The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Gonna Buy A Tank and An Aeroplane
To you, my flitting fishies,
My, how I miss Soundgarden.
Ah, it’s been one of those weeks where I’ve been gripped firmly in the hand of music appreciation. I’ve loudly and joyously sung many songs to myself as I’ve trekked around the house, the store, and the county in general, only to find that as soon as I’ve sung one song out of my system another melody has clawed its way into the cranial cavities of my skull. All day long I’m a mess of Brian Dewan songs, the musical numbers from The Wicker Man, and pirate anthems, singing tales of mummified cowboy outlaws, the joys of obedience school, of listening to records, wastepaper basket-fires, of corn rigs and barley, landlords’ daughters, of trees and seeds, songs of sixpence, and what to do with drunken sailors. Were I not more seemingly predisposed towards singing drinking songs and folk music, I might very well begin to believe that I was indeed meant to be a lounge singer. In fact, as a youth, I do believe I did always secretly wish to be a Las Vegas lounge singer. Or perhaps an X-Ray technician.
Mayhaps I can follow the credo I’ve always enjoyed spouting, of “take two things you like and put them together”, and become a pioneer in the field of singing X-Ray technicians.
These past few weeks I’ve come to rediscover my love of Queen, that first realized when watching again the last few minutes of Flash Gordon in the waning days of my high school years, and find nothing but utter bliss in the appreciation of the guitar-workings of everyone’s favorite astrophysics major, Brian May, and the incomparable vocal stylings of the world’s most beloved Zoroastrian, Freddy Mercury. Of course, Crazy Little Thing Called Love is easily forgiven in the face of a body of such incomparable work, and certainly no one can hold a grudge against an artist for experimentation. Certainly, it’s well-known that only the blandist of musicians stick to lame, tried-and-true formulas. Why, it’s that sort of adherence towards dull monotony that has led to the mediocre song-libraries of the likes of No Doubt, Britney Spears, and damn-near every boy-band in existence.
I am, without a doubt, most fortunate that I can share in my enthusiasm and enjoyment of the band Queen with my new squeeze, and more fortunate still that she has nearly all their albums. I’m left pondering a chicken-and-egg-type scenario, wondering truly whether it is her love of Queen that has left me twice as infatuated with her, or merely my infatuation with her that has left me twice as in love with Queen. O, the mind wonders.
In other news, I still continue to find myself annoyed at the presence of Veronica Mars on television. It’s not so much that the character is a blatant rip-off of Chloe Sullivan (the character played by the most gorgeous Allison Mack on Smallville, the show about everyone’s favorite Kryptonian as a youth), or even the fact that they cast Paris Hilton to star in the second episode of the series. Nay, it’s that that lousy wench Veronica Mars stole my smirk! That smirk is trademarked, having been well-established as the property and defining characteristic of the Virgin Prince since my wee-days as a leather-jacket-clad youth in the streets of Redwood City. Damn you Veronica Mars! Give me back what is rightfully mine!
I tried earlier today to negotiate with the star of the show, one Kristen Bell (not to be confused with Christian Bale, my beloved Batman), on her relinquishing my now-famous smirk back to me (negotiating generally entails me running alongside her limousine while Bobo the Virgin Chimp throws feces at it). All I received was a sense of frustration and a face-full of mace (of which I’ve long-since developed an immunity, thanks to my many relationships with the emotionally-troubled women of the world). Well at least I’ve still got my killer dimples.
Damn you Frankie Muniz! Come back with those!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
My, how I miss Soundgarden.
Ah, it’s been one of those weeks where I’ve been gripped firmly in the hand of music appreciation. I’ve loudly and joyously sung many songs to myself as I’ve trekked around the house, the store, and the county in general, only to find that as soon as I’ve sung one song out of my system another melody has clawed its way into the cranial cavities of my skull. All day long I’m a mess of Brian Dewan songs, the musical numbers from The Wicker Man, and pirate anthems, singing tales of mummified cowboy outlaws, the joys of obedience school, of listening to records, wastepaper basket-fires, of corn rigs and barley, landlords’ daughters, of trees and seeds, songs of sixpence, and what to do with drunken sailors. Were I not more seemingly predisposed towards singing drinking songs and folk music, I might very well begin to believe that I was indeed meant to be a lounge singer. In fact, as a youth, I do believe I did always secretly wish to be a Las Vegas lounge singer. Or perhaps an X-Ray technician.
Mayhaps I can follow the credo I’ve always enjoyed spouting, of “take two things you like and put them together”, and become a pioneer in the field of singing X-Ray technicians.
These past few weeks I’ve come to rediscover my love of Queen, that first realized when watching again the last few minutes of Flash Gordon in the waning days of my high school years, and find nothing but utter bliss in the appreciation of the guitar-workings of everyone’s favorite astrophysics major, Brian May, and the incomparable vocal stylings of the world’s most beloved Zoroastrian, Freddy Mercury. Of course, Crazy Little Thing Called Love is easily forgiven in the face of a body of such incomparable work, and certainly no one can hold a grudge against an artist for experimentation. Certainly, it’s well-known that only the blandist of musicians stick to lame, tried-and-true formulas. Why, it’s that sort of adherence towards dull monotony that has led to the mediocre song-libraries of the likes of No Doubt, Britney Spears, and damn-near every boy-band in existence.
I am, without a doubt, most fortunate that I can share in my enthusiasm and enjoyment of the band Queen with my new squeeze, and more fortunate still that she has nearly all their albums. I’m left pondering a chicken-and-egg-type scenario, wondering truly whether it is her love of Queen that has left me twice as infatuated with her, or merely my infatuation with her that has left me twice as in love with Queen. O, the mind wonders.
In other news, I still continue to find myself annoyed at the presence of Veronica Mars on television. It’s not so much that the character is a blatant rip-off of Chloe Sullivan (the character played by the most gorgeous Allison Mack on Smallville, the show about everyone’s favorite Kryptonian as a youth), or even the fact that they cast Paris Hilton to star in the second episode of the series. Nay, it’s that that lousy wench Veronica Mars stole my smirk! That smirk is trademarked, having been well-established as the property and defining characteristic of the Virgin Prince since my wee-days as a leather-jacket-clad youth in the streets of Redwood City. Damn you Veronica Mars! Give me back what is rightfully mine!
I tried earlier today to negotiate with the star of the show, one Kristen Bell (not to be confused with Christian Bale, my beloved Batman), on her relinquishing my now-famous smirk back to me (negotiating generally entails me running alongside her limousine while Bobo the Virgin Chimp throws feces at it). All I received was a sense of frustration and a face-full of mace (of which I’ve long-since developed an immunity, thanks to my many relationships with the emotionally-troubled women of the world). Well at least I’ve still got my killer dimples.
Damn you Frankie Muniz! Come back with those!
The Virgin Prince
