The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Captains of Kashyyk,

It was a fine few weeks. I’d been planning trips, dressing sharp, and kicking butt at job interviews. I woke up every morning at an early hour and done my daily runs faithfully, watching my collection of Devo videos when there was nothing of note to be found on television. I ran everyday but Friday, because I hadn’t slept well enough that night, and after five minutes of sustained running, I found myself with an intense headache. I felt no guilt about the skipped run however, as I’d run the previous four days and I knew I’d be doing Bay To Breakers in two. The push-ups I forced out of myself were quite enough physical activity for a fun-filled Friday.

I must have spent about an hour and a half walking around the house in my Hawaiian print boxer shorts, yet for some reason, despite my lack of window-blinds, I cared not for what the neighbors thought. Perhaps all my exercise and my newfound physical shape is making me cocky. (If you’ll forgive the reverse-engineering of a pun) perhaps it’s merely from my sizeable genitalia. Whatever the case, I pulled my laundry free from the dryer with five minutes to spare, quickly dressing myself in a suit of green, and one of my finest Hawaiian shirts. From there, it was out the door so that I might once more party down with my good chums The Red Rightwing and The Caroling Canuck.

Though my cash had run out and I’d long-since given up on vices, I’d had the presence of mind to set aside money for the train ride down to Santa Cruz. It was the last of my cash, and I’d shifted the rest of my budget towards this visit so that I might have it. Even Bobo the Virgin Chimp, whom I’d locked within his trusty gilded cage before my journey began, was forced into going without food for an indeterminate amount of time. Though I felt bad about screwing my furry chum out of a meal, I also considered myself quite fortunate that the monkey market is currently flooded with chimpanzees, and that the monkey surplus keeps the prospect of purchasing a replacement sidekick quite an affordable option.

The train ride was uneventful and pleasant as usual. Though conductors consistently passed me, not one of them stopped to see my proof of payment. I was left wondering why I’d even been bothering with paying for these train trips; it seemed my respectable mode of dress precluded me from facing the suspicion of the noble train-men. Mayhaps I am protected by the spirit of Ol’ Krűst, patron saint of hobos. Certainly, he had my grandmother’s back when she was hopping trains in her youth.

I was met at the station by The Red Rightwing; the two of us were in character. Every time there’s a train involved he sinks into the role of Nurse Themelis, and I am reborn as Doctor Gafford. I couldn’t say from where this behavior originated, though I suspect it was developed as a naturally-occurring sort of defense from the scar-eyed Germans and shifty Moroccans of the espionage world. As part of our code-speak, “Nurse Themelis” suggested we stop for a hotdog, and to provide the proper response, I replied, “I only eat Kosher.”

Within seconds of arriving at The Red Rightwing’s lair, The Caroling Canuck had already begun mixing us drinks. Ah, what a wondrous wife the Rightwing has in her, and what a fine friend I have in the Canuck. We had scarcely enough time to gulp down our first drinks of the day before we were out the door once more to fetch Hawaiian food.

The Red Rightwing was most insistent that I try the Kahlua pork, and so he pulled a wad of bills from his bottomless pocket and purchased me a plate. The two of us were to be brothers in swallowing swine, while the Caroling Canuck took my recommendation of chicken katsu, which I’ve enjoyed many times while sitting at the grease-polished tables of Hawaiian Drive-Inn. We were all quite pleased with our meals, though The Red Rightwing, who has ingested quite a bit of beef hormones over his tweny-six years and stands as tall as a flesh-made totem pole of three chimpanzees, a bear cub, and a pygmy cockatiel, needed to order a second dinner in order to sate his monstrous appetite.

After gorging ourselves silly on Hawaiian treats, we and our distended stomachs returned back to the lair for further drinks. Almost seconds after we had loosened ourselves from our restraints and had hopped free from the Santa-Cruiser, we were filling our available orifices with vodka once more. So we continued, sitting, talking, joking, laughing, and drinking.

It didn’t seem as though much time had passed before we were joined by four more. The Caroling Canuck had invited her friend to come hang out with us, and the friend, of course, brought her boyfriend with her, an ex-Black Ops Marine whom I had met and conversed with once or twice before. To our surprise however, two of his friends had tagged along, two very large and somewhat unsettling lads. Though I was able to make conversation with this pair of goliaths without much difficulty, I was left with the distinct impression that if I should move too fast, at least one of these apemen might spook and eat me.

We headed down to the karaoke parlor, passing through the drunken youths of Santa Cruz that had amassed on the Friday night streets of Capitola. Along the way, everyone took turns asking me if I was alright: though I did feel quite dandy, by the time I’d been asked for the twentieth time within fifteen minutes, feelings of paranoia were indeed starting to bubble up to the surface of my consciousness. Before long, we were seated within the karaoke joint and off-key warblings assailed our ears.

Not long after we’d sat ourselves down at a table, a girl came up behind us and quickly began hanging in the window we were seated next to, all while flashing the many men smoking outside the bar. It was quite a show we were getting, completely unexpected, and I wasn’t quite sure how to take this viewing. As security officers watched the strumpet nervously, the ex-marine at our table leaned back and conversed with her briefly, then leaned forward and asked me an unexpected question.

“Hey, do you want to get laid?”

“Pardon?!” I asked with a certain amount of surprise.

“She told me she’s just looking to get laid tonight. No strings attached.”

“Eh… no thanks. That’s not my thing.”

I like nice girls; that’s the way I am. I fully realize that a good majority of the population out there seems to prize cheap sexual encounters and regrettable one-timers, but as for myself, that’s never been my bag. I like the other stuff. I like knowing who I’m with, as do I appreciate actually being able to feel some sort of respect for the person I’m with physically. Furthermore, I like being able to respect myself. I like seeing the smiles and causing the laughter of a respectable partner. I like knowing how the person I’m with thinks, and I particularly enjoy actually having genuine feelings for the person I’m involved with. Call me old-fashioned if you will (indeed my heart beats faster for Bettie Page), but I’ll leave the cheap physical encounters for others.

“Come on Gafford, do it!” the Rightwing prodded.

“No thanks” I responded, though the Rightwing continued to attempt to pressure me for a while longer.

At the table, my chums ordered drinks and we all took turns looking through the big book of available songs. The others among my crew all seemed placated rather quickly; I’m a bit more picky. Anyone that knows me knows that my musical tastes are a bit eclectic and non-mainstream to say the least. I’m not a fan of the insipid pop songs (or singers) that rule the dance clubs, just as I hate most modern mainstream rap. Even most established favorites of the general public tend to leave me feeling rather disappointed, if not annoyed. I’ve never gone for Prince or Madonna. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that the eve of the year 2000 should have been used as an opportunity to find and destroy all copies of Party Like It’s 1999, which I always thought was a rather stupid and over-rated song anyway. Certainly, now that we find ourselves almost to the middle of the year 2005, I find myself increasingly annoyed now when I’m forced to further endure the occasional ear-drum pummeling from this audio-excretion at parties.

But I know the world well-enough to know that I won’t be finding any Bill Shatner sing-alongs at the old karaoke hut, nor will I be given the option of providing vocals to any of Tim Curry’s finer works. Though Whip It is a common find, the general library of Devo songs remains neglected, and should I even bother making a request for a tasteful Brian Dewan number, I know I’ll merely be met by faces painted with question marks. True culture is so very dead on this continent today that finding a Gilbert & Sullivan classic to sing along to is a near-impossibility, while the many water-torture workings of the Grease soundtrack are readily available to all.

Knowing ahead of time that disappointment would be an almost-certain result of my trek into the karaoke-slums of Santa Cruz, I began planning in advance. At home I compiled lists of every mainstream and popular musical act I could think of, in order to aid me in finding a decent song to sing. While later flipping through the karaoke songbook with my friends, I eventually realized how futile my attempts at pre-planning had been. Puttin’ On the Ritz, perhaps the classiest and most debonair of songs, was conspicuously unavailable. Blood, Sweat, and Tears had no listing whatsoever. Sex Machine was not available, nor do I believe was any other James Brown song. Even attempts at finding songs by more recent popular bands were all disappointments. Cake was not in the listings, nor was Elastica.

Certainly, if I was a fan of Nelly Furtado, or Jewel, or Christina Aguilera, or Sublime, or Uncle Kracker, or Kid Rock, or Shania Twain, or any of those other acts that I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to in public, I would have been a happy man. However, being that I am a man of more refined tastes, I had to go for the big gun, the old fail-safe.

Elvis.

With all the confidence of a sober man I approached the mike. Nervous at first, I began singing the lyrics to Suspicious Minds, an Elvis classic, while I tried to determine how well the microphone was picking up my voice. In seconds The Red Rightwing was dancing before me, dressed in a pair of oversized shades, and quickly my song became a sonnet with which to serenade him, though this quickly caused him to disappear. I was not given the opportunity to miss my chum however, as he was almost instantaneously replaced by a cute blonde girl wearing those same oversized glasses.

I know not who this girl was, nor do I know whether she was attracted by my dashing good looks or by the lady-luring magic of Elvis. All I do know is that I was quickly groped and molested to a degree that would make an airport security agent blush. I was hugged and hung upon, and when that wasn’t the case, I was either being grinded against, or I had her backside rubbing against me. Focusing on the song at hand became more of a task than I’d anticipated.

After my sexy song, The Red Rightwing, Caroling Canuck, and I took off for their lair once more, leaving the rest of our party to suffer the sounds of middle-aged men approximating the lyrics of 50 Cent. We took off on a late-night bicycle ride shortly thereafter, with the two of them in the lead during our journey to the twenty-four-hour Safeway while I trailed shortly after them on a bike with detached handlebars. Avoiding the freeway traffic was indeed a tricky maneuver. Fortunately, we were all able to make it to the store and back, and with a bag of snack-food as our spoils. As we rewarded ourselves with promises of a slept-in Saturday morning, we retired for the evening.

I woke up to the sound of my chums’ voices. I was surprised that The Red Rightwing and The Caroling Canuck had stirred before me, particularly in the case of the Rightwing, who had been noticeably exhausted the night before. I sprang up from the couch and sleeping bag, dressed delightfully in my Green Lantern pajamas. The three of us shared in a breakfast of narcotics and coffee, then a neighbor of my chums came over and fed the Rightwing’s cravings for nicotine while we discussed big business and why the British choose to drive on the wrong side of the road. As we pondered why most of Europe is forced to shift gears with the left hand, my allies prepared themselves for an important business function with the Rightwing’s family. Once their shoes were polished and their spats pulled on tightly, we were out the door once more, on our way to sunny San Francisco.

My chums deposited me at my house and then sped off to their intended destination. I, meanwhile, was greeted with a pleasant surprise upon entering my domain. My tax refund had arrived! It was a Christmas miracle, and in the middle of May! Noting my good fortune, I quickly sped off to the bank. Once more I had a generous amount of currency, and I had no doubts that I’d be using to keep my friends floating in glorious amounts of alcohol.

Upon returning home I wrote, I ran, and before long it was the evening and my chums had returned to me, this time joined with another of their number, Righteous Rena, who never fails to materialize with a smile. It was late and my crew was too tired to engage in enjoying late-night libations with me as we had previously planned, though The Red Rightwing was tastefully dressed in a manner nearly identical to myself. Instead, we headed off to the supermarket to pick up our much-needed supplies for the next day to come; the day in which we would all quite gloriously arrive in the sparkling streets of San Francisco and engage magnificently in celebration of Bay To Breakers and any such lunacy that might be associated with it.

After we’d purchased ourselves an unholy amount of vodka and enough citrus drinks to grant us an overload of vitamin C, we returned to our places of lodging to rest before the mighty task ahead of us. However, it was not my bed I headed to, as the writing bug had certainly bitten me, and so I remained awake late into the twilight hours while furiously typing up this and that. There’d be time enough for sleep in Heaven.

I awoke after a few hours’ sleep and pulled on my father’s old suit and my panama hat, and made quite sure to sling my great-granddaddy’s camera around me. After adding a black tie to my freshly washed and ironed shirt, I had convincingly disguised myself to look like Karl Kolchak, The Night Stalker. I shoveled down a forced breakfast of noodles for energy and brushed my teeth thereafter, then spent the remainder of my time making sure I was absolutely prepared, as I had already showered and shaven. My chums arrived right on time, and to my surprise, presented me with a further breakfast of something called a tofu scramble. What fine chums I have! As for their appearances, the Rightwing and the Canuck were disguised as ordinary civilians, while I believe Rena was disguised as one of the lost Charlie’s Angels. Oh yes, we would fit into San Francisco nicely.

We parked at a BART station, then took the train into the heart of the city, walking upwards from our subterranean station onto a street that was loaded with people as far as the eye could see. There was a regiment of luchadors, and a pack of decorated Raiders fans. There were Elvises, and pirates, and ninjas, and Vikings all around us. But the sheer amount of superheroes I saw, particularly the many I saw dressed as Batman, surely brought a tear to me eye. Oh yes, I was home.

There we were, pushing along a baby stroller that was loaded with two full coolers of deluxe screwdrivers and plenty of cups. As the Canuck poured us all our first drinks of the day, we attempted to join the rest of the city in getting to the starting line. The street was packed with pedestrians like nothing I had ever seen, helicopters flew above us, filming us, and tortillas, literally in the millions, were flying down at us from every which way. It was a bizarre and incomprehensible scene, and an attempt to compare it with anything merely reminded me of the film Independence Day. Our drinks were good; the Canuck had worked miracles in mixing them, and as the Rightwing and I enjoyed a cigarette (and toasted to good health) the occasional tortilla would fly down from any direction and smack one of us in the head.

There we were, arm to arm with the world, packed like sardines and slowly trudging along with the crowd, past the Jesus-preachers with signs and onto the race. We judged our relative speed and movement based on the many floats and displays moving alongside us. We were alongside a portable bar, following a moving pyramid, and an elfin gal to my right made friends with the Canuck. As the crowd spaced out, we occasionally ran, often walked, and were kept in constant delight by the many sights surrounding us. As we piled through the city streets en-masse, we quickly found that every block’s length of distance had a different band playing the corner, and when there weren’t bands there were people set up with DJ equipment playing music, or in the case of many of the people that lived in the apartments along the route, stereos turned up loud with speakers facing the street. In some places there were as many as three per block. I was particularly impressed as we passed by a performance put on by three youths with a karaoke machine. One of them sang along to A Boy Named Sue, while another dressed like Elvis danced around and pretended to play a fake guitar.

“Yeah! Johnny! Johnny Cash!” I yelled at them. Of course Elvis waved.

As we moved further forward the displays got more interesting and we started finding ourselves among naked people more frequently. Of note, I recall a nude man in a top hat and roller-skates, and later on we passed a man in a chicken mask and feathered wings that was swinging his most visible pecker at us. Even the bad neighborhoods were safe on this day; packed with dressed up and jovial people. We continued drinking, I smoked with the boys, and we passed by Michael Jackson twice, hollering at him with praise as he graciously acknowledged us from behind his surgical mask.

Further we went, often sneaking into bushes to relieve ourselves, and finding as we went further that everyone else was likewise becoming more flagrant in their public urination, as for as far as alcohol consumption went, we were in the majority, not the minority. As we trekked further along, we started noting that the sides of streets plentiful with plant-life were literally lined with urinaters standing side to side. At about this point we passed under an overpass that was darkened but filled with disco-balls and flashing light displays, and a DJ had set up shop there, creating a minature rave under the overpass where nothing less than a hundred people were dancing and socializing. Nudists and pirates alike danced here, and we briefly lost The Caroling Canuck and Righteous Rena to their number.

As we continued onward the alcohol was really starting to kick in and it was starting to show. When we’d started pushing the stroller, people had noticed our coolers and jokingly made comments as to how strollers were supposed to be for babies. I responded with replies of how indeed these coolers were my babies and their contents, the light of my life. Indeed, I'd had a bundle of joy growing within me for at least nine months (that being my liver) so I had some legitimate claim. But by the time we’d cleared a cooler and the Rightwing was noticeably faced, he’d decided that HE wished to be pushed in the stroller. He ripped the safety-bar free from the carriage and sat inside, placing the coolers upon his lap and continuing to pour himself drinks, spilling much on his crotch in the process. Pushing my chum along in the stroller was much more difficult than he realized, being that the baby stroller wasn’t built for Darth Vader-sized individuals, and his weight was actually causing the frame to sink lower to the ground and the wheels to bend slightly under the pressure.

“Wow, that’s the most disturbing thing I’ve seen all day,” said one of the race-goers as we passed alongside him; the Rightwing making baby-whinings for effect.

We continued onward and the Rightwing continued to insist that we push him along for the rest of the race. At this point he was starting to waste our spirit supply, pouring much of our beloved booze on the street, while we were taking turns pushing him. He would not walk.

It should come as no surprise then that when a naked man in sneakers and a Viking hat came up alongside us, The Caroling Canuck was more than willing to give him a turn in pushing The Red Rightwing along, though she made no mention to him. The nude man took off running with our pal, and our pal wasn’t made aware of his change in chauffeurs until he turned around and saw the naked bearded man pushing him. Of course we took pictures. And laughed.

Again, I was given a turn in pushing the Rightwing along, until the stroller broke. I was able to bend the wheel back into place so we could at least continue pushing along our booze though. Consistently, we tried to find our chum Muscleman Murray and his pals, who were somewhere among the crowd, though the sheer number of people present made this a virtual impossibility, despite his constant calls to us by cell-phone. As we neared the end, we found him at last, and so we and our chums took a small break in the park.

One of the Muscleman’s pals, Horatio Hegley was passed out in the park’s grass, his shirt covered in red stains that looked to my trained eyes like wine. We debated whether or not to leave him sleeping there with a note pinned to him, then decided to rouse him instead, though waking our near-dead pal was a bit of effort. In the meantime, I entertained myself with viewing a group of nudists that had arrived in the park as well, and a particularly fetching brunette among their number that was running back and forth along the grass. Ahhh, life.

As we finished the last of the race, Hegley wandered off a few times, though we did attempt to keep him awake, and with us. At a point at which it appeared he might be getting a little too friendly with our pal Rena, I intercepted him, putting an arm around him and helping him to walk forward. From then on the race was mostly simple. We came out at the beach, then walked to a nearby Thai restaurant to feed ourselves and recover from both the lengthy race, and all the alcohol we’d consumed. The food wasn’t great but we had fun.

We took a short trip to the beach and lounged a bit; at this point we were all filthy. Then we decided to take off, so we bid adieu to our chums that were staying, ditched the broken stroller, and then boarded a San Francisco bus to take us back to the BART station. As a rather strange turn of events, we bumped into my old pal The Lusty Lascivian on the bus and rode with him to our destination. Then it was off to home.

Upon reaching my lair I was tired and slightly sun-burnt. I immediately headed for the bathroom and stripped out of my clothes and threw them in cold water. I’d been mostly good about keeping my suit clean, but our time spent at the park had gotten grass-stains and dirt on the legs, and a slight amount of alcohol had been spilled on me as well. There were other stains I couldn’t even identify. I was nowhere near as sorry as some of the chums I’d been with, but then, they hadn’t been wearing suits either.

As I sunk myself into a warm bath to relax my sore bones, I received a knock on the door from a family member. More good news: I’d received a call from my new boss while I’d been out; I’d gotten the job. Thank goodness for my winning personality. I then passed out in the tub for an hour or two.

Within two days I was in Washington, and there are further stories to tell, but I suspect that is a post for another day. Anyway, my apologies for the lack of posts lately, but I’ve been keeping really busy. I’m backlogged with a ton of work to do here on the web-page. I’ve got new pictures to post, new informational entries to make on the old Virgincomputer, and a special tribute to the late, great Frank Gorshin on the way. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures from Bay To Breakers.

Here’s a pic from the beginning of the race I think, Rena and the Canuck disguised as normal people. And here’s one of me disguised as Karl Kolchak and the Canuck also from early on, around the time tortillas were flying at us. Then here’s one of The Caroling Canuck and The Red Rightwing from the beginning, dressed as civilians and with the Rightwing sober (I think).

These ones are from later on; I can tell by the way there’s room to breathe. Here’s the two gals posing. Then another of Kolchak the Night Stalker and the Canuck.

These last three are from near the end. First, you get to see the Rightwing drunk. Then, you get to see the naked guy pushing the Rightwing in the stroller while he’s drunk. Lastly, here’s a pic of Rena and the Canuck as an atomic cloud rolls in. We were all dead within the hour.

I’ll spell-check this sucker tomorrow night.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Please read the following:

I have finally somewhat begrudgingly (and mostly enthusiastically) accepted that what all the others were telling me, despite my protests, was right. San Francisco is the single best town around. I denied my birthplace its praise, but now there’s simply no denying, the massive township which is my home kicks ass like none other, at least not of the rather sorry metropolises on the western half of North America. Certainly, I’ve had my flirtations with Seattle, I’ve had my brief infatuations with Vancouver and Victoria, and I’ve had a mild crush on Washington DC; Dallas, Wichita, and Portland left me entirely unimpressed, though Phoenix was certainly plentiful with cute girls. But no question, I’m in love with San Francisco.

Oh, there is none other. What I was subtlely starting to feel in the past few months (as my gal pal lives in San Francisco and I’ve been spending quite a bit of time there of late) is now completely confirmed. I love my home. Something I suppose I’ve always known.

Certainly, San Fran has a terrible problem with homelessness. Not that there’s anything wrong with the homeless, but in San Fran they’re far too rude and FAR too aggressive. Apparently, as I recently found out from reading a local newspaper, San Francisco is known nationwide for having a serious problem with the homeless. In fact, it’s hurting our recent tourist trade. Indeed, the last time I was in San Fran’s Greyhound station I nearly got beat up by a homeless man because I was too broke to give him money.

But San Fran rocks. Bay To Breakers confirmed this for me. There is no city that comes anywhere close. I’d love to go into further detail but I have to be up in 3 hours. No time for writing now. Rest assured, I’ll be bringing along my personal Virgin-journal with me; I don’t want to forget a damn thing. You’ll get the details later. To give you a small idea now, I saw more naked people this weekend than you could shake a stick at, or a well-endowed wang.

As for myself, I’m off to the hills again. You most likely won’t hear much from me for about a week. Though I generally love the peace, quiet, and tranquility that comes from the peaceful solitude of the hills, this time I’m going up merely to help my father. He’s had major surgery done recently and he needs me. I am, without question, a good son. I will be more than happy to go up and assist my father; I’ll even carry him around the house if he so needs it.

And so I’m gone. I’ll try to get to a computer if I can but the chances are seriously slim. The nearest sizeable settlement to where my father lives is an Indian reservation. Regardless of my progress, wait anxiously. Froth at the mouth. I have a ton of treats for you. Stories, pictures, and all sorts of other goodies. You’ll know and love them all when I get back. Ta ta!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Wakey wakey!

I was going to go to sleep, but suddenly I’m not tired. I suppose that means that I’ll write instead, though my thoughts are sparse and disjointed. I fell asleep to the sound of Tipsy and Queen last night, falling asleep much too late, then waking up much too early to the sound of Brian Dewan. Despite the master’s golden pipes, my eyes were heavy and I craved the warmth of my Batman sheets, koala blanket, and Pee Wee’s Playhouse comforter. Nevertheless, I forced myself up from bed, ate my breakfast of noodles and an apple, and groomed myself. On this particular morn I thanked my stunted genes for the extremely slow rate at which my facial hair grows. The time I would save not having to wearily shave was well worth the shame of being the last kid in my class to grow pubic hair. I gave a quick buffing to my shoes which I’d already coated in polish the night before, and pulled on the white shirt I’d ironed shortly after. People can accuse me of many things, but never can it be said that I’m not a snappy dresser.

There’s no point at all to me writing what I just wrote. I really have no intention of going into detail about my job interview, or writing paragraph after paragraph about how I arrived more than an hour and a half early, and I believe the interview went very well. I need not mention that it was for an employer I respect (one which DOESN’T funnel money into PACs and the Republican Party), very much a step up from the last employer I had (which funded the Bush-reelection… make that Bush-election… headquarters in Burlingame). Oh I would have loved to have put the screws to my old boss, whom I caught making an illegal campaign contribution to the Republican Party, with the help of a little bit of computer investigation. I would have turned him in too had the evidence not been so weak. Evil bastard. His bald son (who replaced my boss, his loyal employee, canned after 30 years) later fired me.

You know, just yesterday I turned on the television and was confronted with the vision of Gwen Stefani’s newest music video. It was completely unwatchable crap, as usual, though the consistent (overly consistent… labored, ridiculous amount of) Gwen Stefani ass-shots (in nearly nothing) also left me unable to change the channel. I do love the female form after all, and without question, Gwen Stefani has gotten a HELL of a lot better looking than she was 10 years ago, back when she really couldn’t dress and No Doubt grated on my nerves. But though I’ve since been a mess of impure thoughts (the kind I’ve not known since back in the day of the Spice Girls' Say You’ll Be There video; oh man did I have it bad for Ginger), at the time of the viewing I was merely filled with feelings of severe annoyance.

Where do I start?

I’ve long since accepted the fact that Gwen Stefani and No Doubt make some horrendously mediocre music, and that, for some reason, the general public seems to eat this crap up. Fine. I learned to just block it out when I heard the audio-swill playing. I can take all the trite lyrics and poor song-craft. No, the thing that really annoyed me was the sight of all the Japanese girls dancing video. Oh, I love Japanese girls (I think they’ve partially been a factor in my enjoyment of Gojira films), but there’s something very wrong about what’s going on here.

Anyone who’s seen her other videos from her solo album has likely noticed that there’s been Japanese girls in all her videos from her most recent album. There’s no point to this; no instruments being played by these jewels of the Orient. Nay, they’re eye candy, window dressing, sight gags, objects to be viewed for our enjoyment. You see, Gwen Stefani is a race-exploiter.

You may recall, not so long ago, back when Gwen Stefani was on her Hindu and Indian kick. That lasted for quite a while before her interest fizzled out. She dated an Indian guy, wore a bindi on her forehead (which I always thought was particularly ridiculous to begin with, kind of like when Shania Twain brags about her Native American heritage), and shoved Indian kids and imagery into her music videos. Until she got bored anyway.

When was the last time you saw Gwen Steffani in a bindi? I guess untold centuries of culture is only worth something when it suits your mood.

Now it may seem that I’m getting worked up over nothing, and quite possibly I am, but it seems to me that all cultures should be appreciated and respected everyday, not just one particular culture when the fancy hits. This bit of single-culture fascination, this fixation on visual appearance and exploitation doesn’t seem to me to be the least bit respectful. It instead reminds me of the time in America when Asians were patronizingly mocked as “those delightful Orientals” and you could see hideously-drawn caricatures of them in the funny-books, and hear heavily-accented stereotypes of them on the radio. It reminds me of the Amos and Andy Show; it reminds me of Richie Valens, and how he had to change his name in order to fit into the mainstream media (and America’s concept of just what a proper Latino was). Quite frankly, it reminds me of the still much-too-common feeling in much of white America of how they want minorities to be seen (and only then in a context that white America is comfortable with) and not heard (particularly, not to express any REAL aspect of their actual culture). Cosby Show anyone? Bryant Gumbel? Wayne Brady? (No offense intended to either Bill Cosby or Wayne Brady, both of whom I respect greatly. Bryant Gumbel, on the other hand, can suck my balls.) Oh, white America loves a minority when they’re palatable to their senses.

So this is what it comes down to: Gwen Stefani symbolizes (to me at least) everything that is wrong with America, particularly white America. This is what we are to the rest of the world. This is why we can blow Middle-Easterners into bloody chunks everyday, and yet most of America doesn’t seem to care, or feel bad about it… even those who actually acknowledge the fact that we ARE blowing these people into bloody chunks. You know why?

Because we’ve turned the minorities of the world into teddy bears. We’ve turned the darker skinned and the folded eyed into penguins and baby chimpanzees in diapers. Oh certainly, we love to see them, we love to feel amused by their zany antics, crazy ways, silly dress, and strange behavior. We love to laugh at these creatures, and use them for the eye candy in our music videos.

Because we’re not seeing them as people. We’re not granting the notion of these being people such as ourselves; these being our equals. We’re not giving thought to the fact that these people have their own cultures, their own rich histories, their own knowledge and traditions centuries-old.

Nope, colonial Britain never ended. The view of the world remains the same. These are those “vile savages”, those “uneducated ape-men”, those “silly and amusing creatures”. These are our clowns, our hobbits, our trained animals. These are things we put on display in our zoo. Our glowing, cathode-ray zoo.

So I say think about this next time you watch a video with a fat Pacific-Islander dressed as Buddha, or a bunch of Japanese girls not saying anything, but just smiling, giggling, and being cute for the camera. For that matter, think of this next time you see a bunch of bikini-clad girls in a hip-hop video, because it’s the exact same thing. Do you think an East-Coast rapper is considering a female’s education-level, personal convictions, and religious upbringing when he pours that bottle of Kristal all over her?

I may be ranting, but I’m just trying to get a point across here. I wonder if back when Gwen Stefani was busy getting Japanese girls to look cute for her, if she was even aware of whom Musashi was. I wonder if she’s ever read The Book of Five Rings, or is even aware of its existence. I wonder if she knows of the tales of Feudal Japan or of Japan’s early dealings with the Dutch, or perhaps who Amaterasu is, or anything of Shintoism. Does she know who the AUM cult were? I wonder if she even knows that Japan kicked the living crap out of the Russian military in 1904. I wonder if she knew what the Bhagavad Gita was back when she wore a bindi.

What’s my point? I’m tired. I don’t even know anymore. I guess I’m saying that these are our brothers, our sisters. That person you see has hopes and dreams, and their own personality, just like you. That kid in Iraq that gets the cluster bomb dropped on his family doesn’t like it any more than would your cousin in Kansas. And when he prays to his god for safety, he knows fear every bit as strongly as you do, say, when you can’t pay for the mortgage on your house and you’re wondering how you’re going to feed and clothe the kids. We’re all in this together, and it’s about time we all started seeing each other as people, and not with the same amount of consideration you might use for a sticker on a skateboard.

Oh, and Gwen Stefani is going to burn in Hell for royally fucking up a great song from Fiddler On the Roof.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

My loyal and lethargic listeners,

Back when I was in high school, when everyone else was buying Collective Soul albums and picking colleges, I was busy writing my will and planning out my funeral. There were a few things I figured out about that eventual occasion: my buddy Immoral B would play Mellow Yellow (which had been my theme-song of sorts during my teenage years… not that the song’s multiple references to vibrating female sex-toys had much to do with me) at the service, and my very coffin would be carried into the building by an army of pallbearers wearing Stormtrooper uniforms while John Williams’ Imperial March played. In my view, funerals especially, of all things, should be handled with a sense of humor. I’d rather not have a dry and somber event to further add to my friends’ and family’s already intense feelings of grief. Give ‘em a smile, that’s my motto.

In retrospect, I suppose I also wouldn’t mind getting Attractive Nuisance to play after the funeral (though they’re already bound by oral contract to play at my eventual wedding) and I’d hope I’d have enough funeral money set aside by then to be able to afford buying a final round of Bass for all my friends and family… well, all those who aren’t recovered alcoholics, which I’m sure I will know plenty of by then. But all the alkies still get a frosty mug of sarsaparilla. And I’d be particularly touched if for my funeral a chorus of my friends sang a full, boisterous rendition of I Am the Very Model of A Modern Major General.

By now, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’ve always assumed I’d die before the rest of my friends. I’ve not smoked a single cigarette without entertaining thoughts of my eventual death by cancer. I’ve not had a single drop to drink without visions of eventual kidney failure and cirrhosis of the liver. When I walk down the street at night, I always expect a load of buckshot to the gut every time a car coming from the opposite direction passes by me. It’s not from watching Easy Rider.

No, I’ve always been a bit more of a Werewolves On Wheels fan anyway.

The truth is, I’ve always been a bit preoccupied with death, particularly in the case of my own mortality. I think this has caused me to act a bit more cautious than the rest over the years; perhaps it’s worked to my benefit. Perhaps not. Nevertheless, the knowledge that the Reaper is just around the corner has shaped the way I’ve lived my life, without question.

Eventually, I simply came to accept that my own death is inevitable. This resulted in a carefree enjoyment of vices and an emphasis on partying down and focusing on living a life of fun. I’ve come to the conclusion that life is simply much too short for a lot of the bullshit that people invite into their lives, or the poppycock they create themselves. To this end, I focus on friendship, happiness, and direct and truthful conversation. Let others pussyfoot around what’s on their minds, let them hide themselves behind carefully-crafted appearances and pretense. Life’s too short. With me, what you see is what you get, and when I think something I say it. When I want to know something, I ask it. I found that a lot of the females I’ve dealt with have been generally unfamiliar with, and even occasionally suspicious of this form of to-the-point honesty. Others seem to admire it. Whatever the case, it’s simply how I am.

Of course, all of this stems from my firm belief that death is just around the corner. So the question becomes, why do I have this absurd preoccupation with my own mortality? There’s one reason that comes to mind. It’s not a widely known fact, but I’m the third-generation result of living on borrowed time.

As far back as I know the history of my direct family line, it started with my grandfather; I don’t really know what occurred before him. I know I had an ancestor in the Civil War that caught a bullet meant for his heart in his trusty Bible, but not much beyond that. But I do know the story of my grandfather. It starts like this:

When my grandfather was just a young boy he discovered his father’s gun, removing it from the gun’s hiding place and bringing it to a friend so that they could marvel at the gun together. Caught up in their pre-adolescent wonder, they began to play with the gun together. It was at this point that my grandfather’s friend shot him in the chest at pointblank range.

I don’t really understand how my grandfather lived through that, nor, really, did his doctors. The medical science of the day wasn’t what it is now, and he wasn’t expected to live. But somehow, miraculously, he did. That’s not to say that it wasn’t incredibly close or that he wasn’t very, very near death’s door for quite a while.

But to my knowledge he eventually recovered to the point where he was able to function normally once more, growing up as boys do and eventually meeting my grandmother. They produced my uncle, a second child that didn’t survive birth due to my grandmother's exposure to the pesticides of the day, and then my father. Life continued along as normal, with them all living a normal family life until one day when my father was around ten years old. He was suddenly made aware that his father was in the hospital.

From nowhere, the gunshot that had felled my grandfather as a boy had now returned, this time to finish the job. Doctors x-rayed my grandfather, finding themselves astounded at seeing the twisted state his insides were in, viewing in awe a massive, knotty hole where none should exist, and unsure how it was he was still living. My grandfather died in that hospital not long after, the doctors couldn’t do anything to save him, unable to fathom how he’d ever survived the gunshot to begin with.

Times were tough, and my grandmother, father, and uncle survived as best they could, adapting and engaging in several adventures together, numerous cross-country road-trips among them (on one such occasion my uncle spotted a sasquatch which crossed the road in two steps while my father and grandmother were sleeping; he later sketched the creature, the sketch eerily matching later sketches we viewed one evening while casually viewing Unsolved Mysteries, and not the more popular preconceived notions of the day… whatever the case, my father was rather unnerved.) Fortunately, my grandmother has always been an admirable woman, and was able to hold the family together quite well.

And the sons grew up.

Like myself, my father liked to party in his youth, though he was much more reckless, and he tried out quite a few more vices, though I suppose considering the culture of the day, that’s not all that unusual. We once had a conversation regarding a corduroy shirt I’d been wearing, each of us shocked to find that the other had once had their single worst drinking (over-drinking) and vomiting experience while wearing our similar corduroy shirts at similar points in our life. The sins of youth repeated. Destiny, genetic memory, what-have-you can be a real dark son of a bitch sometimes. My father ended our conversation with one statement, “if I can just give you one bit of advice, never try coke.”

Words that later ran through my head, rang in my ears, and otherwise haunted me as a telltale heart the one time when I did succumb to peer pressure and try coke, which was crap anyway, being the best that Mission Street had to offer. I stopped hanging out with my heroin-addict ex-buddy not long afterward, and with that my exposure to hard drugs had ceased. Never again did I want to do cocaine, I couldn’t stomach the guilt that came with it; couldn’t ignore the earnestness of the plea from my father, or forget the sound of regret in his voice as he said it.

Besides, after several years of taking Ritalin (thanks to America’s wonderful obsession with over-diagnosing disorders, particularly A.D.D., leading to the point where I eventually ground up my pills and snorted them, using the lens of a broken pair of novelty nerd glasses I owned and the back-end of a Phillips screwdriver as a makeshift mortar and pestle; back when I calculated how many I was allotted per month, hoarding the extras while getting my prescription refilled the second I was able to; back when I only slept an hour a night; back when I didn’t know I was very addicted and had a serious problem), cocaine seemed rather trite by comparison.

Incidentally, I wouldn’t recommend snorting Ritalin to anyone. It’s fun at first, but it messes up your nose something fierce; I couldn’t breathe normally through both nostrils for several months after the last time I did it. Back to the tale at hand…

So my father liked to party. He lived in Venice and in Los Angeles; he met movie stars and had drug buddies. He collected switchblades and butterfly knives, and went out with a daughter of one of the policemen that had been on the scene after Sharon Tate’s murder at the Roman Polanski residence. He still remembers vividly the descriptions of how blood had covered the walls. His apartment was robbed by old buddies that were now drugged out and desperate for fixes. He was kicked out of one apartment by his landlord, The Amazing Criswell (the fortune-telling hack that later went on to star in Ed Wood films) because in Criswell’s eyes he was a hippie, and he’d just had a party shortly after moving in. One time he bumped into Sly Stone while on the street, another time he introduced himself to Harry Belafonte while very drunk on Harvey Wallbangers, yet another time he met Larry Fine (of The Three Stooges) while at a bar; Larry being particularly tipsy (and old at this point) and with a buxom female on each arm. Yes, my father liked to party.

On one fateful night, my father, leaving a party (whether to go home or to pick up more drugs or beer, I can’t recall) hopped on to his motorcycle. At this point he was already drunk, and possibly had other things going through his system, but it didn’t stop him from giving the bike some gas and taking off. I don’t believe he’d made it very far before he’d hit a car, and as he was lying there in the darkness, two more cars ran over his legs. Much to his good fortune, someone noticed him, and help was summoned. My father doesn’t remember much of this, his main recollection is of looking down at his leg and seeing several inches of the bone pointing up towards him.

It goes without saying that my father lost a lot of blood, and if he hadn’t been brought to a hospital as quickly as he had, he most likely wouldn’t have made it. It was fortunate that whoever was in charge opted for the hospital that they did, because the other hospital in range wouldn’t have been as adequately suited to treat him. Just the same, he very nearly didn’t pull through, even in the hospital, and was in recovery for quite a long time. A lot of surgery went into repairing his legs, and when all was done, he was shorter, and his legs were uneven, leaving him to walk lopsided, and forever causing him to need special shoes from then on. Ricardo Montalban has uneven legs as well, and this is why today he’s in a wheelchair. It throws the spine out of alignment and causes all sorts of problems and pain.

As for my father, the scars on his legs are still quite visible (though “scars” is an understatement; his legs are literally reshaped, curving inward and outward at entirely different places than does your leg or mine) though if you ask him now, he’ll likely tell you that the damage is from a shark attack, which sounds much cooler. He can tell if it’s going to rain from the feeling in his legs, and he’s had two corrective surgeries so far that have alternately made him taller, and shorter still, though neither procedure took. This week he’ll be going in for yet another attempt, which I very much hope succeeds this time, and I’ll be going up briefly to assist him while he recovers.

Of course, after he got out the hospital then, he didn’t stop partying. His eventual reformation didn’t occur until some years later.

So there you go, I’m the son of a man who should have died long before I was born, and he, in turn, was similarly the son of a man who should have died long before he was born.

As for myself, I have no tales of near-death anywhere near as impressive. Hours after I was born I was rushed back to the hospital, suffering from an apparent hernia which prompted me to be cut open (on both sides) and fixed back up. When I was around 4 or 5 I fell into a friend’s pool, flailing wildly and gasping for air as I sunk slowly to the bottom. Fortunately, a neighbor saw me, running to the pool and diving in, saving me from certain death. It was quite fortunate she could hear my screams and gurgles from inside the house. As recently as a few months ago I was in a car crash with a few friends of mine. The crash wasn’t terrible; it totaled the car but it was one we were able to walk away from. But later on I was made aware of the fact that due to the way the back of the car was loaded, had the vehicle behind us not been able to stop before smacking into us as well (and I’m still a bit amazed that he was), I very possibly could have been decapitated or at the very least suffered from some very serious head and neck trauma. I consider myself very lucky.

I’m grateful to be alive. I consider myself very fortunate to be here. I know that by many ways I SHOULDN’T be here. John Wayne said something once while he was dying from cancer, that being, “every day you get out of bed is a good day.” Words to live by. Words to ponder.

I was going to say more, but I’m tired. Stay happy.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Hey kids!

I’ve got something different for you today: a story with pictures. Don’t get used to it; this isn’t going to be a common thing. I still expect you all to make use of your imaginations.

So there I was last Tuesday, at home, freshly showered after my daily run and my head still reeling from taking in a viewing of Missy Elliot videos while my feet had been quickly pounding along the treadmill’s spinning surface. It was after 6:00 PM by the time Mr. Mystere had finally called me. He’d been having adventures at the library and in community service, and I was certain there’d be much he’d have to tell me. He decided, once more, that we should meet at the coffee shop he seems to like so much.

The old Chit-Chat Café, I’d known this place well. Years ago, before changes in the establishment’s management and the more pronounced changes of time and life occurring as they naturally do, the place had been a haven for many of my friends. I could walk in the Chit-Chat at any time of day and naturally bump into a friend or acquaintance. My friend Gutter Punk was a common sight at the Chit-Chat, either within, seated at a booth behind a chessboard, sipping coffee with noticeably shaking hands, or outside, chain-smoking, or occasionally scouring the area in front of the shop looking for salvageable cigarette-butts when his money had run out and his need for an angry fix had returned. Indeed, I and many of my friends had once commonly hung about at the old Chit-Chat, in fact, many of my friends ended up working at the Chit-Chat as well. Once the establishment’s ranks of employees was filled with many of my amigos, the Chit-Chat briefly became a sort of unofficial sister-establishment to the old theatre I ran, The Olde Ship Seavue, which I had similarly worked to include a great deal of my pals as the loyal staff. Our social circles connected and intertwined on many occasions.

Of course, time has passed, the old theatre has closed down, friends and acquaintances have gotten old and caught up in life, moving their separate ways, and the very section of the town in which the old theatre and the coffee shop reside has continued along the path of decay and ruination; everyday the loss of life in what had once been the heart of the town becomes more and more apparent. I don’t much like going to the coffee shop anymore, it’s a wasteland, empty and devoid of all the friendly faces I used to see within it. A tumbleweed rolling along would be more action than this seedy little part of town has seen in two years. To think that Rob Schneider used to come here to hang out in-between shooting new films in Tinseltown. I don’t recognize any of the kids working in the coffee shop anymore. Quite frankly, I find it uncomfortable and depressing to be here now. Mr. Mystere, on the other hand, still seems to like the old Chit-Chat very much.

Incidentally, back in my old ghost-hunting days, I discovered that the Chit-Chat was apparently haunted. This was back when my buddies and I used to trek into the supposedly-haunted hills by the beach looking for visions of spectres, and my Wiccan buddy Peanut Cornwhistle and I used to fool around with the Ouija board upstairs in the old theatre, never achieving results ourselves, though on at least one occasion loud banging noises started up in the empty projection room after we left, prompting my pals Immoral B and McSparkle to abandon their posts at the theatre and quickly head for home. As the story of the Chit-Chat was told, around the turn of the century a man and his new bride lived in a home built on the foundation of what is now the Chit-Chat. The wife, apparently, was not happy. She threw herself from the very cliff that the Chit-Chat still overlooks to this day. The man, upset by this, hung himself on the third floor of the building that once stood where the Chit-Chat now stands. Supposedly, he still makes his presence known at the Chit-Chat, even engaging in the occasional bit of poltergeist activity. I had the rare opportunity to view the portrait painted of this long-deceased gentleman. Not that any of this really has anything to do with Tuesday.

So there it was, Tuesday, and I was sitting at a table, sipping on a green tea I’d bought from the cute (but young) girl working at the shop. While I waited for Mystere to arrive (he’s always late it seems) the girl working the counter came over to me and engaged me in some quick conversation. I suppose the homeless person outside had been rude to her when she’d given him bananas, and she was now rather rightfully annoyed. I was just about to pull out my copy of What’s the Matter With Kansas and start reading again, when in walked Mr. Mystere, in his civilian guise.

Mystere offered to buy me a coffee, which I declined, then bought one for himself and sat down. We engaged in small-talk for a while, and he filled me in on the community service project he’d been involved with. I inquired as to the status of the local pirate shop. He hadn’t applied for employment there, as I’d figured he might, and this led to a lengthy discussion on lard, which the pirate shop carries in large amounts. The conversation petered out, and so Mystere retired to the restroom.

Moments later, Mr. Mystere burst out from the bathroom, in cape and mask, surely a shock to all others in the coffee house, many of whom must have forgotten that only minutes earlier a mild-mannered, ordinary-to-the-eye civilian had disappeared within the restroom.

“Never fear! Tis I, Mr. Mystere!” my friend loudly cried out in the middle of the coffee house, “and you, Virgin Prince, just how virginal are you?”

“Mystere?! What the hell, man? That’s not how a superhero talks!” I said to my none-too-discreet buddy.

And so we went back and forth with superheroic banter, everyone else in the Chit-Chat Café quickly taking notice.

“I hope you two are benevolent masked men,” an older female customer said to us as she stepped inside the shop and up to the register.

“But of course!” I replied, “we are merely two well-mannered, aspiring mystery men! We’re just trying to make our way in the world.”

The lady grabbed her coffee and took her seat.

“Uh, are you guys working on some sort of project?” the cute girl working the counter asked me.

“Eh. Yes, you could say that,” I replied.

A project indeed. The finest project known to man. The project of JUSTICE!

So the girl commented that this was probably the strangest thing she’d ever seen and then asked us if we wanted some free espresso, I assume as a reward for our efforts. It seems to me that this is indeed a strange world when something as simple as men dressed in capes and masks, fighting for justice, seems a strange sight.

“Why certainly, thank you,” I said to the barista in response to her offer. I’ve never been a coffee enthusiast, but then, I’ve never turned down anything offered to me by a random female either. I’m always flattered by such things, and quite gracious in return. I wasn’t doing that badly for a mystery-man too broke to tip (I HATE not tipping).

“Would you like any sugar? Milk or cream?” she asked.

“No, really your happiness is my reward,” I told her in as humble a manner as possible.

“I think these guys have had too much coffee,” the older female patron commented.

So there we were, sitting at our table along the wall, talking in hero-speak, and Mr. Mystere madly guzzling down the cup of espresso placed before us. I’d arranged for Mystere to meet me at this location so I could obtain further information about him for use in the extensive files of my Virgincomputer, and he wasn’t being very forthcoming. He does love the camera however, and it was all too easy to obtain further photographic evidence of his existence. Perhaps the spectro-analyzers of my Virgincomputer would be able to unearth more secrets about Mr. Mystere from the scans of my photographs than would his tongue from behind his tightly-sealed lips. As things stand, Mr. Mystere is generally best described by a large question mark. Or a series of several small question marks.

It wasn’t long before Mystere picked up on the distinct smell of villainy wafting within the Chit-Chat Café. There was an invisible menace somewhere among us.

“Virgin Prince! There’s a problem!” my mysterious chum cried, “The ice cream is in danger! Save the ice cream!”

I leapt towards the ice cream freezer, my reflexes quick as the electrical pulses firing from the synapses in my brain.

“Never fear, rainbow sherbert!” I proclaimed while fanning the delicious desert with a Chinese fold-out fan, “You’ll not melt today!”

“Worry not, mint chip!” I cried as I shoveled this delicious bit of dairy into my pockets, “Room temperature will oppress you no further!”

“Virgin Prince!” Mystere hollered, “The coffee! The coffee is in danger of falling over!”

“Must… save… dark… French… roast! Noooooooooooooo!” I gasped as I thrust myself in the direction of the coffee, barely catching the canister before it had toppled completely and fallen to the floor.

All sorts of havoc ensued as the two of us ran around the coffee shop.

We’d done our job well; we’d saved the day, and how we laughed and laughed. We’d helped to make the community a better place and had a fine time doing it. Mr. Mystere was now tired, however, and decided it was time for him to be off. He excused himself to the restroom, and a few minutes later, a perfectly normal looking man finally emerged from the lavatory, grabbing his things and leaving. As for myself, I gathered up our trash, throwing it out and thanking the girl working at the counter shortly before I left the coffee shop. My, it’s good to be young.

Anyway, sorry about the lack of posts but I’ve been a bit busy this past week, and I’ve been entertaining family over the weekend. Also, I now have some of the Virgincomputer’s entries on Bobo the Virgin Chimp, Mr. Mystere, and Foxy Valentino available to the public. Feel free to check them out.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

My prized piranha,

Ah, it’s been a difficult day. I don’t know what it is, but occasionally a hangover has the same effect on me as does that time of the month for most females. I get moody, my energy level is shot, and I can feel a definite tug-of-war going on between my emotions. The punishment for a night of excess is that I become overly-sensitive, coming dangerously close to tears over such trivial things as watching As Good As It Gets.

It wasn’t a great night last night; I just barely missed the opportunity to hang out with my good friend Super-Crowl at his favorite pool hall. I haven’t seen him in a long time, and as he’s getting married, he wanted to have a drink or two with me at the establishment that proudly hangs his portrait on the wall. I was ready to head out into The City to meet him, but the whole affair was poorly-planned and last-minute, and he decided that we should instead wait until the next Friday.

I was tired anyway, my feet were sore and blistered from a day spent out pounding the pavement in the warm California sun; I was underfed and exhausted from the job hunt. I knew I was in no shape for a run, though had my feet not been terribly blistered, I’m sure I would have attempted it anyway. I rather enjoy running now, and the speed which I continue to attain makes the whole experience that much more thrilling.

You see, people seem to love their diet fads, and without question, Atkins (the incredibly dangerous diet) seems to be the most popular. While I’m sure that drinking bacon grease, not eating fruit and vegetables, and a minimum of physical activity may appeal to some people, my diet is considerably anti-Atkins. First off, my diet is almost entirely carbs. Certainly, I make a point to eat fruit and vegetables, and beans and a limited amount of meat, but I certainly don’t shy away from noodles, rice, and bread. The nation of China isn’t noted for its obesity epidemic, and therefore, proves Atkins obviously isn’t the only way to go about things.

My diet is called the “Get-Off-Your-Fat-Ass-and-Do-Some-Exercise Diet” and it seems to be the best thing I’ve done yet. I’ve tried others, notably, the “Eat, Drink, Breathe, and Sleep-Karate Diet” which worked quite well though it left me sore all the time (and I still get the urge to randomly engage in blocking maneuvers), and the “Drink-Yourself-To-Death Diet” which had been perfected by my now-ex-girlfriend (and I believe she still practices), which really only succeeded in bulking me up. Indeed, the latter diet gave new meaning to “feel the burn”, and whereas with Karate I often yelled out, “Ki-I!” while engaging in strenuous physical activity, in drinking the two of us only generally yelled out “Ow! My liver!”

But my new routine is working out quite well for me; the results seem to be increasingly obvious with every day. The first six months were slow and gradual, and at times I was frustrated, wondering why I wasn’t seeing results faster when I’d been running so often and so hard. Certainly, at first, the only immediately visible results were blistered and/or bloody feet, and sweat-drenched (and occasionally blood-splattered) shirts. But by the time I’d started running 6.5 miles per hour, the results were getting quite noticeable, and I was dropping weight fast.

In the past month I’ve put a new hole into my belt twice, what most amazes me about this is the fact that in April, being the month of my birth, I’ve lived in excess quite a bit. Loads of booze, a regrettable amount of cigarettes, a much more toothsome diet than usual, quite a few skipped days of exercise, etcetera, etcetera… and I’m still getting smaller! Apparently my metabolism has gotten to a point where I no longer even have to try that hard, as long as I have at least three days of running in a week. I guess the fact that I continue increasing speed (and pretty much gave up fast-food once I gave up beef) helps. I can eat all the bread and cheese I want, bitches!

So to others, I say go ahead and enjoy your Atkins; I blame you not for enjoying a diet that encourages both sloth and gluttony. Enjoy your deep-fried cheese-sticks and chicken-legs wrapped in bacon; wash it down with Ranch dressing! It’s probably just coincidence that Dr. Atkins died overweight at a not-so-old age due to heart attack. Me, I’ll stick with fruits and vegetables, and running, like the native tribes of Mexico have done for ages. I’m sure they’d all live to ripe old ages if only the drug-kings down there would stop killing them off.

Eh, what can you do? People like pot.

Bobo the Virgin Chimp, it should be mentioned, has a much different exercise regimen than myself. Any of you that have ever seen an ape no doubt know very well that their legs weren’t built for running. Nay, Bobo focuses mainly on his upper body, exercising mostly his arms. Indeed, he can be witnessed for hours on end, flinging things that need not be named with his mighty, hairy arms in the backyard.

Anyway, I’ve wandered off a bit in discussing personal health and physical fitness. I was discussing the bad day I had.

To begin with, robots broke in again and looted the medicine cabinet. I attempted to follow the bastardly automatons, but they busted through my bathroom wall with wildly flailing arms and were too fast to catch. The must have been amped-up on nitrous because all that was left of their invasion of my commode were the streak-prints of burnt rubber and heavy-metal-footprints in the back yard, as well as an assortment of hastily dropped issues of Popular Mechanics, which mostly had their fold-out schematics stuck together with oil droppings, and often showed the telltale prints of over-handling by lubricant-perspiring retractor clamps.

Stupid robots.

Secondly, there was my exhausting job hunt. I’m getting quite tired of going to places to apply for employment in person, only to find out that they only accept applications through their company websites. This is ridiculous! How am I supposed to show my dedication and tenacity through an assortment of emails and a trail of filled-out web-forms? An IP address is not a face! Distinct like a fingerprint, yes, but not at all like a reading of gumption from the face of an earnest and spunky kid. The streets of South City also served to annoy me.

If there’s one thing I’ve always hated about The Industrial City, it’s that it’s hell to travel through. It is essentially cut-off and removed from the area around it, and the streets are nothing more than a winding labyrinth meandering through it; they stretch and go long, they’re deceptive in where they take you, and they never intersect. In most places you can spot a landmark in the distance and walk towards it. Not in South City.

I eventually made it home and got to feeding myself. After letting my blisters breathe for a while and making time for my muscles to unwind, I checked my email. I’d made an attempt at reconciliation with Rush Girl the day before and wanted to see if she’d written me back. She hadn’t.

It’s not like I still love her and want her back, but we’d been friends once and I was hoping we could perhaps start up a dialogue again. We’d been friends before we were lovers, remained friends (though sometimes enemies) while lovers, and after we broke up, remained friends still (due to some serious effort on my part). I’d always comforted her when she was unhappy, and been there when she needed someone to talk to. I’d comforted her through her many alcohol-soaked and pill-powered freak-outs, and when her boob-job didn’t take and she started bleeding profusely through her chest, I talked her through it while she waited for help to arrive. It was just the way things were; we’d been close. I suppose I figured that since we’d been so close at one time, it’d be a shame for us to remain on bad terms.

Despite all my efforts at retaining a friendship, the phone calls, the letters, the trip to Vancouver to help her move, I consistently was met with the impression that she’d rather just write me out of her life. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way, I’d always been treated as somewhat disposable by her when things weren’t as good. But being of the somewhat sensitive and sentimental type, I’d always made an attempt at maintaining a friendship between us. To me, it seemed silly that two people who had at one time confided in each other their deepest secrets, fears, and desires; two people that had come so close to marriage, could months later be completely cold to each other, the only thing shared between them a wall of silence. Quite frankly, the very concept seemed to me to be quite absurd.

But the phone calls stopped coming, and the last time I called her, all she could do was insult me for an hour before finally hanging up upon me. An apology never followed. Within a month she’d sent me another email in which she proceeded to act as if she was being the bigger person, but still continued to condemn me. I can’t recall whether I wrote her back or not. I doubt I did. I was fed up with her by then. I was sick of the way she treated me, the way she’d always treated me. By then I was filled with nothing but the purest anger. Her actions, coupled with the feelings I’d long-kept suppressed during our entire relationship, had turned me into a seething, rage-filled powder keg.

Around a month later she sent me one more email. Though still devoid of apology, it was also lacking further insults. Though a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation, it was still an attempt. However, I was far too hurt and angry at that point to accept it. I was sickened by her continual claims of personal growth and emotional metamorphosis, claims I’d been hearing from her from day one. Claims which I knew were a convenient way of avoiding taking responsibility for her actions in the past.

I wasn’t ready for reconciliation at that point. I wasn’t prepared to forgive and forget; to give her yet another second chance merely because a cheery mood struck her. What I wanted at that point was for her to hurt; to know for a change, exactly how she’d made me feel during our entire relationship. I wanted her to now feel it.

I responded with an email chronicling all the different ways she’d hurt me; something I hadn’t done in the past as I’d always been far more concerned about her than I had been about myself, and more importantly, I’d been deathly afraid of ever telling her anything negative about herself, as she made consistent threats of suicide. Of course by this point, I’d been hurt enough by her that I no longer cared, and I was sick of her getting away with the way she treated people. My letter ended up being some 14 pages in length.

She responded with one final email, in which she fully admitted to all I had written. This was an incredible change for her; she’d always been absolutely terrible at taking personal responsibility for things. Still, no apology. That was the end of communication between us.

Direct communication anyway, that was when the war of the blogs started.

I knew that she read my website obsessively. I also knew that she had a tendency towards insulting her former friends and lovers (and anyone else who wasn’t looking) on her blog, which was why I started reading hers again after not checking it for a few months.

She claims that I started with the first volley. That’s not entirely true. She’d been bitching about me since August at least, and when she started her new blog in October, wrote about me in a negative light with her very first posting. I, myself, didn’t write a single negative thing about her until December. That matters not. What does is that we slowly, but surely, began a passive-aggressive war with each other, painting each other in unfortunate words, sometimes as personal reflection; sometimes as a form of outright attack. I tend to think that she went for the neck more than I did, but my viewpoint is admittedly biased.

I enjoyed the series of attacks for a while; it was considerably easier for me to write about her negatively than it was for her to do to me, being that she’d acted like an ass the majority of the time I’d known her and I had a hell of a lot more material to draw upon. I didn’t even have to delve into using her personal secrets as weapons. Towards the end, once she’d ran out of cheap insults to fling at me, she was reduced to fabricating facts just to try to keep up. I suppose at the point when she outright lied about me (painting me as an objectifying womanizer, while hiding behind the image of an innocent girl… in stark contrast to the truth of myself being rather innocent and naive, and she… just a bit easy: in fact she initiated the very first physical encounter between us; she later admitted to me that she’d half been looking for a cheap weekend fling… she hadn’t expected a guy actually caring about her, to want to have a relationship) was when I became as mad as I could be. Outright lies were not fair play! Had I been playing as dirty as she had, I could have easily crucified her with merely the truths I knew about her. For her sake, I didn’t even bother. Even I, as angry and petty as I’d been feeling, had my standards.

She even left a handful of rude comments on my blog, though, I decided that if she truly wished to be so petty I’d gladly leave her comments posted, so that everyone else could see just what kind of person she truly was. I’d let her hang herself in that department. As far as her personal appearance, she’s always been her own worst enemy.

The attacks continued, mounting in severity, each of us now very filled with anger towards the other. I’m not proud of it; I was angry, and feeling petty, and writing as I did helped me to get feelings off my chest and make me feel better. But I started to realize that I was also getting sick of the whole affair. I was starting to realize that much of my anger had come from the fact that I had missed her friendship. Certainly, she’d turned her back on me, but I missed her all the same, the person with which I’d once shared such personal thoughts and had so much fun.

So when she leveled her last attack at me (and a cheap one it was), I didn’t retaliate. I wrote her instead, telling her where I’d been coming from. I didn’t pull any punches, I told her how it was, and I certainly wasn’t going to kiss her ass or sugarcoat things for her. Too many people had been doing that for too long. It may not have been the nicest letter, but it was an honest attempt, and I was trying for forgiveness, both on her part, and mine.

She wrote back. It was an equally hostile letter (perhaps moreso… it’s hard to say, being in as much of a partial position as myself) but there was too an attempt at civility. I was exceedingly happy over our mutually-agreed end to hostilities. I wrote once more, an attempt to further bridge the gap between us.

No response.

So that was her answer: coldness, silence, death. I guess I was hurt at the response (or lack thereof). After all the second chances I’d given her (to the point where the term “second chance” no longer applies… almost to a humorous degree) she was unwilling to give me a second chance. My first second chance. After all the times she’d deliberately hurt me and I’d forgiven her, she hasn’t willpower (gumption, character, strength, courage, what-have-you) to do the same. I suppose that’s the way it has to be. There’s nothing I can do about it, and I’ve honestly tried my best, but it doesn’t help but sting a little. Oh well, at least I know that despite her claims of great personal growth (which I placed much faith into in writing her this last time), as enlightened and metamorphosized as she claims to have become, it didn’t stop her from continuing to engage in petty attacks while still supposedly in this state. I suppose I should have expected this.

It doesn’t matter. I told her I’d stop engaging in petty attacks upon her and I will: time will tell if she’s truly able to do the same. And if she does, then at least I can feel some joy in her newfound growth.

All that was a bummer, but I was moreso bothered by the following matter.

Around 5:00 AM in the morning, The Magnificent M drunkenly messaged me and told me she thought that she may still be in love with her ex-boyfriend. This, coupled with the fact that I’m almost entirely broke, and that I’ve been having difficulty in keeping away from my vices in the past month, left me a very unhappy lad. I called her the next day, and received confirmation that we were now indeed “just friends” in every sense of the term.

Now I don’t blame her; I understand where she’s coming from. I can understand maintaining feelings for a past love, even if they treated you like crap. I also know that it took several months for me to fully get over my ex-girlfriend, and that she’s had little more than a month to get over hers. Still, I can’t help but feel a little hurt: I had strong feelings for her, and high hopes of what might happen between us.

Still, as lame as some things seem, I persevere.

In better news, while cleaning my room a few days ago, a happened upon the old suit my father had given me. It’s a powder-blue suit, not all that dissimilar to the one Karl Kolchak used to wear, and manufactured in the 70s. From the day my father gave me this suit, it has never fit me, he, having been a much thinner lad in his youth than I was, though I accepted this suit merely for my love of retro-fashions, and bell-bottomed pants. Feeling curious about my newfound physical state, I put the old suit on. It was LOOSE. This suit has always been tight on me; at times it seemed the seams in the legs would burst. Not anymore. I ran the sucker through the wash (it needed cleaning) and still the suit was LOOSE! Huzzah!

I am officially now thinner than I was in high school (and I was only thin then because I was malnourished and snorting Ritalin). I am now healthy, well-fed, in good shape, a quick runner, and more svelte than ever I was before. The double-breasted suit I wore to Washington DC, on behalf of college students across America, when I visited museums and saw Ralph Nader and James Carville speak? The suit I wore to all important functions when I was in high school? Yep, room to spare.

My two favorite suits now fit me beautifully once more, and I am fiendishly happy for that. There is always a sense of awe that fills me when I wear my father’s suit, wondering what adventures he experienced while he was wearing it, back when he still drank, and sniffed coke, and constantly balled women. Back when he lived in Los Angeles, and Venice, and The Amazing Criswell kicked him out of his apartment because he didn’t want “those damn hippies” living there. I realize I am that man now; not with all those vices perhaps, but with that same youth and potential. Adventures await, and I anxiously greet them.

As Johnny Cash said, there’s a silver lining behind every cloud.

UPDATE:

The Magnificent M wrote me tonight and apologized in entirety, stating that she does indeed like me, and is indeed attracted to me. I think she wants things back where they were. I haven’t decided yet whether or not to give her a second chance: I’ve learned a lot from my past relationships about not taking crap from women, and I do have my pride.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince