The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

If bedeviled, befuddled, or befriended be you,

I’ve said it before; I’ll say it again: good things happen when you drink a fine Irish whiskey. This past week has been such a glorious mess of business that I have trouble even recalling the activities of a few days ago. Wednesday was another day spent in the presence of The Magnificent M, a day spent in enthusiastic appreciation of the band Queen, and in the joyful celebration of minor misdemeanors (okay, when we do it, it’s a felony, nevertheless...) oh, our time together is fun. From the first time I see her I’m all giggles and smiles; to see the sunlight hit her smiling face, highlighting the wisp of her hair that hangs loosely downward, whether she’s wearing one of her silly hats or not, I’m a mess of giddiness and amorous affection. We spent a grand evening together, I helped her find her way to an art store that sold museum-board (or something close to it) and to find a color-copier where she could make illegal copies of copyrighted material so that she could do an assignment for class. She very nearly gave up when the man in charge at Kinkos told her that he could not photocopy copyrighted material (even if it was from France), but I talked her out of walking out in a frustrated huff with my declaration of, “the law! Feh!” American spunk kicked in, and we were walking out moments later with a giant-size French girl’s face. Later, The Magnificent M wowed me with her artistic ability. I’ve seen friends paint before, but when she worked, I was truly in awe.

The next day I awoke and ran, my newfound physical shape continues to please and impress me, and the ease with which I now run at fantastic speed for extended periods of time has left me quite impressed with how well I’ve come along in the past six months. Long gone are the sore muscles, the blistered feet, the bloody shirts that came along with a long workout. Many of my suit jackets are now far too large for me, and I’ve been forced to put yet another new hole in my belt with which to keep up my trousers, the excess of belt-loop now hanging from my pants is near-ridiculous. I was recently shocked to see a picture of myself from a year ago, and find myself nearly unrecognizable. And while I still feel that while my girlfriend of then was a bit shallow, and insensitive towards my feelings while complaining of my physical state, I must admit I do seem to be half the man I was then. Aye, I’ve been noticing even the differences between myself now and the pictures of myself which grace my website, taken some four months ago. I really should update them, and show the world what a bit of dedication and desire to get laid can really do. And to think I was impressed then.

After a run, a shower, and a shave, I began on my taxes. I always do love waiting until the last minute. This year I decided to go with filling out the fullast, most complex form, having a monstrous amount of confidence in my own ability, and a sneaking suspicion that the simpler forms were deliberately provided to us by the government to ensure the growth of the wealth inequality between the upper and lower classes, as preferred by the Republican Party. Indeed, I filled out my form, and filled it well, and determined that I was receiving the single best tax-refund I could ever recall having. Never again will I lower myself to the likes of using TurboTax. TurboTax is a pile of crap, and I’m certain that had I not used it, I would have received a fair amount of money back last year.

But it was not on that Thursday that I would finish my taxes. Nay, I’d only been a quarter of the way through them when my friend Foxy Valentino called up my sister, The Fuzzy Nymph, and myself, and announced to us that he was back in town, not only by himself this time, but with a handful of his friends from Southern California, including his new gal-pal. My priorities at that point were certainly clear to me, and so I put off my taxes for the next day, my sis and I heading out to greet our old friend, and join his friends in the experience of enjoying the treat of Salvadorian papusas.

On the way to the Salvadorian restaurant, I entertained two of Valentino’s friends with tales of how we’d met, and how he’d sneakily secretly courted my sister, taking advantage of one night when I’d left the house to see the theatrical re-release of Star Wars with several of my friends. We all had our laughs, and when we reached the restaurant, Valentino greeted me with warm inquisitions of, “WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM?! WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM?!”

We all sat down to a nice meal, all, save I, having already eaten a protein and vitamin-filled meal after my run, not knowing then of the meal to come, yet still feeling quite full, and so I got to the practice of flirting with Valentino’s girlfriend, being that it’s a bit of a habit I’ve picked up. I find a certain amount of enjoyment in watching him squirm, though it’s purely as a friend. After Valentino’s gal had quickly filled up, she offered me her second papusa, and after we determined that the meat was pork, and not beef, I accepted it, seeing that eating papusas seemed to be the group activity of the night.

After the papusas, we headed to a bar downtown, and it was at that point that I suddenly became aware that I was growing quite familiar with the city. I recognized the streets which I’d once strolled upon with my ex-girlfriend in better times, the stretch of road upon which many of my friends and I drunkenly stumbled upon during The Red Rightwing’s bachelor party (and a handful of other times), the location of the apartment where my friend The Green Mike used to live, and the bar at which I’d once visited with friends and where we drank delicious Guinness from tap and ate scrumptious Indian food. There was also the building in which I’d met Aria Giovanni and narrowly missed Cassandra Peterson, the building where The Art of Star Wars exhibit had long been held, The Metreon, The Museum of Cartoon Art, the old Greyhound station. It all came together for me, and the sense of direction that my father once told me we had lying in our genetics (all, save my sister) became very clear to me as a thing of truth.

We arrived at the bar, which I quickly discovered employed yet another friend of my pal, The Great Fox. His friend, the bartender (he seems to have many friends which are bartenders) served me up a double-shot of Bushmills. After all, I was celebrating both my birthday, and the fine event that was upon us, both the return of my friend, and the greeting of his friends. Certainly, I wanted the finest of Irish whiskeys. As I bragged about the finest whiskey that money could buy, quickly, Foxy’s friend, The Travailing Traveler, broke out in a thick Irish accent, telling to me of the supremacy of Jamesons. Certainly, he was of the Catholic predisposition, but I understood his point of view, and being that he too shared an appreciation for fine Irish whiskey, we soon found ourselves engaged in long conversation.

We spoke of how Scotch whiskey had been derived so as to put Ireland out of business, how gin had been the heroin of the British and subsequently illegalized for several years, how both vodka and whiskey had names derived from their native cultures’ words for water, of the soon to be discovered Korean drink of Soju... which we both anticipated with much curiosity, and of how my tastes had developed to prefer Bass, while he insisted that Guinness was the true acquired taste. In any case, we both agreed that Ireland is the motherland of truly good liquor, and I was impressed with the fact of how knowledgeable he was. Generally, I’m left alone in discussing so many facts of history and trivia.

We had a fine old time discussing Battle Royale and The Wicker Man, and I gave him his first lesson in the lyrics of The Landlord’s Daughter, a song which he swore he would memorize the lyrics of by the next time we met. Within an hour I had already made a fine friend. I had fine gin, more fine whiskey, a Rockstar, and a beer; things were going fine amongst the whole group of us, as though we’d all been chums for a fine, long time. The Traveler and I spoke amongst ourselves of how he was the grandson of John Muir, and how George W. Bush had single-handedly stripped the nation of a hundred years of progress.

The next morning I woke up, recovered from my night of intoxication the evening before, and finished my taxes. I rushed to the post office just in time to send them off, and returned home to give the house a most thorough cleaning. My house needed to be spotless; my sister, brother-in-law, and niece and nephew were arriving, and it was time for my family to officially embark upon a late celebration of my birthday.

I made them a fine bed, finer than even the one I sleep in, and when I was done, covered the bed in a selection of stuffed bears and the like. I wanted the wee-ones to be speechless in amazement when they arrived. Of course, the tiny lad and lass were already passed out from their long car ride when they arrived, as usual, but in time they woke up, and the house quickly became a mess of flying animals. O, how very delighted my niece was to see me, and we had a grand old time. In fact, in no time at all it was 2:00 P.M., and as we were preparing to get the children to bed, my chum Foxy Valentino gave us a call to join him and his friends in his hotel party.

My niece is always sad to see me go, but I have a certain way with her; I know how to speak to the wee-ones, and after I told her of all the fun we would have together the next day, she uncharacteristically agreed and allowed me to go. The trick with children, even the difficult ones, is to know how to talk to them, is to know how to trick them; to manipulate them. I’m a master in that field. Having never grown up myself, I know exactly what every child wants to hear. Were it not considered creepy, due to society’s gender-stereotyping, I’d be one hell of a babysitter.

My sis and I quickly headed off to the party in Burlingame. Valentino had given us bad directions, and by the time we found our way there, he informed us by cell-phone that we should turn and return home. His and his friends’ loud partying had gotten them kicked out of the hotel room.

The next morning, I woke up after little sleep and engaged the children in joyous play. My niece is a hellcat, and she drains the energy from me quickly. Soon, we (my niece, brother-in-law, and myself) decided to go to the beach. The two of them, my relatives that had accompanied me, had developed a hobby of collecting interesting shells, pretty miniscule rocks, and the tiny bits of smoothed glass that had washed up from the waters of the Pacific Coast. I joined them in their pursuit; certainly I was enjoying my time with my young niece. The fact that many cute females graced the beach hurt matters none either. I certainly caught my brother-in-law looking a few times.

We eventually managed to pry my niece from the beach, she was stubborn, but the promise of Mexican food (and my many threats of abandoning her there at the beach... as I’ve said, I know how to talk to kids) eventually lured her away, with her tiny hand clutching my pinky-finger all the way. We went to one of the local burrito shops, and though I tried with great effort to lure my brother-in-law to the golden floors of El Grano De Oro, one of the single best burrito joints in Pacifica (if not the world), he had his heart set on a seedy little place in Vallemar, where the food isn’t quite as good, and costs a bit too much. What can I say, it’s a fixture.

I had a baby burrito, as my stomach can’t handle as much food as it once could, and then we were all off for home. At home I played with the children some more, though I had to plug my nose a bit, as my niece has learned how to fart. O, how the little terror delighted in stinking up the room.

We headed out once more for my official birthday dinner, though I was still a bit full from the burrito I’d had earlier. Our initial destination was Commie Lobster, as I’d had a craving for lobster, something I’d not had in a year or two, but we were expected to wait for an hour before being seated, and neither the food nor the drinks at Commie Lobster are good enough to warrant that. We quickly ditched the establishment (after my niece had swam around a bit in the lobster tank) in favor of pizza.

We stopped off at one of the most notable pizza places around, which turned out to be a very good call. We were quickly sat down in a large, comfy booth; my niece passed out upon it in her mother’s clothes from the 70’s and an old pair of cowboy boots I’d had. We were treated to a pitcher of Bass and some of the finest pizza recipes I’ve ever heard of. Chicken, bacon, tomato, and pineapple sounded like a winning (and non-kosher) combination to me. Shortly after our second pitcher of Bass arrived, everyone at the table suddenly decided they were done drinking. Noting that every time a beer (particularly a fine Irish beer, such as Bass) is wasted, baby Jesus cries, I found that suddenly my duty of the evening was to drink most of a pitcher of Bass to myself (and in less than a half hour). I wasn’t much intoxicated when I stumbled out of the pizza parlor, though my stomach certainly felt as if it would burst from too much quickly-inhaled carbonation.

We returned home and my family showered me with presents, particularly notable were two of Jonathan Richman’s albums and a hardcover copy of Bill Clinton’s book. Now I could truly terrify my pal The Red Rightwing with scary readings performed on the next Halloween to come, as I’d long-planned to do. Sitting there beside a distasteful coffee-flavored cake, I could picture my carrot-topped pal shivering himself to sleep on a future October night, dressed as George Harrison, and unable to shake from his mind disturbing thoughts of the rich being taxed, and affordable, comprehensive health-care being bestowed upon the general populous of America. Mua-ha-ha-ha!

After the festivities, my sister and I again left to join our pal, The Great Fox, and his friends at a bar in the city. Along the way, we briefly bumped into Foxy’s cousin, who’d I’d met a year or two prior, over a night of Rockstar and absinthe. It was interesting see him again, he now married and sitting beside his pregnant wife. When we met, we were both engaged men. Funny how time changes things. We were headed out the door when Foxy’s girlfriend called him to complain about the fact he hadn’t yet arrived at the bar where she and his friends waited. I got my first glimpse that there was at least the slightest hint of friction between them. The one thought running through my head at that point was that I sincerely hoped he’d found a girl that treated him with respect, not a whiny harlot with a full list of unappeasable wants. I’ve fallen into that trap once or twice before, and have sworn to myself, “Never, never again!”

We were quickly off to the bar, a trendy, overcrowded place with mediocre pop hits blasting from the inside. I’m sorry; I’ll never like Uncle Cracker. There was a dress code to get in. I wasn’t particularly worried about myself, I always look like Gary Cooper, but Foxy was particularly dressed down, which seems to be a preferred look to him.We had to wait in a line to get inside, and passing through the doorway cost a whopping $5.00 in itself. The price seemed a bit steep, considering I wasn’t particularly impressed with the bar or its patrons. But what the heck, my friends come first.

We made our way into the crowded bar, squeezing past trendy youths with drinks in hand. The going was slow, the place was packed, and I saw not room for dancing. A girl grabbed my sister’s boob and shoved her as she made her way to the exit, to which my sister grabbed the girl and threw her out the front door of the establishment. A sense of familial pride sparkled within me. We’d finally made our way into the club when we were suddenly all informed that The Great Fox’s friends were now leaving. Frustration certainly abounded.

However, The Great Fox, his girlfriend, and The Travailing Traveler instead decided to stay, and so we all headed downstairs to the secondary bar, where I chatted with the Traveler, committed credit card fraud, and enjoyed the finest whiskey my friend’s money could buy. (It’s okay, he offered to buy, and I covered the tip.) The Traveler, likewise, bought me a shot of Jamesons, having heard of my recent birthday, and thoroughly enjoying my conversation. We discussed old loves, current loves, and discussed how we’d both similarly had bad experiences with crazy girls in British Columbia; apparently it’s a bit of a common phenomena. Meanwhile, my sister consistently went outside for cigarettes, and Foxy and his gal fought quietly on the couch by the bar. Again, I was reminded of my past experiences with a rather unpleasant ex-girlfriend, and because of it kept a watchful eye on my friend. I’d not allow him to experience the same hell I had.

Eventually, my sis, myself, and my newfound pal, The Travailing Traveler, were all cutting a mean rug, albeit briefly. We quickly found the bar closed and were thusly left wandering the streets of San Francisco. As we trekked around, across busy streets and through narrow alleyways, I engaged myself in singing a boisterous rendition of The Landlord’s Daughter. The Traveler quickly joined in, singing chorus and laughing to the lyrics, having already picked up some of the song from the prior night he’d spent with me. I was fortunate to have a fellow Irish lad with me as I sang loudly a lusty song in the streets of San Francisco, interrupting couples making out near the crosswalks. My pal shared in my enjoyment of two of the finest things in life: fine Irish liquor, and bawdy drinking songs.

I’ve been getting complimented by women on my voice quite a bit lately; in the past week I was complimented on two separate occasions by two separate young ladies, the second incident being a particularly random statement for the moment in which it was spoken. My constant delight in singing the works of Brian Dewan (amongst other things) as well as all this flattering praise I’ve received has left me contemplating more seriously whether or not I should perhaps pursue some sort of path in the field of music. Certainly, the praise I’ve received has caused me to sing out publicly more often than before. Ah, perhaps we should have labored more to get our lounge-punk band off the ground. Aye, Dean and the Dead Martins may have had even more potential than I fully realized.

On our way back to the car we sang pirate anthems and I amused the Traveler and Foxy’s girlfriend with the songs of Tim Curry. The Zucchini Song always pleases, and I was quick to discover that the Traveler too was a fan of Tim Curry’s musical works. If we were to combine our assortment of downloaded songs, we’d most likely have quite the collection. In the car, I explained to my pals the origin of the old song, Sing A Song of Sixpence, the secret anthem of Blackbeard; a coded message, rich in metaphor, used for covertly recruiting would-be pirates at British-patrolled ports years ago. Aye, everyone loves a good pirate song.

Though perhaps my two pals in the backseat had their appreciation slightly dulled by the fact that they were both fighting losing battles with nausea, having drank their fill earlier. It’s amazing what a quick stop behind a fast-food dumpster can accomplish. Blessed be the In-N-Outs.

After roughly four hours’ sleep, I was awoken by my most vocal niece, and dressed and groomed myself in preparation for a trip to the Kelly Park Volkswagen Show. It’d been several years since I’d last been to it with my older sister and my brother-in-law, and at that time they hadn’t yet had kids. I was a bit curious to how the event would now play out. I packed a cooler with pizza, apples, and a single soda, and we were quickly out the door.

I quickly determined that I was once again the best dressed man at the car show (as usual), an occurrence made not difficult by the fact that the crowd I walked amongst was mostly made up of casually-dressed hippie-types. My niece whined briefly for popcorn which she quickly received, and we went about trying to regroup with the rest of our party. We did eventually find my sister and nephew, they were walking around the other side of the old firehouse, and my hawk-like eyes quickly spotted them.

I’ve spent a great deal of my young life surrounded by people of other cultures, and have generally found the experience to be quite entertaining and rewarding. Perhaps the time I spent as a youth in San Francisco wandering around predominantly black neighborhoods (and being told to leave) weren’t as pleasurable, but I’ve generally always found the experience enjoyable. Amongst all of the groupings of cultures I’ve found myself immersed within though, I think perhaps the most interesting was that of the noble car salesman. Working amongst these types made for one of the most interesting year-and-a-halfs of my life.

People are unfortunately filled with the misconception that most, if not all, salesman are greedy, untrustworthy men all looking to rob you of your hard-earned dollar. This is a half-truth. While a lucky few of the bunch make white-collar salaries, the majority are a hard-working bunch of undeniable blue-collar means and work ethic, working 12-hour days and 60-hour workweeks. They are paid nearly nothing, and face a high rate of firing; left hungry and fearful by their bosses as an incentive to sell more. While they do indeed attempt to get you to spend as much as possible, it’s out of necessity, not greed. Their bosses keep the majority of the profits from the cars they labor to sell, and a single salesman must make a fairly hefty amount of profit merely to secure a payment of $50 dollars for himself. Though there are a certain amount of scumbags amongst their number (sadly, the assholes do best in this business) most are hardworking men trapped in a bad field (many of them the well-educated, unfortunate victims of the dot-com bust), and some of the finest people I’ve ever met. They have their own language (which I did learn in time), their own customs, and their own code of honor amongst themselves.

At the Bug show I bumped into one of my old coworkers, a friendly lad of Russian descent that often referred to me as The Riddler when he wasn’t instead calling me Batman. A pal of mine with which I once discussed the finer points of Frank Gorshin. He gave me one of the warmest greetings I’ve received in a long time, and I was glad to see him, telling him to give my warmest greetings to all the guys back at the lot. He mistook my sister for my wife, which I found quite amusing.

After the Bug show, we headed off to the zoo, which was nearby. By this point my niece was starting to get tired and act up, and I was starting to find myself growing annoyed with her. Discipline, in my eyes, is a bit of a problem with her. Though I can generally get her to behave as I wish through a bit of trickery and manipulation, it’s a bit harder when my sister and brother-in-law are around. The two of them still haven’t come to an agreement on what methods to use to raise and discipline their child, and my niece most definitely is smart enough to take advantage of the situation. My threats of abandonment don’t work as well when my sister is there contradicting me. I notice I experience a lot less incidents of my niece’s screaming tantrums when her parents aren’t around. When it’s just the two of us, I find very little difficulty in getting her to put on her jacket and her socks, brush her teeth, or eat spinach. (For that matter, I tricked her into LOVING spinach, gobbling the stuff down in record amounts. I think I deserve a medal for that one; all she’d touch prior were unholy amounts of ham.)

We stopped first at the cage of a tiger, recently-deceased, that my niece had seen at the zoo on an earlier visit. The holding area was conspicuously vacant, with pictures of the dead cat (still living) plastered across the glass. My niece was already beginning to act up at this point, and when she asked how the tiger had died, I replied, “choking on a four-year-old girl.” Though the men around me laughed, I was quickly contradicted by my sister, and my plans for getting my niece to behave were unraveled. It wasn’t long after that my niece started becoming increasingly difficult. By the time we’d seen most of the animals, my niece had become one herself, running off wildly and pinching family members.

We’d just started our trek into the play-area of the zoo (the place my niece had been whining about wanting to visit) when my niece had her first full breakdown. Without warning, she was a kicking, screaming mess, flailing wildly around the floor. Her boots had flown off in two different directions, and she was somewhere in-between them, an immovable mass upon wooden planks. After we’d talked her down from her fit and her mother had scolded her, we continued along what seemed an endless path. The path, in reality, was quite short, but I was beyond exhaustion at this point and my feet were in unbearable agony. Between my lack of sleep, the effects of the consistent partying and mischief I’d subjected myself to, the long hours I’d spent in the presence of the wee-ones, a day of roasting in the hot California sun, and a few hours spent pushing around a loaded-down double-stroller, I felt like the walking dead.

Of course, before we’d made it all the way to the play-area, we passed a gift shop. The pavement in front of the shop, including the very path we walked on, was loaded down with stuffed animals and other such items of a cute predisposition; the type designed to attract and appeal towards children. The playground was in range of view... only a few more steps and we’d be there, a place where the wee-one would be distracted and able to play her little heart out until she gloriously and thankfully passed out from exhaustion. Already, my sister had begun explaining to her daughter how her behavior had not been good enough to warrant purchasing a toy for her, something that would undoubtedly be a treat, and my niece, showing some awareness of her behavior, begrudgingly accepted this. We were nearly all the way to the playground, to sweet salvation, to a place where we could merely point my niece, and in doing so, finally find some rest for ourselves.

But Grandma wanted to look around.

It made no difference that she really had no intention of buying anything, or that the rest of us were dead-tired, having been up and active for hours before she had leisurely arrived to meet us at the zoo. She desired, for whatever reason, to travel within the gift shop, looking at all the stuffed animals and all the other mass-produced, plastic, cheap, piddley crap that zoos all across the country sell to children to make exorbitant profits. By the time she’d finally exited, empty-handed, from the gift shop, my niece had found herself a stuffed tiger which she’d had more than enough time to get quite attached to. As we attempted to walk past the gift shop, without buying anything for a second time, my niece threw a second explosive tantrum. Two tantrums in less than 15 minutes, and we could have been relaxing at the playground in under 10. I was by this time craving the comforting handle of an oak baseball bat.

We eventually made it to the playground, and I laid down upon the grass, closing my eyes and trying to find some sort of relaxing escape from the sun, screaming children, and consciousness in general. I’d barely closed my eyes when Granny asked me to watch my hellacious niece while she played. Though at this point I was half-convinced that I no longer cared whether even Albert Fish, Genene Jones, Richard Allen Davis, Mary Bell, Andrei Chikatilo, and that British nanny that enjoys shaking babies to death were all in the park playing patty-cake with her, I reluctantly opened my eyes and watched my niece hanging about on the iron structures of the playground. Granny couldn’t be counted upon to watch her, she’d clearly worn herself out with the half hour she’d spent sitting on a bench, drinking water, and the casual stroll she’d taken through the petting zoo.

We traveled further to a crooked house, where my niece slowly went down a giant slide over and over, and I was further disgusted by the other children pushing their way to the slide. As bad as my niece had been at her worst points, these kids were hellions, shoving their way to the front of the line, cutting in front of my niece, and even pushing me! As a child, even I knew better than to push adults! Pushing a kid is one thing (I didn’t even do that, I only ever became physical with another child when provoked), but I, and every child I can recall growing up alongside had known very well to respect our elders. These low-grade whelps were pushing me as if it was the most common, socially-accepted behavior in the world. Had I been in charge of disciplining these brats, I suspect I would have quickly opted for corporal punishment.

We finally pried my niece free from the crooked house and its giant, winding slide (which was good, I was getting quite irritated at the behavior of the children [mostly unsupervised] within it). We walked further along the path, my niece had another fit, and then my sister and niece visited the bathroom. At this point my brother-in-law joined us and I realized he’d had the right idea in staying at the car show. After that, my niece took countless turns on the Merry-Go-Round, and finally we headed off for home. My niece had one last screaming fit in front of the zoo, claiming that she “hadn’t yet had enough fun”, and I didn’t give a shit. I was too busy passing out to the sound of Granny’s god-awful country music.

At home I tried to sleep but it really wasn’t possible. I was instead left stumbling around and slumping in corners, trying to wake up before I went out again with Foxy and all his friends. My family departed, and for a change, I was happy to see my niece go. My younger sister and I sat around and enjoyed the quiet. After a brief bit of relaxation we headed out to join The Great Fox and his friends at their hotel.

We met foxy in the bar as it was getting ready to close up, the bar at the Hyatt closes early, and by the time we’d found once more all our new friends, last call had already passed. This was of no major inconvenience though; Foxy had already fixed me a couple of stiff (STIFF!) vodka drinks in his hotel room. Foxy knows well of my alcohol tolerance, which is near-legendary and far beyond that of his Pipil tribesmen. We then shuffled around from hotel room to hotel room, in search of mirth and mayhem, with a large congregation of us trying to party, though we were simultaneously whispering and trying to be very quiet, knowing that a party too high on the aural scale might very well lead Foxy or one of his many pals to be thrown out of their hotel rooms. We had to tone it down, as there was one day left of the United Nations conference they were all attending, and ejections on this particular night might have resulted in some very serious disciplinary action and harsh penalties for all involved.

Fortunately, Foxy chose to take advantage of the surprise he’d been keeping secret from us (well, not me), that by a comedy of errors, the hotel staff had unwittingly left the unoccupied, thousand-dollar-a-night suite adjoining his hotel room with the door unlocked. With as much subtlety as possible, we all went in, in groups of four, with seven-minute spaces between each group’s arrival. In no time at all there was a magnificent selection of liquor upon the counter of the kitchen area, and I quickly began swallowing shots of anything I could get my hands on (mostly whiskey and vodka, I’ve always hated tequila) from an obscenely small paper cup I’d found. I spoke with my pal the Traveler, flirted with Foxy’s German roommate (a gorgeous, gorgeous girl with which I discussed the World War 2-era Kübelwagen), and one by one, all the louder guests who’d drank too much and found great difficulty in maintaining discretion, left. Before long, the only ones left were Foxy, his girlfriend, his cute German roommate, my sister and I. That night I slept for free in the Hyatt’s thousand dollar suite.

I woke up three hours later as Foxy and his pals all made their way to the conference. My walk to the car felt like utter hell, my over-exhaustion coupled with the alcohol I’d imbibed left me feeling weak and physically ill. I had not the composure to light a cigarette.

After a good morning’s rest in my own bed, I awoke, ate a proper breakfast of noodles and fruit, and ran on the treadmill. From there I was off to the store; I’d promised the Travailing Traveler that we’d split a bottle of Jamesons (he, being of the Catholic predisposition), and so I traveled down to the store to purchase that bottle, a bag of Fuji apples, and assorted other groceries. I grew tired of waiting for the bus, however, and thusly put my entire collection of purchases upon my back and began walking up the hill towards my house. My carried weight was heavy, the hill, quite steep, and my pace quite great. I quickly became astounded at just how great my newfound physical shape is, particularly when I realized I’d made great speed, and beat the bus up the hill to my house. I warmly thought of the months I’d spent running, reminding myself I wasn’t all that far from being able to being to run at a sustained rate of ten miles per hour over the course of a half-hour. From there an hour is simple.

Perhaps I should have loftier goals, but the treadmill doesn’t go past 10.

I made myself a fine dinner upon returning home, rich with onions, garlic, turkey, beans, and rice; the sort of thing that would prepare me for the night to come. I had a bottle of fine Irish whiskey to drink after all, and I did want to put some sort of barrier between my kidneys and the whiskey. After I’d dressed in my Panama hat and the white sports-coat I’d just finished mending, we were swiftly off once more to see my friends again, on this, the last night of the UN conference, and the last night that most of them would be in Northern California, some of them, possibly forever.

We arrived once more at the hotel, again found our friends in the bar, one by one (they had all split up and were chasing whatever tail they could find), and again engaged in drinking and chatting with our new buddies. Foxy greeted my sister and I out on the terrace, and quickly filled my pocket with a bottle of gin. It was better that I hold it than him, he was already inebriated, and no punishment could be enacted upon me if I were discovered with the finely-distilled heroin of the British. I passed the traveler multiple times, greeting him and finding him with a different selection of females each time. We eventually met up again in the bar and again engaged in singing renditions of The Landlord’s Daughter, and discussing a number of topics, troublingly among them, the amount of friends we’d had that were now deceased, and the disturbingly high amount of deaths by overdose and gun-violence among them. I allowed the Traveler plenty of space on this night; he was clearly enjoying the ladies of the evening, though he continued returning to speak to me, and by last call, after it was well-determined that my friends were not too tired, I headed out to the car to fetch my bottle of Jamesons.

I returned up to the Traveler’s room, finding it crammed with many booze-filled others, many of whom were glad to see me arrive with my fine Irish whiskey in hand. We all got to the business of partying. I had, in the time since I’d arrived at the hotel, met a great amount of new people, and spent a great amount of time hanging around Hector, The Trojan Warrior, who’d grown quite close with my sister, as gay men tend to do.

My friend Foxy was quite down at this point, his girlfriend had been increasingly difficult with each day of this visit, this night culminating in a few hours of cold treatment until she finally decided to head to bed. My pal tried hard, but nothing seemed to please his gal, indeed, she didn’t seem to WANT to be happy, and I felt badly for my pal. I’ve been in that situation countless times before, where you try and try, you give your all trying to please your amour, and find nothing but coldness, bitchiness, and difficulty in return. The incidents I’d witnessed between them throughout the night gave me innumerable uncomfortable flashbacks of my most recent long-term relationship, and I quite honestly wished better for my friend. “Walk away, run away,” I thought to myself, while considering the plight of my friend. Life’s too short to waste on whiny, loveless harpies.

The Great Fox wouldn’t join in with the Traveler and I on my bottle of Jamesons, though at that point I thought it might do him a bit of good. He decided to leave the party on his own, to wander the hotel until his mood was better. It truly pained me to see my friend suffering from such frustration and heartache, and so the Traveler and I engaged in forcing my pal Foxy into a three-way sing-along of The Landlord’s Daughter. I had a copy of the lyrics in my pocket (I’ve made something of a tradition of teaching songs to the new friends I make, and then singing along with them; you’ll never be forgotten if you’re associated with song); I unfolded the lyrics and even Foxy began singing along with us. In no time at all, one of the Traveler’s roommates was singing along as well! As I noticed the smile forming on Foxy’s face, we were made to stop singing; the other party-goers had some concern about the noise-level. Nevertheless, I was quite happy on two points, that Foxy had left the room a happier man, and that the Traveler had picked up the song I’d been teaching him quite well; he’d even started to pick up on the Scottish accent!

My sister and I left the room briefly with Hector, out to the terrace for conversation and cigarettes. We discussed this and that, Hector showed us pictures of his ex-boyfriend, we all bitched about our past relationships, and then we headed back inside. Returning to the room, I was quite surprised to see the progress that the Traveler had made on my bottle of Jamesons, and so I too went to it at an increased pace. We all partied and partied, and I found myself chatting with the assorted Russian and German girls randomly assembled in the room. Not long after, a loud youth came into the room, screaming loudly, “who’s in my room!?” He was the fourth roommate, and as he rushed into the bathroom, I had a bad feeling about this one. Quickly, my sister asked me if I wanted to go, and so we were off. It turns out she’d had a vision of this guy in a dream she’d had, and her intuition was telling her to leave. I didn’t argue. I gave the Travailing Traveler a hug goodbye, left him my bottle of Jamesons, and then offered Hector a hug as well, which he quickly and excitedly accepted.

I later found out that Hector thought I was hot. Not just hot, but very hot. Apparently he’d been talking to my sister about me all night. I tell you, my cheeks were a-flush with flattery when I found this out two days later.

Tuesday was spent entirely in recovery. My days of endless partying, of entertaining exhausting relatives had left me a mess. I was tired, I was beat, and John Jameson was trying as best he could to take his revenge on me. Wednesday, however, was much better and I engaged in more rigorous physical exercise. Ah, it’s good to be young.

Yesterday was spent once more with the Magnificent M, a day of tender kisses, joyful misdemeanors, and loads of laughter. And with that, it seems we’ve come full circle. Anyway, I need to get to sleep now; I have another date with her tomorrow.

And for those of you all wondering where Bobo the Virgin Chimp was during this whole mess, he was hiding in my room the whole time. He’s scared shitless of my niece.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince