The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Monday, April 11, 2005
He's For Every One of Us, Stands For Every One of Us
To all, save those vile Hessians,
Again, I’ve not posted in a small while. I’ve let myself be sucked into a blissful realm of camping trips, romantic dinners over vegetarian meals, and eating Pocky. In the time since I last wrote, I’ve discovered the joy of “Trader Joes’ bliss”, the delightful experience of running through the aisles at the local Trader Joes with my new squeeze, the carefree splendor of spinning in circles, hand in hand, in the frozen foods section, and the youthfully innocent games of catch played with frozen meatless sausages. I’ve enjoyed observing the fascinating menagerie of bootleg-merchandise found in the Chinese-run shops of San Francisco (samurai-armor Batman figure was a particular favorite of mine, with the Frank Frazzetta-inspired Batman-the-barbarian being a close second) and enjoyed the overexposure I’ve had towards Hello Kitty and her many cartoon cohorts in the past week, as well as my many viewings of succulent-looking roast ducks hanging in shop windows. It seems I’ve been stomping all over the streets of San Francisco recently.
And so, let me say to you: good things happen when you drink a fine Irish whiskey.
Last weekend I went on a fine camping trip with my friends the Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck (if I hadn’t said so already, I count them, without question, as two of the finest friends I have; always good to hang out, and always fun when we’re together) along with my buddy Muscleman Murray, who came along as a last minute addition. I humped the boonies to the local train station with an obscene amount of weight and encumbrance hanging from my back (and every other available body part) on none other than April Fool’s day itself. I was still quite a bit irritated at having what had been a VERY nice date interrupted the night before with a call to my main squeeze’s cell-phone from one of my friends over some concern of theirs for another acquaintance of mine. I was a shaky and uncomfortable mess after the call, and what had been a quite pleasant night of romance and misdemeanors became a night of awkwardness and unpleasant questions. The next day on the train, shadows of my discomfort still remained.
Somewhere along the way I’d lost the shades my father had given me. Not a huge loss, but a bit disheartening, as my eyes, being the eyes of a nocturnally-based mystery-man, had gotten quite used to the presence of my plastic shades. Now, the only refuge for my always light-sensitive eyes was a return to the practice of squinting. As if the lines in my forehead developed from a childhood of sunny California days hadn’t worn in deep enough.
I can’t even remember what the Red Rightwing and myself chatted about as we drove back from the train station, only that we were both thoroughly entertained. Once we reached his lair, the Caroling Canuck mixed us all some drinks (she is blessed in these eyes, truly pious if the opinion of the Irish God in the sky counts for anything) and I made a careful inventory of all I had brought, checking to see if I’d lost anything more than the enchanted shades granted to me by my father. The great Muscleman Murray showed up and further added to our collective inventory, then we were all off, the Muscleman and I speeding along in a trusty Toyota.
We arrived at our campsite long after dark, setting up our tents in consecutive order. The Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck had the biggest tent, the Muscleman’s was nearly as large, just a smidgeon smaller, and then mine, was easily the smallest, the Pinta, the Tito Jackson of the group. Of course, it only took half a minute to set my tent up. Following the logic of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, I had to assume that while the tents of my allies would be too hot and too cold, mine was just right. That night we ate like kings, dining on turkey burgers cooked to perfection in the outdoors on a frigid California night. Having given up beef more than a year ago, I must say that I’ve not been disappointed by the substitution of turkey burgers so far. I’ve had two, the first being at Fatburger with my father in Washington (I must say, I wasn’t in the least disappointed. Fatburger, like In-N-Out Burger, knows well how to make a proper burger, and to their credit, I was given a burger with proper cheddar, as opposed to processed cheese, which is an abomination before god and man alike) and the second being the one I had on the camping trip. The outdoors-burger I had was dressed in HP sauce and Trader Joes Hot and Sweet Mustard and bordered on religious in the realm of flavor country.
The Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck were the first to seek slumber, and so Muscleman Murray and myself stayed up chatting, laughing, and thanks to the Muscleman’s hammock and our observation of a quick-release strap attached to it, we invented a new game, Dropzone 2.0. A ride really, we envisioned copyrighting the gimmick and then licensing it out to theme-parks all across the country: everywhere from Disney Land to Coney Island we could have dimly-lit warehouses equipped with strobe-lights and fog machines and some twenty-something hammocks all set up, dropping unsuspecting ticket-holders all day long. We ourselves dropped each other over and over, running around madly in the darkness with a solitary flashlight, and laughing loudly into the night until we both decided it was time to sleep.
The next day, upon waking, we gathered together items of food and bottles of water and juice which we shoved in our backpacks in preparation for the new day’s hike. Before long we were hiking through the hills, the sun smiling down upon us, and I, with my great-granddaddy’s trusty camera at my side. Up into the mountains we went, and I would snap pictures on occasion, either due to a scenic view, or merely to place the Muscleman in a faux, Lord-of-the-Rings-esque photograph as the fictional hobbit adventurer Murbo Miggins. We walked and smoked on occasion, we drank water from our pouches, and when the time came, we went underground. Our feet were soaked as we made our way to the entrance of the cave, walking along a path filled with six inches to a foot of icy cold water running smoothly over smoother rocks. As we descended downward, it quickly became clear that the inside of the tunnel was indeed pitch-black in parts, and the path was far more treacherous than I had given it credit for, but upon exiting the cave, emerging back into water and daylight, I at once understood Cave Carson’s fascination with the practice of spelunking.
Returning from the day’s hike with tired and sore feet, muscles that were now thanking me for the rigorous routine of exercise I’ve been putting them through for the past seven months, and faces slightly reddened by a day’s exposure to the sun, we were most enthused to find a pool waiting for us back at the camp, sitting quietly in the shade. The Muscleman and I were already ready to go (a good boy-scout is always prepared) while the Canuck and Rightwing needed to head back to our caravan of tents so that they might change into attire more suitable for swimming. While we waited for them to return, we jumped into the pool. We quickly realized we had not considered the possibility of the pool’s water being the very definition of frigidity, we having experienced the warmth of the sun’s rays all day long, but apparently the shade that the large tree by the pool provided was perhaps too much, and we quickly found ourselves with our ice-damaged testicles retreating their way deep inside our bodies, and our nipples rigid enough to cut cubic zirconiums, if not diamonds. Even for one born of the glacial climate of Pluto, such as myself, it was still difficult deriving any enjoyment from the experience of swimming in this pool. We stayed in only long enough to trick the Caroling Canuck and the Red Rightwing into jumping in as well.
Later, we feasted on beans, on macaroni and cheese and broccoli, and on any other dishes we could manage to fit down our throats. We gorged ourselves rotten, eating and drinking until we felt sick, then engaging in several more rounds of Dropzone 2.0. It was a very good night. The next day, we returned home, parting ways once more.
The rest of the week was spent by me as I normally spend time, searching employment opportunities, engaging in dates with the Magnificent M, and a strict regimen of running, followed by a not quite as strict regimen of push-ups. I began reading a book of time-travel, though it was in actuality a rather hokey love-story, and I quickly became bored and annoyed with it, tossing it aside to instead read a book detailing the current political climate of America and how things have come to be where they are now. Another weekend came, which I gladly spent in engaging in creative pursuits and singing of Brian Dewan songs. My greatest surprise came in receiving a phone-call from Immoral B, whom I haven’t heard from since he moved away to the marijuana capital of California. So very good to hear that he and his chum, McSparkle, are doing quite well. In other news, the computer on which I normally type was down for a few days, due to a combination of the lack of computer-savvy of certain familial relations, and the inherent craptitude of IBM compatibles and the Windows running system. This meant I also wasn’t able to type for a short while.
And this brings me to today, Monday, and more importantly, my birthday. All week long I’ve been getting asked what I want for my birthday, harassed with requests for lists of items I desire. This happens every Christmas and every birthday I have, and every time I never actually make one. A few years ago I used to make one, it contained such items as a German World War I pilots cap, a doctor’s bag, and a woolen hat like Mike Nesmith wore back when he was with the Monkees, but of course, I never received any of these items, and in later years when relatives asked me what it was I wanted, I reminded them they already had the list.
Since then, I’ve not made a single list. At this point in my life, with my newfound maturity, it just strikes me as silly to give my friends and relatives lists of the things I want. It seems so very pretentious and ridiculous to me to send demands for physical goods to all of those I love and respect. Humility, I suspect, is causing me to consistently receive items I do not want nor need twice a year, out of my own inability to provide a list of items I need and desire to those I care most about.
Fortunately, you, my fine and loyal fans, are neither my family NOR my friends, and thusly, from you I demand tribute! I do so much to brighten up your dull and dreary lives with my tales of romance, horror, and adventure, certainly now is the time to give back! Fill my mailbox with an assortment of Brian Dewan and Jonathan Richman albums, litter my doorstep with packages containing the collected theatrical works of William Shatner and Paul Reubens, wow me with whatever rarities Devo and the Who have left for me to procure, keep me entertained with a fresh stack of Starman and Transmetropolitan books! I give you so very much and ask for so little. Send the fairest virgins from every village to sate the desires of California’s finest crime-fighter! You’ll feel good knowing you’ve done your part; I, meanwhile, will be waiting.
In the meantime, I’ve redone all the art on the site from scratch, making everything look much crisper. I’ve also added a gallery. Feel free to check it out; just try not to make a mess of your monitor in the process. And if you do, don’t tell me. Also, attractive ladies may tell me. And send pictures.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Again, I’ve not posted in a small while. I’ve let myself be sucked into a blissful realm of camping trips, romantic dinners over vegetarian meals, and eating Pocky. In the time since I last wrote, I’ve discovered the joy of “Trader Joes’ bliss”, the delightful experience of running through the aisles at the local Trader Joes with my new squeeze, the carefree splendor of spinning in circles, hand in hand, in the frozen foods section, and the youthfully innocent games of catch played with frozen meatless sausages. I’ve enjoyed observing the fascinating menagerie of bootleg-merchandise found in the Chinese-run shops of San Francisco (samurai-armor Batman figure was a particular favorite of mine, with the Frank Frazzetta-inspired Batman-the-barbarian being a close second) and enjoyed the overexposure I’ve had towards Hello Kitty and her many cartoon cohorts in the past week, as well as my many viewings of succulent-looking roast ducks hanging in shop windows. It seems I’ve been stomping all over the streets of San Francisco recently.
And so, let me say to you: good things happen when you drink a fine Irish whiskey.
Last weekend I went on a fine camping trip with my friends the Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck (if I hadn’t said so already, I count them, without question, as two of the finest friends I have; always good to hang out, and always fun when we’re together) along with my buddy Muscleman Murray, who came along as a last minute addition. I humped the boonies to the local train station with an obscene amount of weight and encumbrance hanging from my back (and every other available body part) on none other than April Fool’s day itself. I was still quite a bit irritated at having what had been a VERY nice date interrupted the night before with a call to my main squeeze’s cell-phone from one of my friends over some concern of theirs for another acquaintance of mine. I was a shaky and uncomfortable mess after the call, and what had been a quite pleasant night of romance and misdemeanors became a night of awkwardness and unpleasant questions. The next day on the train, shadows of my discomfort still remained.
Somewhere along the way I’d lost the shades my father had given me. Not a huge loss, but a bit disheartening, as my eyes, being the eyes of a nocturnally-based mystery-man, had gotten quite used to the presence of my plastic shades. Now, the only refuge for my always light-sensitive eyes was a return to the practice of squinting. As if the lines in my forehead developed from a childhood of sunny California days hadn’t worn in deep enough.
I can’t even remember what the Red Rightwing and myself chatted about as we drove back from the train station, only that we were both thoroughly entertained. Once we reached his lair, the Caroling Canuck mixed us all some drinks (she is blessed in these eyes, truly pious if the opinion of the Irish God in the sky counts for anything) and I made a careful inventory of all I had brought, checking to see if I’d lost anything more than the enchanted shades granted to me by my father. The great Muscleman Murray showed up and further added to our collective inventory, then we were all off, the Muscleman and I speeding along in a trusty Toyota.
We arrived at our campsite long after dark, setting up our tents in consecutive order. The Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck had the biggest tent, the Muscleman’s was nearly as large, just a smidgeon smaller, and then mine, was easily the smallest, the Pinta, the Tito Jackson of the group. Of course, it only took half a minute to set my tent up. Following the logic of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, I had to assume that while the tents of my allies would be too hot and too cold, mine was just right. That night we ate like kings, dining on turkey burgers cooked to perfection in the outdoors on a frigid California night. Having given up beef more than a year ago, I must say that I’ve not been disappointed by the substitution of turkey burgers so far. I’ve had two, the first being at Fatburger with my father in Washington (I must say, I wasn’t in the least disappointed. Fatburger, like In-N-Out Burger, knows well how to make a proper burger, and to their credit, I was given a burger with proper cheddar, as opposed to processed cheese, which is an abomination before god and man alike) and the second being the one I had on the camping trip. The outdoors-burger I had was dressed in HP sauce and Trader Joes Hot and Sweet Mustard and bordered on religious in the realm of flavor country.
The Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck were the first to seek slumber, and so Muscleman Murray and myself stayed up chatting, laughing, and thanks to the Muscleman’s hammock and our observation of a quick-release strap attached to it, we invented a new game, Dropzone 2.0. A ride really, we envisioned copyrighting the gimmick and then licensing it out to theme-parks all across the country: everywhere from Disney Land to Coney Island we could have dimly-lit warehouses equipped with strobe-lights and fog machines and some twenty-something hammocks all set up, dropping unsuspecting ticket-holders all day long. We ourselves dropped each other over and over, running around madly in the darkness with a solitary flashlight, and laughing loudly into the night until we both decided it was time to sleep.
The next day, upon waking, we gathered together items of food and bottles of water and juice which we shoved in our backpacks in preparation for the new day’s hike. Before long we were hiking through the hills, the sun smiling down upon us, and I, with my great-granddaddy’s trusty camera at my side. Up into the mountains we went, and I would snap pictures on occasion, either due to a scenic view, or merely to place the Muscleman in a faux, Lord-of-the-Rings-esque photograph as the fictional hobbit adventurer Murbo Miggins. We walked and smoked on occasion, we drank water from our pouches, and when the time came, we went underground. Our feet were soaked as we made our way to the entrance of the cave, walking along a path filled with six inches to a foot of icy cold water running smoothly over smoother rocks. As we descended downward, it quickly became clear that the inside of the tunnel was indeed pitch-black in parts, and the path was far more treacherous than I had given it credit for, but upon exiting the cave, emerging back into water and daylight, I at once understood Cave Carson’s fascination with the practice of spelunking.
Returning from the day’s hike with tired and sore feet, muscles that were now thanking me for the rigorous routine of exercise I’ve been putting them through for the past seven months, and faces slightly reddened by a day’s exposure to the sun, we were most enthused to find a pool waiting for us back at the camp, sitting quietly in the shade. The Muscleman and I were already ready to go (a good boy-scout is always prepared) while the Canuck and Rightwing needed to head back to our caravan of tents so that they might change into attire more suitable for swimming. While we waited for them to return, we jumped into the pool. We quickly realized we had not considered the possibility of the pool’s water being the very definition of frigidity, we having experienced the warmth of the sun’s rays all day long, but apparently the shade that the large tree by the pool provided was perhaps too much, and we quickly found ourselves with our ice-damaged testicles retreating their way deep inside our bodies, and our nipples rigid enough to cut cubic zirconiums, if not diamonds. Even for one born of the glacial climate of Pluto, such as myself, it was still difficult deriving any enjoyment from the experience of swimming in this pool. We stayed in only long enough to trick the Caroling Canuck and the Red Rightwing into jumping in as well.
Later, we feasted on beans, on macaroni and cheese and broccoli, and on any other dishes we could manage to fit down our throats. We gorged ourselves rotten, eating and drinking until we felt sick, then engaging in several more rounds of Dropzone 2.0. It was a very good night. The next day, we returned home, parting ways once more.
The rest of the week was spent by me as I normally spend time, searching employment opportunities, engaging in dates with the Magnificent M, and a strict regimen of running, followed by a not quite as strict regimen of push-ups. I began reading a book of time-travel, though it was in actuality a rather hokey love-story, and I quickly became bored and annoyed with it, tossing it aside to instead read a book detailing the current political climate of America and how things have come to be where they are now. Another weekend came, which I gladly spent in engaging in creative pursuits and singing of Brian Dewan songs. My greatest surprise came in receiving a phone-call from Immoral B, whom I haven’t heard from since he moved away to the marijuana capital of California. So very good to hear that he and his chum, McSparkle, are doing quite well. In other news, the computer on which I normally type was down for a few days, due to a combination of the lack of computer-savvy of certain familial relations, and the inherent craptitude of IBM compatibles and the Windows running system. This meant I also wasn’t able to type for a short while.
And this brings me to today, Monday, and more importantly, my birthday. All week long I’ve been getting asked what I want for my birthday, harassed with requests for lists of items I desire. This happens every Christmas and every birthday I have, and every time I never actually make one. A few years ago I used to make one, it contained such items as a German World War I pilots cap, a doctor’s bag, and a woolen hat like Mike Nesmith wore back when he was with the Monkees, but of course, I never received any of these items, and in later years when relatives asked me what it was I wanted, I reminded them they already had the list.
Since then, I’ve not made a single list. At this point in my life, with my newfound maturity, it just strikes me as silly to give my friends and relatives lists of the things I want. It seems so very pretentious and ridiculous to me to send demands for physical goods to all of those I love and respect. Humility, I suspect, is causing me to consistently receive items I do not want nor need twice a year, out of my own inability to provide a list of items I need and desire to those I care most about.
Fortunately, you, my fine and loyal fans, are neither my family NOR my friends, and thusly, from you I demand tribute! I do so much to brighten up your dull and dreary lives with my tales of romance, horror, and adventure, certainly now is the time to give back! Fill my mailbox with an assortment of Brian Dewan and Jonathan Richman albums, litter my doorstep with packages containing the collected theatrical works of William Shatner and Paul Reubens, wow me with whatever rarities Devo and the Who have left for me to procure, keep me entertained with a fresh stack of Starman and Transmetropolitan books! I give you so very much and ask for so little. Send the fairest virgins from every village to sate the desires of California’s finest crime-fighter! You’ll feel good knowing you’ve done your part; I, meanwhile, will be waiting.
In the meantime, I’ve redone all the art on the site from scratch, making everything look much crisper. I’ve also added a gallery. Feel free to check it out; just try not to make a mess of your monitor in the process. And if you do, don’t tell me. Also, attractive ladies may tell me. And send pictures.
The Virgin Prince
