The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

My ravenous rubbish receptacles,

Ah, never, it seems, do I have a chance to write anymore. Even when I'm not fiercely busy or over-exhausted from the constant hours spent at my job; even though I've curtailed the amount of time I spend carousing with the guys, I find that I'm instead finding all my free-time sucked up into romantic evenings or other such pursuits with my lady-love. And though I seem as thoroughly busy and entertained as ever, I've also been making a point to find some private time for myself. This private time has been useless for writing however, as the consistent presence of visiting family has kept me from furiously tapping at the keyboard in the late evening hours in which I would normally choose to do so.

But here I am now, with pencil and paper, using the tools with which I am most familiar, and the tools with which I once claimed preference back when I first discovered the passion I felt, and also, the direction in which that passion would take me. Here I am, whiling away the hours in anticipation of when my mates and I shall once more be sneaking onto the grounds of the Rosicrucian Egyptian museum, hours past midnight, where we'll enjoy the ambience and architecture, avoid the cops, and be keeping our eyes open for moving shadows. It would be safe to say that none of us particularly want to run into any of the hooded members of the secret society of Rosicrucians either.

The first time we ever made our trek to the grounds of the Rosicrucian after dark, I'd been with two of my pals from work, they being Mighty Mike and Dancing Dan, whom I often simply refer to as "Däns". It was the evening of Mighty Mike's birthday, he having reached a man's age, the fine, yet cursed age of 21, and I had offered to take him to The Four Provinces to buy him a shot of Middleton's, though this plan was scrapped in favor of an evening of debauchery in Däns' headquarters. After a few games of cards, several loving chugs from a bottle of Bushmills, and many, many bottles of ales and lagers, the Rosicrucian came up in conversation.

Of course, there was talk of this mysterious secret society that had supposedly existed from the time before Jesus, then later found themselves caught up entirely within his mythos. The tales are many, and amongst these, the three of us only knew a handful; there were whispers of a Christ-child descendent, though the best remembered legend amongst us was that of the Rosicrucians' love for poison-tipped darts. But we cared naught for this; we just wanted to see some Egyptian artifacts.

So off we gentlemen three ventured, I, with a cigarette clenched between my teeth, and the three of us with beer in hand. As distant headlights approached we ran across the street into the dark comfort of the Rosicrucian. There, we were greeted by trees and plants not native to our land; we walked amongst obelisks and pairs of sphinxes, and all too quickly, the glare of searchlights was upon us. Busted.

Mayhaps we should have paid more attention to the sound of the police helicopters (“ghetto-birds” as Däns called them) outside Däns’ abode, and the spotlights which shone down upon the shuttered windows as we sat inside drinking beer and playing cards. Perhaps we shouldn’t have as quickly forgotten of the copters as they flew away and the sounds of spinning rotor-blades faded away into nothingness. Possibly, we simply shouldn’t have gone out at 4:00 in the morning. Regardless, it was not hooded cultists which found us, nor was it poisoned darts. Nay, it was six police cars and countless officers which encircled and surrounded us.

We had unwittingly walked into the middle of a large-scale police manhunt. Being that we were the only three young males wandering the streets at this ungodly hour, we also quickly had become suspects. Being that the three of us are law-abiding, and Caucasian, we simply walked towards the constables to explain ourselves. There was no point in acting suspicious when we’d really done nothing wrong (aside from trespassing on the museum grounds after dark), and besides, the police in San Jose are notorious for shooting fleeing civilians, particularly innocent ones.

And so on the eve of Mike’s birthday, we spent 30 minutes on a curb being questioned, having our identification checked and verified, being nearly set up and implicated as the prime suspects of a crime we hadn’t committed, and experiencing a text-book case of “good coop, bad cop” (though our variation was “good coop, bad cop, silent cop, and at least three other cops watching us from out of sight”). We stayed calm and cool through the questioning, stuck to our story, tried not to feel the effects of the spirits and narcotics we’d consumed, and did our best to cooperate. When we finally were released, the three of us absent-mindedly jaywalked across the street back to Däns’ place, happy to be free and unsullied, and slightly stirred by the night’s events.

“Good job crossing the street on a red light in front of three parked police cars boys!” one of the officers called to us. We nervously chuckled and kept on until we were inside.

A week or more later, we did, however, make it onto the grounds of the Rosicrucian. Quietly, stealthily, we once more crossed the street, passed through the gate, and entered the garden. Once more we marveled at the sphinxes and the tall obelisk which stood before us. And this time, there were no policemen to stop us. We wandered forth, in the darkness, past the trees and shrubbery, quietly along the stone path that led to the fountain. Speaking in hushed tones we sat on the steps leading to the fountain and gazed and wondered at the magnificent architecture before us, the strange characters etched in stone upon the fountain’s central sculpture, and skulked, bathed in the red light that surrounded us and danced upon the water’s surface.

Upon fully absorbing the glorious, yet eerie ambience around us, we moved on, quietly, covertly, past the museum’s lit windows, to where the outdoor temple stood on the grounds. Däns opened the gates to within and we quickly walked along the stone path, sticking to the shadows, and taking refuge within the temple walls. We sat inside, quietly speaking, until my two chums started worriedly chattering about movement they’d seen inside one of the windows. I myself looked upon the window to investigate, but saw nothing, not a stirring whatsoever. At this point, neither did my pals, though they were both quite vehement in insisting they’d seen what they had: a movement, though of what, they didn’t know.

My allies later told me of something they referred to as “the manimal”, a creature which they both swore they had seen in the past, and that they maintained was native to the San Diego area. A small, cat-like creature, covered in white fur but with a human face. Though I joked with my chums about this, there was no levity present when they spoke of the subject.

With my allies notably shaken, we departed from the grounds of the Rosicrucian into other nearby streets. There was a tangible tension in the air, as the general area had an unnerving quietness and stillness, and we knew that there were at least two crazy-houses in the immediate vicinity, both filled to the brim with the psychologically unbalanced. We walked along an ebon and silent street, bizarre in its own way as it was dotted with houses that looked to be straight from Grimm’s fairy tales, on our way to a darkened park. This time we saw a police-car lying in wait and avoided it, continuing onward to where the fences and gates reached their lowest heights, planning on entering as well these closed-off grounds. A multitude of sleeping homeless lying inside discouraged us however, and so we returned to the comfort of Dancing Dan’s lair, planning to return once more on a later date.

Since then there’s been numerous adventures, and I’ve not even mentioned the brush with grave danger I experienced when I encountered two gang-affiliated thugs on a dark, dirt path not two blocks from my home. My wit and my silver tongue brought me safely home and unscathed on that dark and unnerving night, though the bottle of Jägermeister in my possession did not survive to see morning. Oh, such experiences and exploits I’ve endured and encountered, that I can not think to remember them all. Adventure surrounds me and it is a good life; a fun life.

Oh, I’ve been busy. But as busy as I am with adventure, I know the other, true reason why I’m scarcely around and rarely have time to write. I’m in love. Joyously and happily in love once more. Finally, (and it’s been a matter of great importance for this gentleman) I have found a lady. A true lady. I have long since washed my hands of the virtue-less and characterless women of times past. I’ll not waste or spend my time with any strumpets, wenches, trollops, harlots, and certainly no harridans. I may have once (accidentally) often found myself in their company, but I’ve since learned my lesson, and I now know what to look out for. Nay, I have found myself a lady, and the prize is that much greater for it.

It should be no great surprise to my friends that The Magnificent M and I are now officially a couple. Many of my pals have met her and none have had complaints, though I’ve found that many have had compliments to dish out. I do appreciate her company.

We did briefly try for a stint as “boyfriend and girlfriend” but by two weeks time realized that neither of us was really quite ready for it. She is still healing from her experiences with her last lad-love, and I regretfully discovered that I am still recovering from the deep scars left by my last major lady-love. Yes, she wounded me deeply; yet I haven’t given up completely, and I look forward to the day where I can trust and love fully and deeply once more, without fear, without prejudice, without anger towards the “fairer” gender which has treated me so wrongly in the past.

My lady-friend and I have become just that, man and lady-friend, both of us taking our time to heal and learning to love one another fully once more. In the the meantime there is much fun, much sweetness, much romance, and many, many blessed feelings.

I would be remiss in my duty towards you all were I not to mention the passing of Bob Denver, television’s great Gilligan. Well, most of the world knows him as Gilligan, and I suppose rightly so, as he performed greatly in that capacity, but when I think of him, I will always recall of the role of Maynard G. Krebs. Back when Bob Denver sported a goatee he truly shined in the role of a work-shunning beatnik. Man, he was cool. Every episode poor old Dobie Gillis sat in imitation of Rodin’s The Thinker and proceeded to tell the story of how he once again got screwed out of finding true romance with this episode’s love interest. The show could have been quite depressing if not for Maynard G. Krebs, beatnik extraordinaire! There was Bob Denver, saving the day, banging on bongo drums and acting like the king of cool. Masterful work indeed!

Which isn’t to say I don’t have an appreciation for old Gilligan. I’ve always been particularly fond of the Shakespeare and Jack and the Beanstalk episodes. Rest well Bob Denver, you’ve earned it. Do give my regards to Alan Hale and Jim Backus.

Maybe next time I can give proper tribute to Don Addams, we’ll see.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince