The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
The New Traditionalist
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
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!
The Virgin Prince
