vegetarian spaghetti, beets, and two fine bottles of A&W Rootbeer, which I’d had the presence of mind to bring for us. It was a fine meal, and my empty, grumbling stomach was quite grateful for it, as I was still functioning off of the calories I’d absorbed from my whiskey consumption the night before. As for Mystere, he gleefully grinned as he noticed my battle-scars from the night before, dotting the length of my neck, hidden slightly under my shirt’s collar, but not well enough. He laughed and smiled amused as I told him the details of the previous night’s mischief.
We watched my ancient ALTV recording and enjoyed it thoroughly, finally, Mr. Mystere was able to witness the music video for Lou Reed's Original Wrapper, of which I had preached and praised for years prior. We played dominos, to which I’d found him a better foe than I’d previously encountered (though I still won most rounds), and later watched Saturday Night Live, though Ashton Kutcher was the host, and the talentless lad did his part to render the show entirely unfunny, though he screamed in nearly every sketch. We reminisced of times past, of the golden age, and of the dashing Mr. Mystere of the 1940s, and after brief contest of mind-control and eye-laser beams, Mystere retired to the bedroom to join Nemo and Morpheus in slumber, and I found unconsciousness on the couch before a glowing cathode-ray tube.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Ah, where to start. I haven’t written in a small while... I’ve been a bit distracted to say the least.
Last Friday I was to go camping with my allies, the Caroling Canuck and the Red Rightwing. I excitedly packed up my clothes in preparation for the journey; I lined Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage with fresh newspaper and filled his serving-dish with a few days’ worth of monkey-chow. I checked upon the status of the evil-DNA culture I’d been growing in my laboratory, and made sure that my cryo-chamber was operating at peak efficiency, and that Jesse James, Richard Nixon, and Hitler were still nothing more than a batch of powerless popsicles. Everything was set for a fine adventure in the wilderness. Oh, how excited was I!
Unfortunately, rain was looming as a threat in the weather forecast, and quickly the trip was called off. I suppose it should be mentioned that the Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck have never participated in a "fellowship of the drunks" alongside myself and my friends from the Genius Society of America. If they had, they’d know just how minor a concern the rain can really be. (I’ve lost a lot of hats out there in the hills.)
Being that I didn’t want to go from having plans for the weekend to doing nothing on a Friday night, I quickly regrouped. The Irish blood that runs through me left me desiring to party down in the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, and I had a strong craving for some Irish whiskey; it’d been a long time since I’d had any. Fortunately for me, my friend Beckman was having a St. Patrick’s Day party that very night!
I put my time in on the old cosmic-treadmill, showered, shaved, and dressed in my finest suit of clover-colored finery. (I do find that clover and lilac never seem to fail.) I grabbed my trusty old trench-coat from the dryer, and fastened my Mr. Mxyzptlk button to my lapel, as if to make a clear warning to all others I might encounter that my primary pursuits on this particular evening were fun, mirth, and merriment themselves. I grabbed a bottle of John Jameson’s fine Irish whiskey so that I might celebrate the holiday properly. I avoided bringing Bushmills so that I might further impress and endear myself to the many Irish Catholics I knew would most likely be attending the festivities. The second I had divined the way to reach the party, I was out the door and on my way to the bus stop. In my haste I had forgotten to grab my sack of potatoes.
I ran out into the wind and rain in my trench-coat, puffing casually on a stogie I’d had stored in a cigar-tube in my right pocket. I walked hurriedly, as the internet had given me flawed directions and I wanted to make sure I was at the bus stop long before my bus, the last bus of the night, arrived. Once I was seated securely aboard the vessel which served as my means of transportation towards the party, I was content merely to read from the flawed works of Simon Furman and check occasionally on the road.
So happily I cradled my bottle of whiskey (a much finer brand than I’d allowed myself to have in a long time, and one I looked very much forward to shooting, sipping, drinking, and eventually, chugging from) and five of my finest compact discs (both Shatner albums, my Sifl & Olly soundtrack, my Japanese import Panjabi MC album, and, of course, DEVO’s golden, first album, all of which I knew the Beckman would want to hear, and most likely duplicate onto his computer; we enthusiasts of the rare and unusual are few in number and must stick together, if only to avoid being smothered out by the overwhelming legions of brain-dead Prince and Madonna fans- so very trite, so dreadfully bland) as I walked through the streets of San Francisco looking for the next bus stop which would point me towards the abode of the magnificent Beckman. (Wow, can you believe all that was one sentence?) After a small bit of confusion, and a bit of mucking about in the rain, I had made it. I had arrived at the site of the St. Patrick’s party to be, and with me there, certainly it WOULD be a party. And I was ready to get down, get on up, and get funky. The time for joy was at hand.
It was only a little after 10:00 PM and I was the first guest to arrive, much to my surprise. And like all previous parties I had attended with the Beckman, again the Beckman and I were the only two well-dressed men in attendance; the rest of the evening’s party-goers were a mass of t-shirt-clad, slack-happy, fast-food-munchers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My first actions upon entering the lair of festivities was to offer the Beckman some fine Irish whiskey (which he declined, good alcohol is wasted on the young) and to present him with the cream of my music collection, so that he might impress himself with the majesty of Shatner. The Beckman, in turn, presented me with a manual he’d bought on the topic of surviving zombie attacks. This led to a rather drawn-out conversation on the many unholy monsters of the dark, and our chosen survival techniques.
I can’t remember when it was that people I knew started showing up; I’d been too invested in the party to truly notice. The next several hours are little more than a blur of tapped beer-kegs, overactive fog machines, loud rock music, a constant stream of fresh faces, and the occasional socially-smoked cigarette. Before I knew it, I was in a packed house surrounded by an endless crowd of faces, be they feminine, fresh, or furry. I kept my throat well-moistened with a constantly stirring mixture of water and Jamesons, which certainly helped to grant me the wide, Irish smile for which I am best known. In my most jovial state, I even shared a duet with the Beckman to the tune of Sifl & Olly’s Prostitute Laundry, a performance, which I can proudly state with no exaggeration, that went over quite well with all the guests then in attendance, and within audible range.
I quickly made friends with a young lad of six languages (two of which were among my favorites, Farsi and Russian), and after a few short language lessons, and after he’d taught me how to say a particularly crippling phrase in Hungarian, I was quickly made acquainted with his friend, a larger man with a much thicker Russian accent. We spoke briefly, though he seemed to hang on me, and he first asked me if more girls would be arriving to the party, before then telling me his two favorite things in his thick Russian accent.
“I like to drink, and I like to fight,” he told me while making a motion with his fist. Very shortly thereafter he’d left the party with several of his friends, looking to find some street-hoods that had earlier annoyed him.
My Russian friend of six languages soon called his battle-happy pal to see what had become of him. After the phone call (which was all in Russian, as I recall) was over, I was informed that we might not be seeing the big guy again. Somewhere in the city bullets were flying. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, that someone I had spoken to just minutes prior was being shot at, or that he’d had a gun with him while we were speaking. Fortunately, he later returned with his friends, all were living and blessed with flesh unpierced by hot lead slugs. I was happy to see him well, though I made more of a point to limit my conversations with him from that point on.
It wasn’t long before I’d ventured out into the kitchen and two Irish boys in Guinness shirts asked me if I was from Cork.
“Nay,” I told them with just the slightest hint of regret, “I’m a Mayflower baby, born here, the product of many fine Americans before me.”
I suppose perhaps my suit of clover and the whiskey on my breath had made me seem even more authentically Irish than usual. Regardless, we quickly hit it off, and shared a lengthy and amusing conversation on all things Irish before somehow drifting into a long discussion on the political systems of the world, the decline of American government, and how Canada would quickly follow due to the culture’s own self-delusion and denial of the truth. It was refreshing to share a conversation with another as eloquent and thoughtful as myself on the topics of the state of the world and American government. I’ve gotten far too used to having to deal with people with shallow and limited views, and long-since begrudgingly resigned myself to accept the multitude of sheep among the populous.
Being that the shorter Irish lad, with whom I’d mostly spoken, was born of Ireland, and had visited there several times since, I had a strong feeling he would appreciate the fact that I’d brought a fine Irish Catholic whiskey with me to the party (just as I knew he’d more than likely also comment that the Protestant Bushmills was indeed a finer brand) and so I told him of my bottle upstairs and asked him if he’d care to have a drink or three with me. Though I believe the reply was something along the lines of, “Good shit!” or more likely, “Good man!” I have never before witnessed a response so enthusiastic and appreciative. It made me feel quite well to see my efforts in bringing a fine whiskey hadn’t gone unappreciated.
After we knocked back a few shots, and my short Irish pal had started to feel a bit buzzed and dizzy, another Irish friend of mine, a lass I’ve known for a few years now, joined in our conversation. We discussed all things Irish, including the pricks that work at the Bushmills factory, though I was decidedly less knowledgeable on the subject, being a born Yankee and descended from nothing but the finest Quakers that Britain had to kick out. Before long I’d found another acquaintance who’s name I couldn’t even recall, but who had been with me at the party that resulted in the Lusty Lascivian’s eviction, and he too took me up on my offer of fine Irish whiskey, which gave me cause to return to the loveliest bottle in the house. It seems to me in order to appreciate a good whiskey one needs either be a few years past drinking age, or Irish.
A short while later a fight broke out on the street in front of the house we’d been partying in, and I caught several of my friends, the Lusty Lascivian and the Crackbrained Columbian included, trying fearfully to hop over the fence in the backyard in order to escape from the party without having to use the front door. The police arrived swiftly, and my cowardly pals instead left with them out the front, but quickly returned inside once they realized the fight was long over. A friend of mine from my days at the theatre had been outside, and had been hit in the mouth as he tried to break up the fight. Though he was fine, I felt most awful for him and the ordeal he'd endured which had left him with a bloody lip, and so I shared the last of my Jamesons whiskey with him. I thought there had been plenty left, but I assume my many Irish friends in attendance had all started draining the bottle once they realized the liquid gold available for consumption at the party.
I somehow ended up downstairs in the backyard again, I don’t recall the how or why, but I was chatting up the battle-happy Russian again. After he and his friends left, I found myself chatting with a lone female in the backyard that had come over to me for a light and begun engaging me in conversation. We stayed out there, alone, for quite a while, and when we returned inside we found that most of the party-goers had left, still we continued talking, mostly about the business of former loves, and migrating towards the front porch. We bummed and shared a cigarette or two, and I spent what must have been an entire hour of excruciating self-control chatting, before finally I grabbed the girl by my side and kissed her. From then on, the night is a blur, people came and people left, but for the most part I mostly made out with the girl I’d met, for what I must guess was roughly 7 hours until we both left together, sometime after 9 in the morning the next day. Even the Virgin Prince is human. Somewhat.
After I’d napped for a few hours and the headache I’d gotten from too much whiskey and too little sleep had long-since turned into a faded memory, I trekked down into the wild-lands of Pacifica to have dinner with my friend Mr. Mystere, the prude from New England. I wandered along in a pair of blessed sunglasses given to me by my father, an item suddenly deemed by me to be quite useful in the aftermath of a rockin’ and roarin’ St. Patrick’s Day party. I was still dressed in my suit of green, having left in a hurry, but was in a fresh shirt of alabaster and I looked ever the Irishman, complete with dark bags under my eyes and the lazy grin of a prior night spent in excess. I drank the single most delicious iced green tea my dehydrated tongue had ever tasted, while singing to myself the lyrics of The Landlord’s Daughter in a thick Gaelic accent.
I arrived at the door too tired to sing a song, and swiftly thereafter we sat down to a meal of vegetarian spaghetti, beets, and two fine bottles of A&W Rootbeer, which I’d had the presence of mind to bring for us. It was a fine meal, and my empty, grumbling stomach was quite grateful for it, as I was still functioning off of the calories I’d absorbed from my whiskey consumption the night before. As for Mystere, he gleefully grinned as he noticed my battle-scars from the night before, dotting the length of my neck, hidden slightly under my shirt’s collar, but not well enough. He laughed and smiled amused as I told him the details of the previous night’s mischief.
We watched my ancient ALTV recording and enjoyed it thoroughly, finally, Mr. Mystere was able to witness the music video for Lou Reed's Original Wrapper, of which I had preached and praised for years prior. We played dominos, to which I’d found him a better foe than I’d previously encountered (though I still won most rounds), and later watched Saturday Night Live, though Ashton Kutcher was the host, and the talentless lad did his part to render the show entirely unfunny, though he screamed in nearly every sketch. We reminisced of times past, of the golden age, and of the dashing Mr. Mystere of the 1940s, and after brief contest of mind-control and eye-laser beams, Mystere retired to the bedroom to join Nemo and Morpheus in slumber, and I found unconsciousness on the couch before a glowing cathode-ray tube.
The Virgin Prince
