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