The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

My anxious and anticipating automatons,

Okay, well I’ve been away for much too long. The life of a justice-loving, crime-fighting mystery-man is a busy one. Even in the most mild-mannered moments of my time spent as my alter-ego I am kept quite engaged by a full work schedule and a rockin’ social life. Too many things have happened to me, and far too much have I experienced since the last time I wrote for me to possibly even hope to come close to recalling it all here for you. I’ve woken up in many a strange place, occasionally the strange bed, or sometimes in the dimly-lit studio frequented by my coworkers, the punk and thrash bands I hang around, and the various other shady characters I’ve encountered and found myself engaged in verbal exchange with. Strange faces surround me; musicians, strumpets, gamblers, tweakers, womanizers, dealers, homeless youths, and a very few others which I would call by the label of gentleman. And none which I would call lady.

Oh, but I’ve been busy.

I’ve polished off many the bottle of Bushmills with my newfound friends, convincing them all along the way that it is indeed the best of the Irish whiskeys (Middleton’s perhaps not included), and by extension, the best of all whiskeys (and by further logical extension, the very best of all spirits possibly available). Vodka, Tequila, feh! For my charm and efforts I’ve been given yet another nickname, my cohorts labeling by the moniker of “Finnegan” due to my Irish good looks, my grand sense of style, my eloquent, nearly-British speaking style, the way my voice occasionally involuntarily slips in and out of the finer accents of the United Kingdom (the Gaelic sounds being the most persistent), my love of fine spirits and ales, and most importantly, my bottomless throat, fabulous fortitude, and indestructible liver.

Poverty has reared its ugly head as well, with many of my friends pestering me for cigarettes, or begging me for my beer, or a loving chug from my bottle of Irish whiskey. Such constant and consistent occurrences have often left me similarly affected, finding myself penniless once more a few days before payday. But I get along, and always can I be recognized by my enormous, glorious smile and pearly-whites a’gleamin’. I keep on truckin’, an insuppressible trooper with an indomitable will and a pocket full of fruit leathers and teriyaki turkey jerky.

I’ve seen such sights, good and bad, inspiring and heartbreaking. I watched a possum experience his last few moments, from the very second he was hit in the road, to the kicking legs and twitching tail that followed; the stumbles and jumps as he tried to right himself, to get himself up and out of the street. Then, the noticeable look of acceptance and submission as the possum accepted his fate, or his brain began to shut down, and the jumping, kicking, and twitching nearly ceased; as I walked by him I stared into his eyes, “I’m sorry” being the only thing I could say or do. Then stillness followed. Hours later, I walked by the site of the high-speed massacre once more, the creature’s skull was now crushed by means of tire, his fur matted and dirty from blood and the filth of automobiles. And though the creature scurried off as I approached, I couldn’t help but notice the sight of a second possum waiting by his side.

Speaking of death, many of you have no doubt heard of the passing of James Doohan, better known to most as Star Trek’s Mr. Scott or “Scotty”. My father had met him twice in his life, shaking his hand both times, and never realizing that he was missing a finger. But James Doohan had stormed Juno beach on D-Day, alongside the Royal Canadian Artillery, taking six bullets from German machine-gunners and losing his right-hand middle-finger in the process. He caught directly a bullet to the chest which would have killed him had it not been stopped by the silver cigarette case given to him by his brother.

But he shall always be known for being Scotty, the master-engineer of the Starship Enterprise. Perhaps this is best, far too much time and energy has gone towards promoting the glories of war over the course of human history. For myself, I will always recall the tale my father told me of the time he went to see Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, the last of the original Trek films. Doohan, having left the cold and gloomy land of Canada for the sunny, freedom-filled skies of America, had settled in Washington, the same state which my father had made his home some many years ago. Well of course, my father, along with several others, had found himself in the same theatre with Scotty. They spoke again, they shook hands once more, and then the movie started. They all watched the final story of the original crew, with one member of the original crew present of course, and when the end of the film came, the scene in which none other than Scotty himself saves the day by shooting the Klingon sharpshooter that intends to kill the president of the Federation, the whole theatre crowd erupted in cheers. Every person in the theatre cheered on old Montgomery Scott; they clapped, and yelled, and patted old Scotty on the back, my father included.

And that, is how I will always remember James Doohan.

And speaking of dead heroes, I realize that the link on my post for Frank Gorshin didn’t work for most of you. Well, I assure you that the link is indeed there. Yahoo just isn’t that fond of the concept of MP3 sharing. But there is a glitch; a way of getting around things. When you click the link, Yahoo will quickly redirect you to http://us.share.geocities.com/theeverlovingvirginprince/theriddler.mp3 but all you have to do is delete the “us.share.” part of the address and enter it again. When you’re done the address should read http://geocities.com/theeverlovingvirginprince/theriddler.mp3 and I assure you, the MP3 will load. I really do recommend that you all check it out, it’s a quite tasteful and swinging number written by Mel Torme, and excellently performed by no less than Frank Gorshin himself and what must have been quite a cute selection of 60’s female backup singers. Download the damn thing; your life will be better for it.

To go off on a tangent, do you know what I miss? I miss chasing fireflies on those warm Kansas nights, as I did when I was young. We’d go running around in the fields with our glass jars, trying to scoop them up. I haven’t seen a firefly in years, but my, I’ve never forgotten how magical those nights were. Those bygone, halcyon days.

And speaking of html errors, I should probably mention that the site I was using for my email has pooped out. Gone bankrupt most likely. No longer can I be reached at TheVirginPrince@For-President.com. If you’ve written me there within the past three months, I’ve probably not received it, and most likely never will. However, I can be reached at either TheVirginPrince@sanbrunocable.com or TheVirginPrince@hotmail.com. Both email addresses are new, and lack the flair of the old one, but they seem to receive mail. Give me time, I’ll find another with style.

There’s much which I could write of; much that I won’t write of, but there is one thing that’s been on my mind quite a bit these past few weeks. There simply aren’t a lot of gentlemen around these days. It’s me and Jonathan Richman and that’s about it. With all the socializing and partying down I’ve been doing in the past month or two, I’ve really become quite the scholar of human nature, observing the actions and activities of all around me. I realize now that there’s quite a bit of depravity in the world, almost to the extent that it seems to outweigh the morality. But I know that isn’t true, that can’t be true, for without decency, what point is there in anything?

Me, I’m a dreamer, an idealist (when not a dandy and an absurdist), though this really matters very little. I’d rather be a pure-hearted dreamer than a superficial capitalist any day. But what I believe in, the very concepts I hold so dear to me; so high in importance, are the very basic concepts of human decency and human dignity. Everyone is a person. Every person has hopes and dreams, beliefs and ideals, and most importantly, everyone has feelings. No one likes getting hurt. Oh sure, there are a handful of people out there that are truly at their happiest when they are unhappy; I’ve known and dated a few of them, but truly, no one enjoys being hurt. I’m very mindful of this fact, and so have made a point to always be as courteous, considerate, friendly, and generally agreeable as possible. Our lives our short; there’s barely enough time for any of us to have fun and love life and so why should I want to be one of the ones to ruin the whole experience for someone else?

What inspired me to think so much and so in depth about such things was largely the friendship I have with my pal Jameson from work. We hit it off instantaneously upon meeting, sharing a love for Irish whiskey and the old, good punk rock. A week or two into my new job he was insisting that I come hang out with him at his band’s studio, and of course, I was more than cheerful to. I grabbed my bottle of Bushmills from the freezer and headed off to meet him and have consistently hung out with him ever since.

But even with that first meeting, perhaps that was where the problems started.

I ended up meeting my pal at his friends’ house, which was only a scant few blocks from the studio we had initially planned on hanging out at. I was greeted by Jameson and his buddy, another Irishman, and we all instantly hit it off, listening to 50’s rock and passing the bottle of Bushmills around. Running around the house were also a few girls, whom we all quickly found ourselves hanging out with, though I must say I didn’t mind the company. Quickly, Jameson’s buddy ran off to his room with one of the girls, then Jameson and myself found ourselves in one of the other girl’s rooms with the two remaining gals. At this point I was hanging out with a bunch of strangers, thoroughly enjoying myself and appreciating the company of others.

But nearly as quickly as we had entered the room, Jameson and the girl’s friend had headed off to the bathroom to do decidedly unspeakable things together. I didn’t mind all that much, as it left me romancing the sole remaining gal, a half-Irish lass of most comely looks and quite adept in fun conversation. We spent hours in the room talking, or on the roof together laughing and chatting and gazing at the moon; it was a most enjoyable experience. We knocked back drinks and she played me Japanese music (including a quite cool cover of Lucy and the Sky with Diamonds) and we discussed Irish matters and just about everything else. It was quite the romantic evening… that is until Jameson and his buddy from the bathtub returned from their fornication and the evening was effectively ended.

Nevertheless, I am a gentleman, and that evening I was a gentleman, while my newfound friend had both engaged in a cheap encounter and committed an act of infidelity, all in the very first time we had ever hung out. The next morning at work, which was really only a scant few hours later, he told me that the activities of the previous evening had never happened, and I readily agreed, knowing full-well the very basic duties of those possessing the friendship-privilege; loyalty and silence being key among the requirements. I had no ethical problem in doing such, knowing that his girlfriend had recently publicly beat him up in front of all our coworkers during the company picnic (which I had missed, due to being up north for my grandfather’s funeral), and figuring that he probably still had some anger issues to work out with her, and rightfully so. Not to mention that he had told me that what he had done was a freak occurrence, and so I felt okay, confident that it would not happen again.

But it did happen again, and again, and again, and a doubting sensation began to fill my mind. He would soon break up with her, I told myself, and surely their relationship was already over, truly, and I need not feel bothered. But then the next step came; I had to meet her.

She was pleasant, and friendly, and generous to me, and I had a hard time seeing her as the crazy, abusive, mean-spirited girlfriend I had heard she was. The person I was chatting with seemed legitimately nice and sweet towards me and in general and I very much lacked any feelings of maliciousness on her part. What was worse was the fact that Jameson and her seemed to be acting like quite the happy couple, with Jameson acting quite guilt-free and as if nothing had ever happened. Furthermore, they seemed as though their relationship had no friction whatsoever, and that what they had might very well continue for years to come. My conscience started to weigh on me, knowing I was still too far uninvolved and knew too little to rightfully say anything, yet at this point almost wanting to say something to this girl who had been so legitimately kind with me even though I knew that friends don’t snitch on their buddies.

Jameson continued onward, a random girl here, a random girl there, and just as my conscience and sanity were beginning to break and bend, he officially broke up with his girlfriend. My soul breathed a sigh of relief; finally all that moral trouble and ethical confusion was over.

It was then that he started engaging in semi-relationships and very physical activities with my coworkers.

Now let me just say at this point that what I realize is that one of the main sicknesses of the human race is that many males often don’t see women as people such as themselves, and a good majority of females view men in the same way. It’s sad really, that people on both sides of the fence are so shallow and can’t see us all for the hopers, dreamers, believers, and feelers that we are. But I care. I care very much. Every woman is my equal; I won’t lie, beg, or force myself on anyone for the sake of some shallow physical gratification. Men and women alike are out there taking advantage of each other everyday, but I’ll have no part of it. I care about my fellow man (and in “man” I mean it in the most general sense; that pertaining to men AND women).

I have no respect for those that would use deceit to bed another. I have nothing but utter contempt for those that would try to force themselves upon another, and even further disgust for those that would label the victims of such callous assaults as “gay” or “dyke” for nothing more than walking away unsullied and untouched, dignity intact. What I think for the pedophiles of the world should be quite clear. I quite simply detest those that would take advantage of another and/or hurt another (mentally, emotionally, or physically) for the sake of their own selfish physical gratification.

On a tangent, I notice that there’s been a quite disturbing increase in the recent occurrences of female teachers taking sexual advantage of their male students. What I find more disturbing is the fact that most people don’t seem to care. Oh, how very much people would stop to think about this if the ages and genders were reversed. Oh, there’d be lynchings then. It’s not right either way.

To get back to my pal Jameson, and how his activities have bothered me, I should mention that he seemingly had the makings of a relationship going with one of my coworkers, a cute and friendly lass of only 19 years of age. They initially shared a drunken, lusty sexual encounter with each other in the men’s restroom of the recording studio while the rest of us all waited and hung out within the band’s room; all of us knowing exactly what was taking place. This grew into two encounters, then three, and while I was slightly bothered at the thought of my buddy taking advantage of yet another female, I quickly found myself relieved to find that they actually seemed to be growing into a nice relationship, complete with public displays of affection. I’d had the inclination to take Jameson aside and privately warn him not to hurt my other pal, but it soon seemed unnecessary. They were hanging out at every chance, making little secret of their obvious affection, and they two, alongside myself and Mighty Mike, another coworker of ours, were putting together songs every night at the studio. Oh, how times were good.

But suddenly Jameson decided he wanted his ex-girlfriend back, and so he left my pal from work in the dust. Despite the countless sexual encounters he’d had in the meantime, he suddenly wished to resume things with his ex. And so, they were a couple once more, while my female pal from work was barred from being able to hang out with him any further and effectively exiled from group after-work activities. And all this for nothing less than the fact that she’d liked him. Such a price to be paid for youthful naiveté.

Needless to say, the events that have transpired have left me with a bad taste in my mouth and filled with a sense of disillusionment towards Jameson. And the guilt, the knowledge that I could have prevented this if I’d just said something. But I don’t get to talk.

Because friends don’t snitch on friends. Gentlemen don’t gossip or meddle in the affairs of others. Nice guys are cursed with the burden of silence. Oh, and what a weight. What a burden to bear. It’s not quite a sword dangling by string overhead, and yet I would recommend this condition to no one.

So let me warn you all of the burden of the gentleman; let me caution you of the troubles of the nice guy. Everyone trusts the nice guy with the secrets they wish no one to hear. Everyone feels free to burden the gentleman with the information that even he himself doesn’t wish to know. Because they know the gentleman will never speak. They know the gentleman is bound by a code of honor and loyalty; that he is prevented from speaking out due to his own innate sense of ethics. Let me tell you that sometimes being a gentleman sucks.

Oh I know so many things. I know such terrible, awful things; things to tax the spirit and ail the mind. I know things that would rip friendships apart, and others still that would cause rifts amongst the very core of my friends were I only to part my lips. I know things that would leave some shunned as pariahs, and other things that would merely leave the more bastardly of my acquaintances severely embarrassed, if only I could speak.

What’s worse, many of those I’ve protected aren’t, and haven’t been, particularly shining examples of humanity. Some have been virtual strangers; those that I’ve known or later discovered to be liars, users, and lascivians. Others have been privileged friends, those that I’d blessed with all my own personal secrets in my youthful and noble naiveté; friends who have later related all such secrets to all who would listen for the sake of my embarrassment or their own perverse enjoyment. Some of these prior mentioned friends still make a point of keeping the majority of their own secrets private from me, not because I’ve ever given them reason to doubt my loyalty or my ability to keep a secret, but moreso because they know of their own character and readily assume that all others would likewise delight in blowing a privileged, sacred secret just as quickly. In some cases they maintain their secrets simply because their secrets are simply to awful to mention; too depraved to want to give admission to.

In the case of the latter, these are often the friends I wish the very most that I could speak out about. Those that have callously thrown loyalty aside and dismissed the importance of the bonds and duties of friendship. Those that have delighted in exposing every bit of privileged information I’ve ever given them about myself. Not that I’ve ever had a secret so bad that I was filled with an inner shame or lack of respect for myself, and I think this is where we differ. My friends have. My friends that have committed the most deceitful, lascivious, inhuman, ungentlemanly, and immoral acts are always the first to speak. Upon reflection, I assume it’s because when one knows they’re truly as low as they are, that the only thing that could make such a tainted soul feel better would be to see the others around them made to be a little tarnished as well. But I’ve never been one for Freudian excuses, knowing fully-well that everyone has a rough life to some degree, myself included to a few degrees more than I’d like, and if I can put up with all the abuses, the torments, and the unpleasant aspects of life as well as I have and not take it out on the others around me, you’d better expect that I expect the very same from everyone else.

But these ungrateful knaves, these deceitful, traitorous squealers, oh, how I’d love to expose them for the frauds and scum that they are. How quickly they would go from being amongst the most beloved of our pack to being the most reviled lepers that any one of us knew. Oh, how I would love to wag my tongue and see these bastards truthfully exposed as the lascivians they are. And I would delight in seeing these wretched creatures turned into the scorned and shunned pariahs they’ve many times tried and failed to make of me. For it would be deserved. But I can’t.

I am, have always been, and so shall always remain a gentleman. My code of silence is all-important, even when it is the unworthy and undeserving that remain benefited from such. For despite the angry screams of my spite calling out from inside, I have one thing greater: self respect. Many out there don’t know what it feels like, indeed, some reading this page may lack the sensation. But let me tell you, it truly is a good sensation to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and like yourself. There is no better feeling than to wake up every morning and feel not only a complete lack of shame, but better still, an extreme, almost pompous and arrogant sense of pride in being who you are, and knowing you have absolutely no regrets about your moral character or being the person that you are. There is nothing truer or more to the point than to say simply, “IT IS GOOD”.

I don’t think I’ve ever ruined anyone’s day. I’ve never in my life had an enemy, with the exception of one individual who made it a point to be my enemy within the last few years (I did try to defuse the situation, but he was determined; in retrospect, I’ve always been bitter about the fact that my perfect record of having no enemies was shattered.) Though the situation has presented itself to me multiple times, I’ve never become physical with an intoxicated female (one of my ex-girlfriends being excluded, being that she never existed in a state of sobriety). Yes, I have a sense of pride in my character. I like myself. I thank DC Comics for all those hokey lessons of morality over the years; they’ve stuck.

No, there’s not a lot of gentlemen in the world. Just me and Jonathan Richman. I no longer simply just enjoy his music for being the fun escape that it presents. I understand the deeper meanings now. I’m Straight? I got it. Back In Your Life? Amen brother! Vampire Girl? Oh, I know this one all too well. She Cracked? I don’t need to hear it, I LIVED it.

I’m off to listen to Johnny Cash. Personal Jesus baby!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince