The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

No-name nihilists,

I know what you’re all asking yourselves, “is that Gomez Addams? What’s he doing here?”

Nope. It’s just me. I AM a master of disguise after all. Here’s a shot of me in my costume from Halloween, taken and saved here for posterity. It would seem all the pictures taken of me during All Hallow’s Eve have either gone missing, or been destroyed. Though this certainly wouldn’t be the first time that all photographic evidence of The Virgin Prince has been erased, I find that this time I am quite dismayed by the prospect of not being able to gaze at my gorgeous mug, especially when dressed so spectacularly.

There’s two things wrong with this picture: one, my hair is a bit too long (my perfect John Astin haircut only stayed perfect for about a week), and two, you can barely see the sheer magnificence of my suit (you have to blow-up the picture about 400% and then stare very closely at the screen just to make out the pinstripes). It’s not really a fair representation of just how good I looked on ol’ Samhain, but it’ll do for you, my lowly audience. And I do hope you appreciate this; I had to trim down the old sideburns-cosmic for the shot, and they’d finally just grown back in. I do love the old sideburns, and always have, ever since I first had them grafted onto my skull, courtesy of a spittle-spraying werewolf donor during a bit of Elvis-inspired madness. Ah, it was a fine year when I was twelve.

With the passing of today, it’s been more than a week sober for me, and things are going swimmingly. Tomorrow is Yankee Thanksgiving and I’m looking forward to watching I Walk the Line, having watched Johnny Cash: Live At San Quentin last night. Listen, I’m not going to bother giving you guys sobriety updates. It’s boring, and it’s the type of crap you’d expect from anyone else’s mediocre blog. Things are going well and that’s all you really need to know. Unless you hear otherwise, I’m still dry. But I’ll tell you what; if I slip up I’ll be sure to let you know.

I woke up today feeling like a monkey had been jumping on my back all night long, which is only half-true; my life has calmed down quite a bit since ditching the bottle. The power had gone out in the night while I’d been sleeping, so I’d had a late start out the door. I showed up at work in my suit of emerald, and my clover and lime-colored Hawaiian shirt, which seems to be a new popular favorite at my job. Ol’ Finnegan was back, and my mates were happy to see him.

It’s funny how quickly I’ve settled into this new identity, responding to my new name instantaneously and almost forgetting the old one. The multitude of nicknames I now have, relating to the nickname I already have, completely astound me. Finnegan, Finny, Finn, Finlaggen, Finn Diesel, Fin Job, Finny-Finn-Fin, Finnegan (Fuck Yeah!!), Finnster, Finny Cent, and L.L. Finn J., just to name the common ones I can recall.

It’s strange settling into a new identity, going from a well-liked member of a crowd to suddenly being Mr. Popularity, a sort of mascot at my place of employment. It’s a nice thing getting all the smiles I get. Now there’s a ton of new-hires, and I’m starting to notice more and more with every day that there’s a lot of cute girls that I work with. It’s getting harder and harder to stick with the gentleman-thing with every minute. This’ll be a rough thing indeed.

I’m counting down the days until my Brian Dewan CD arrives; it’ll be a nice change from all dead animals and severed limbs I generally get shoved in my mailbox. Funny how the relatives in Kansas never really know what to get you for your birthday. I’m still trying to figure out which Gilbert & Sullivan performances I want to get; certainly something by the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company, but some performances are better than others, so figuring out the year and cast is of some importance. I suppose I’ll have to figure this one out before Christmas.

I’m a bit obsessed with music of late, having pried my brain free from the luring, steel-grip of television. Having already chucked the bottle, I suppose I figured I might as well throw in the television with it. I’d get my brain really freed-up, firing at full-force, and brimming with ideas. Nothing like a bit of pirate music to inspire the spirit.

I wanted to write a bunch more but I’m pretty tired right now and should probably head off. I barely slept at all last night, having stayed up late admiring my own portrait. My dreams are getting weirder and weirder, not the four-color, pulp-filled romps they used to be. Nevertheless, it’s time to join Nemo in slumberland. Here’s hoping Adam West visits me this time around.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Chomping and chundering chums,

I assure you, that’s a sarsaparilla in my hand.

Well here we are, whiling away the last hours of day four of my newfound sobriety. I must say, this is going much easier than I thought it would. If there’s been at all any negative side-effects in this newfound path I’ve chosen, it seems so far that my only inconvenience is a persistent and demanding sweet-tooth that has made itself known in the absence of my sweet, sweet Irish whiskey. Still, though I had kicked soda in years past, I must say a rootbeer or two is probably preferable to six beers or several glasses of whiskey. Not that I wouldn’t prefer to be back on water only.

Things are going swimmingly. I’m noticing subtle health and personality differences since I’ve stopped drinking, and my energy level is up considerably. Waking up, even on minimal sleep, is no longer difficult. I’m even MORE flirtatious with the girls at work now (if that’s possible), and the smile which I possess, my jubilant spirit, and positive attitude towards life seem to have stretched, grown, and increased, respectively. Hot damn, I’m hopping, jumping, and singing. I’m skipping to and fro; I’m a veritable Pandora’s Box of positive emotions, and damn if I’m not lusty too.

There’s something to be said for waking up absent of four shaven monkeys gnawing on your skull. Four ANGRY monkeys, covered in Band-Aids and cheap women’s makeup, for whom electric-shock had done very little to relieve their senses of hostility. I used to swat them away and go to work rubbing my eyes, smelling of monkey droppings, but no more! Ah, this Virgin Prince is golden now, unsullied and untouchable. How radiant the sun, how much easier my eyes adjust to the daylight. I’m transitioning into a day-walker.

Things are good. I’ve finally gotten back my Shatner albums, my DEVO debut album, my Panjabi MC Japanese import, and my Sifl & Olly soundtrack. In addition to all this musical bliss which I am re-experiencing, I’ve also recently come into possession of a couple of very well-made Tim Curry bootleg CDs. I’ve got all my favorite songs! I Do the Rock! Professional Pirate! Paradise Garage! The Ballad of Davey Crocket! Hide This Face! The Zucchini Song! Charge It! Oh, times are good and my ears are buzzing. To top this all off, I have a Brian Dewan album on the way.

I don’t quite know why, but the weather has been gorgeous outside. Bright sunny days polka-dotted with random groupings of beautiful women. Strange that this should happen so quickly after our rainy season had briefly started, but I have no complaints. You know, California… it ain’t bad. Especially here.

Hate to be so brief, but I should probably get going. There are showers to be had, a full day’s work to prepare for, ladies that will need wooing, and I really need to get to doing some research on the works of Gilbert & Sullivan. I’ve a mad craving for some Pirates of Penzance. I’ll be back later, dressed in rubber and ready to crawl inside your skulls. Be good out there.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Leering lechers,

I woke up today sharp and fresh, full of energy and vigor, and without the faintest hint of weariness, as if my very nose-hairs had been plucked out by a goateed Mexican devil. Up I jumped from the couch, dressed in my Sunday best on no less than a Friday, with a grin on my face and ready to face the world. The nip of Irish whiskey I’d had the night before had left a psychotic grin plastered on my face as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, and the act of finishing my leftovers (for as we all know, baby Jesus cries when booze is wasted) only served to widen the smile left apparent on my countenance. I’d awoken to the sound of the phone ringing, and one of my bosses speaking through the answering machine, he, asking for old “Finnegan” to come in to work early. I promptly called him back and told him I’d be there in no more than a minute after he needed me.

I’d slept well over the night, having a good rest and somewhere along the way dreaming of banging Dolly Parton, which I’ve only just recently recalled. I’d been exhausted and gone to bed early the night before due to exhaustion caused by tremendous partying and over-carousing. On Wednesday, Wednesday being my day off, I’d awoken at the residence of The Magnificent M after a night of more of the same, fun and filth and frivolity, mixed with a bit of artistic experimentation. We readied ourselves and dressed and then I walked her to her class, kissed her goodbye, and then headed off on my own towards home. I had things to do. It was time for a haircut and a pair of new shoes. I straightened my green derby, gave a cigarette to a parked mooch, and was off.

I made it home, threw my derby on the table, hung my coat over a chair, and got to the business of preparing food for myself. While I waited for the oven to finish preheating, I happened, by chance, to end up talking to friend I hadn’t spoken to in months. The experience was quite refreshing and illuminating; she’s a porn star now. It never ceases to amaze me how time changes things.

After some pizza and a hop in the shower, I was out the door, with nary a cigarette to my name. A problem soon rectified. I read Watchmen on my way down the road; all the newspapers had run out again. I figure we all need a little Rorschach every now and then anyway. My bladder had started to complain verbally towards me regarding the bottles of Mackeson’s I hade drank prior to leaving the house so I made a short stop at my place of employment before heading off to the barber.

It’s always fun stopping at work on my days off, showing up in my real clothes instead of my work clothes and seeing all the girls swoon over me and my buddies all complimenting me and giving me high fives. This time even the second-in-command couldn’t keep her mouth shut, though I’ve always kinda suspected that she likes me anyway. As bosses go, she’s not bad-looking, and I’ll admit I’ve briefly considered cheapening myself for a bit of guaranteed hefty raises and that “Mrs. Robinson” experience. That aside, my friends invited me to party at a coworker’s house that evening.

But anyway, after emptying the contents of my bladder, and what remains of my liver, I was off to the barber shop. It was late, and I wasn’t sure what I’d find still open, but after scouting around a bit and passing the two local Irish pubs twice I found a place. Inside, a lone Chinese man sat bored at a table.

I waved at him as I entered the establishment, and he seemed surprised at having the company. After a bit of quick discussion regarding haircuts and prices, he sat me down in a barber’s chair and I loosened my tie and collar in order to make his job that much easier. I pulled the picture of Gomez Addams out from my bag and told him, “I’d like my hair to look like this” I, curious as to whether he even knew who that was. After half a minute he laughed and said okay, then thumbed through a book filled with pictures of Chinese boys with different haircuts.

“Is this okay?” he asked as he pointed to the picture of the Chinese boy with hair-cut closest to the one belonging to Gomez Addams.

“Uh, okay. Sure.” I said as I waited to see what he was going to do.

Over the next 30 minutes, what he did was pure artistry. Between his talent and dedication, and the fact that there was no one waiting in line behind me, he took his time and went back and forth, over and over, making sure that absolutely every stray hair was in place. He trimmed down my cosmic-powered sideburns to level far more respectable than I’d known in a long time, then cut the hair around ears to a comfortable perfection, and finally trimmed the back of my head far, far away from the dangerous lands of Mulletville. When we were done I didn’t simply have the hair of Gomez Addams; I WAS Gomez Addams.

I tipped the man $3, not knowing exactly how much to tip a barber, and he graciously accepted, possibly not being used to being tipped so well. I’m not quite sure. I grabbed my picture of the great John Astin as I headed out the door and headed back to work (and urinary relief) once more, past the two beckoning Irish pubs and once more into the loving arms and unadulterated flattery of my coworkers. Once more I was invited by another to come party down. Once more I headed off.

The shoe store was a bit more confusing. I was lost amongst Captain Kirk-boots and Ziggy Stardust-footwear, and even a gorgeous pair of brown boots set to be the envy of any rugged, grizzled mountain-man. I looked and looked and tried and tried, and determined that the size of my feet seems to be ever shifting. And then I came upon the holy grail of footwear, a pair of the shiniest, blackest, coolest, and most dapper shoes you have ever seen. I squeezed my toes into those suckers and off I went.

Stopping at home to eat and get fully spiffed-up, I had time to make a phone call or two before heading out the door once more. I arrived at my place of work once more, now dressed in my Riddler finery, despite my Gomez Addams haircut. Actually, this makes a bit a sense as John Astin briefly substituted for Frank Gorshin in the role of the Riddler. Ah, you learn something new everyday, don’t you? Regardless, none of this matters, sometimes a man simply wishes to look razzle-dazzle in a suit of green and purple. The Castle certainly understood that, back when we used to endure those hopped-up, half-mad, vice-fueled, late-night screenings of Spice World.

Ah, clover and violet never steers me wrong.

My friends and I headed off from our place of employment, the stench of burnt rubber apparent as we sped out of the parking lot in a hurry, only to end up taking a ten-minute break at the gas station a block away. My chums had bumped into some rather shady-seeming characters they knew, and were chatting it up, and further compounding the problem of the delay, old Jameson was being stingy with his money again, forcing his girlfriend to have to search herself for funds. I, meanwhile, though anxious to get going and partay-down, was also quite placated by the knowledge of the fact that I would soon be rocking out with my friends, and knocking back shots of whiskey into the wee hours of the night with the only girl I know that can dance toe to toe with me. I sat excitedly, with a cigarette dangling from my lip, a bottle of Bushmills in my bag, a selection of my finest music to my side ranging from Fats Domino (he survived Katrina, yay!) to White Zombie Remixes, to my European import of Trans, to my collection from Rodney Bingenheimer, all the way down to the old standby DEVO album, masterfully graced with the track Snowball. Meanwhile, Jameson’s little Shih-Tzu hopped all over my crotch and acted cute as he contorted his body into fitting into different random spaces within the car.

We finally headed off, my irritated Filipino sidekick and I smoking like chimneys as we crossed the bridge, he casually bumming my cigarettes, and meanwhile dominating what music was being played in the car. Not that I have a problem with Green Day; I think they’re a great punk band, and their willingness to get controversially political during the lead-up to the last election only embiggened my appreciation for them (I assure you, embiggened is a perfectly cromulent word). It’s just that I hate when Green Day does those sappy ballads and just about anything that isn’t punk. I’ve never understood why Time of Your Life got so big; I thought Billy’s voice sounded terrible, and I cringed every time I heard it. I can respect and appreciate the message of Wake Me Up When September Ends, but I still don’t go in for that sappy “emo” sound. Green Day shines when they do hard punk: it’s just that simple. They should just write a song called Fuck You George Bush and go with it.

We finally arrived at our destination, tired but ready to party. Jameson, his girl Jester, Kato and I hopped out from the car, briefly strolling throughout the neighborhood, looking for house numbers. We quickly found the house and were greeted with hugs at the door, something which I graciously appreciated. We were led past passed-out roommates sleeping on couches, unplugged arcade machines, and a refrigerated keg-unit, out to the back yard, where there existed one of the nicest little covered hot-tub-shacks that I have ever known. We pulled out chairs and quickly got to business.

The Jewel and I were alternating shots of Bushmills and Jack Daniels, my favorite versus her favorite. Jameson quickly pussed out, he being of the mostly beer-drinking variety, and his lacking Mexican tastes being inclined mostly only towards Tequila (bleh!) as far as hard liquors go. Jester, his girlfriend, abstained from drinking altogether as she has a tendency to start beating up old Jameson when she’s inebriated. If only sarcasm could be read, I would ponder why. This left only my Filipino friend, who attempted to keep up with the Jewel and I, and quickly got into pointless ranting, endless monologues, and the sort of stupid things he tends to be known for saying when he gets drunk. This was unfortunate, as the Jewel’s boyfriend, the appropriately named “Pip” had finally joined us from his upstairs solitude and had sat through Kato’s ranting on what a hot girl the Jewel was. My Filipino friend was too quickly passed out on a floor, chair, or couch somewhere.

This left me, The Jewel, and Pip. My memories are a bit fuzzy from this point on. I think there may have been a disagreement or two between them over the next few hours, to which I would retreat inside and raid the Kegorater. I invariably ventured back outwards, as Pip would disappear for a few moments and The Jewel and I would knock back a few more shots of whiskey. The two of us would sit and chat, discuss our lust for life, and listen to whatever music we had upon us as each conversation ended, having already listened to the Addams Family soundtrack, Neil Young’s Trans, and a handful of Fats Domino classics early in the evening when our entire crew had been conscious.

And so the Jewel and I sat out there for hours more, occasionally interrupted by Pip, or a roommate, or a complaining neighbor, for while we weren’t being exceptionally loud, we were in a particularly low-key neighborhood. Pip would come out, and I’d fake going to sleep, then I’d go out and party some more with The Jewel again. This cycle continued endlessly throughout the hours, while The Jewel played old-time music for my benefit, lasting until sometime until after roughly 8 in the morning. I’d had my share of fun.

I passed out where there was free space and woke up again at about 12:00. With that, my mates and I thanked our hosts and were off, out the door, and back in the car. I was exhausted, though not hung-over, and was quite surprised that I was even able to keep my head up. But the four of us kept on, my three chums searching for an In-N-Out Burger, but missing the exit. As the familiar sign faded away into the distance I suddenly realized just how useful a bit of nutrition might have been.

My friends dropped me off in the heart of Oakland then sped off in pursuit of a skate-park they’d all been talking about since the night before. As for myself, I had to work, so I ducked into the entrance to a BART station and headed off on my way towards work. The trip took longer than I thought it would, and upon reaching my destination I found I had barely enough time to stop for a chicken sandwich and head back to work. But I made it to work, on-time and in ship-shape condition. Truly it can be said that I wore a hat, had a job, and brought home the bacon.

Ahem.

My apologies. A few days have passed since I started writing this. I had intended on getting back to it last night, but was fairly certain I heard a devil-hound prowling around outside my house and down my block. It couldn’t have been Cerberus, for I’m fairly certain I would have heard his chains dragging from a mile away had he escaped again. Regardless, I’m nearly positive I heard the devil-hound tear through a neighbor’s trashcan and then steal a car. This left me patrolling the rooftops of my neighborhood for the rest of the evening, hopping from shingle to shingle as the chthonian canine tore up and down my street in a stolen Camaro. I had no recourse but to watch and wait, biding my time until the gas ran out, or until a crusty old Knight-templar with a handlebar-mustache dispatched the beast, courtesy of a souped-up Bigfoot truck.

I suppose I’d better hurry in writing this, the rainy season has begun again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I lost power tonight. Earlier today I was outside smoking a cigarette when I found myself caught up in the thunder and lightning. The first flash came unexpectedly, lighting up the sky, with a loud bellow that followed after a very noticeable delay. The second flash, which followed a moment or two later, again came unexpectedly, but this time the roar which came with it made itself known inside a third of the time. “It’s getting close,” I realized. A moment or two later, there was a third flash, and the sound was instantaneous. The thunder struck with an ear-shattering loudness, and I knew instantaneously that the storm was directly upon me. The thunder had come with such an immediate speed, and such a crackling volume, that I once more knew the fear of the storm. A fear I hadn’t known since I was a boy. I quickly sucked off the end of the filter to my cigarette and headed back inside. Surely, Shazam himself must have been in the sky above me, perhaps glowering down upon me from his Rock of Eternity. Him, or that young steed of his, that damnable Captain Marvel. Oh, such a noise, such a noise like I had never heard.

Back to the story at hand…

A few days later it was time for Halloween (or Samhain, or All Hallow’s Eve or All Saints Day, depending on how you’re inclined.) I returned home from work and immediately got to the work of carving my jack o’ lantern. There was a fresh bottle of Bushmills in my bag, bought in preparation for the next night’s celebrations, though I had forgotten in my hurry to purchase another six-pack of pumpkin ale. But what could be more appropriate than a bottle of Irish whiskey for a Celtic holiday? Besides, the old pagans didn’t even have pumpkins. Pumpkins, as we know them today, are an American crop. They just had crummy old gourds.

Now let me make it clear: ever since I reached an age of (semi-) maturity, I’ve taken the business of carving jack o’ lanterns very seriously. Every year I carve me a great pumpkin, and every year it gets better. Long hallowed in the halls of greatness are my MST3K pumpkin (a pumpkin showcasing the main characters of the show Mystery Science Theatre 3000 in great detail, looking very much like a candle-lit shot of the show), the Crow pumpkin (which detailed the contours of Brandon Lee), and of course, the General Sherman Peniston Hex pumpkin.

The General Sherman Peniston Hex pumpkin was a special sort of pumpkin, a sort of patchwork piece of artistry formed with the Lusty Lascivian as my witness. The eyes and eyebrows were drawn from the Civil War officer General Sherman, cut out with complete detail, even catching those long wrinkled stress-lines caused by a man’s sense of duty to his troops, and etched in deep by the horrors of war. When I was done carving out the eyes of this jack o’ lantern, I hadn’t just copied the features of a civil war great: we had captured the very essence, the very soul of General Sherman. The mouth was a painfully etched detail of the mouth DC great Jonah Hex. And the nose… well, the nose was a penis.

In our bored and adolescent glee, I had carved the shape of a penis into the center of the pumpkin. The Lusty Lascivian and I laughed heartily about this; knowing few would catch the punchline of our in-joke. Regardless, my neighborhood gets a minimum of traffic on All Hallows Eve, so I’m sure that the scarring of childhood psyches was minimal.

But this year I was committed. I had been planning on using a watermelon (being that I am one of the most individual of individuals, it should make some sense that I strive to be unique) but my supplier of watermelons had run out in the mere weeks prior. Still, I would not be defeated. I would create the most unique and individual pumpkin there had ever been. It’s not hard to do so when you think so far outside of the norm as I do.

You have read Frankenstein right? Or at least seen the movie? One of the good ones? Come on, it’s a freaking classic! One of the best stories in modern literature! Mary Shelley, man! Mary Shelley! Get some culture in you goddammit!

Anyway, there I was, armed with a pumpkin and three different pieces of fruit, and absolutely committed to making something the likes of which the world had never seen. So there I was, up into the late hours of the night, making an altogether unholy creation. Frankenpumpkin. There I was, cutting out random pieces of fruit and vegetable, randomly sticking them back together, and stitching things together in an unnatural way. There I was with random cutting tools, several state-of-the-art knives (even finer than our German knives?), a reliable cutting board, a power-drill with several interchangeable bits, and several needles and thread.

Have you ever tried stitching together bits of flora? It’s nowhere near as easy as the simpleton’s job of stitching together random bits of flesh. It’s time consuming, and for all the hours you spend drilling and then sewing, you see little in the way of results. It should not be surprising that I stayed up until the sun rose and consequently overslept into the next day. At the very least, I cut a banana in half and then expertly scooped out the insides with a spoon, guaranteeing that the nose would light up as I slid it firmly into the hole left by the nose-cavity dug deep within the pumpkin.

I woke up, regretfully, sometime after 4:00 in the afternoon the next day. I immediately received a call from The Caroling Canuck, but wasn’t yet awake enough to properly respond. Amid my confusion, I put in a quick call to The Magnificent M, as I’d been planning on meeting her at her place at this time. The Magnificent M was, of course, on her way to the Caroling Canuck’s house and had little time for speaking to me. So of course, I finished carving out and assembling my pumpkin, then headed out by means of San Francisco’s public transport systems.

I should, I suppose, mention that when I was done in making my jack o’ lantern it was a patchwork monstrosity; a quilt-like horror. It was a stitched together mess of pumpkin, banana, honeydew, and cantaloupe. What I had created was an abomination to flora and fauna; a direct affront to man and God alike. Never have I been so proud.

Next year I might use animal parts.

Anyway, I looked dashing and clean-cut on the public transport systems of the San Francisco bay area, I, dressed in my finely tailored pinstripe suit and sporting a haircut the likes of which God has not seen. I sat with a bottle of Bushmills in my bag, swigging away when I gained the chance (something quite appropriate and encouraged while on San Francisco public transport, particularly when one doesn’t know precisely where one is going) and reading articles about ghost-hunters in a found newspaper, as well as my well-thumbed and well-worn copy of Watchmen. After jumping in and out of monorails, subway trains, and buses; bumping into many interesting characters along the way, I got off at my intended destination. From there, I had to find my way to the new lair of The Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck.

As I departed the car, the first group I bumped into was a bunch of worthless tourists. They pointed me in the wrong way, but I quickly found a drunken youth that pointed me in the correct direction. Every single comedian has a routine about how men don’t ask for directions, causing for a well-worn, unoriginal, and clichéd bit of bad comedy that hasn’t been funny for years. Bah! I asked directions, and found my way fairly quickly.

After a cigarette or two, I had arrived at the Caroling Canuck’s swanky San Francisco pad. I was greeted at the door by the Caroling Canuck, who was dressed in full Wonder Woman splendor. Her costume, though doubtlessly already great, had been further improved by the Magnificent M, a known fashion genius. I was greeted with a hug, then dashed inside, passing along the way the Magnificent M, who was seated on the Canuck’s bed. I headed towards the freezer and stowed my Bushmills, then said my hellos to Mister Mystere, who was dressed as David Copperfield (the classical figure of literature, not the supermodel-banging illusionist, whom has fallen into obscurity). I also introduced myself to the Canuck’s friend, The Tootherific Tiffany, who was tastefully dressed as a pregnant girl scout, complete with blacked-out teeth and black eye.

Within a few moments I had properly greeted the Magnificent M, who had proceeded to feed me the beer I had bought and left for her, finding it to be much too dark for her tastes. She was dressed as a cat, complete with a blue wig, calico spots, cat ears, a tail, short skirt, and fishnet stockings. Now I’ve felt many a thing over the years, be it lusty or romantic. But I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a female body as much as I wanted the Magnificent M that night. Not ever. Ever.

In no amount of time at all I found myself outside, the Caroling Canuck and the Magnificent M taking turns in spray-painting my hair black. Upon returning inside I quickly applied my mustache and found myself to be the living embodiment of Gomez Addams. What my dress and makeup didn’t cover, I had naturally, and in spades. I inherently had within me the blessed grin that John Astin is so known for. As far as my costume is concerned, I had it down. I quickly put on my Addams Family CD and cranked up the volume, feeling that I needed inspiration and mood-music, and quickly noticing how easily and readily all within earshot are sucked into the masterful works of Vic Mizzy. Mystere and I made good company; two figures out of place and out of time. Oh, and we looked a damn sight better than all around us.

The incidents of the night following are admittedly a bit of a blur to me; I hadn’t eaten all day, and the various beers and mixed drinks I’d been given quickly made their presence known, muddling my state of sobriety and befuddling my memory. Mr. Mystere had to leave early, much to my dismay, as the hourly requirements of his job called for his presence in a short while. The girls and I drank, took pictures, and then headed off.

We wandered down the streets of San Francisco, heading past other costumed do-gooders and ne’er-do-wells alike, towards the Castro District, which was cordoned off by the police and required entrance through a large gated fence, after we had each received police approval. From there we wandered into an impromptu rave that had been set up in the middle of the street for no apparent reason. The Tootherific Tiffany had picked that spot to wait for her friend to join us in our Halloween mischeiving, and so we got to boogying down.

The Caroling Canuck and the Magnificent M left us for a considerable while at this point, needing to find a relatively hidden place in which they could relieve the contents of their bloated bladders. Meanwhile the Tootherific Tiffany and myself continued dancing away. We danced and danced, amongst George W. Bush look-alikes, costumed freaks, and non-costumed posers. The quarters were tight, and people pushed past by us, left and right, some politely, others not so much. We danced until I’d grown sick of techno music and my feet were starting to communicate to me that my new shoes weren’t quite broken-in yet. We danced, and kept dancing, until finally the Caroling Canuck and the Magnificent M joined us once more. We headed off to the side of the crowd, somehow found Tiffany’s friend (who was similarly dressed in Tootherific fashion), and finally headed off to parts unknown; somewhere we hadn’t been yet, and not where we were.

My memories are fuzzy at this point: I think we headed back the way we came, past the crowds to take turns in a much desired and popular solitary porto-potty, then stopping into a crowded liquor store across the way for alcohol, juice, and cigarettes. We headed back out from the constable-patrolled fences, off to parts of San Francisco less crowded. Slowly (or quickly… I can’t recall) we headed off to Tiffany’s friend’s place, but upon reaching there, opted for the place of her next-door neighbor instead. There was a swinging party going on inside, and the neighbor more than graciously invited us inside to join in the festivities. Inside, we mixed more drinks, I relieved myself in the restroom, and then we headed off once more.

Outside, a treat was waiting for us. The Red Rightwing and The Mighty Swee-Jee-Juevo were waiting for us. Swee-Jee-Juevo was dressed as Charlie Manson (courtesy of a ratty old wig and little else) and the Rightwing wasn’t dressed at all. Sadly, I had missed once again seeing him in his David-Byrne-dressed absolute glory. But we of the well-dressed pack forgave those of more meager appearance and all smoked cigarettes together outside. We drank, and chatted, and hugged, and had a righteously good time. From there, it was off once more.

Our next destination would be determined by our aching stomachs. We headed off to get pizza, and I made no complaints, being as malnourished as I was. In fact, being as hungry as I was, and noticing how unusually quick the alcohol I had consumed was affecting me on this eve, I was quite relieved that my chums too had growling bellies. Bushmills alone doesn’t always make for the best breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

After a sizeable stop at a pizza place we headed off once more to enjoy the San Francisco nightlife. While at the pizza place I’d been particularly impressed by a girl who had shown up dressed as Rocky the Flying Squirrel. We obscure characters share a certain mutual respect and must stick together.

Anyway, we wandered down the streets of San Francisco once more until the Canuck was tired and decided she needed to head home. We made our tearful goodbyes and headed off once more. We headed to a popular bar the girls like to frequent, a small tavern and dance club by the name of Delirium. The three girls headed inside to relieve themselves, drink, and dance. Swee-Jee-Juevo, on the other hand, had some friends he wanted to see at another bar, so we gentleman three headed off towards Amnesia.

Blocks away, we arrived at a decidedly smaller bar with much better music. The band on stage was The Pine Box Boys, a decidedly cool, though somewhat sinister-seeming hillbilly band. Think Rednex, but darker and more traditionally oriented. They were impressive and the Rightwing was immediately impressed. I, myself, wish I had watched more of them, but was far too caught up in Samhain excess. Old Swee-Jee had found his mates, a bunch of people that had taken care of him back when he’d been traveling and scumming around in the Philippines. Also, there was a friend of his that I had met once before on a night when we’d all went out to a San Francisco bar and bumped into a bunch of people we hadn’t seen in years, finding to our surprise a lot of matters in common between us, discussing things such as Evil Dead: The Live Show, and the ignorant arrogance of many Canadians we’d met… people we’d found to be just as flawed, stupid, and politically in-the-dark as the lowlies here in the ‘States. Anyway, she’d bought me many a beer that night, and her generosity was much appreciated. On this particular All Hallow’s Eve she was dressed as a hot cop, and I must admit was considerably more attractive than I’d recalled her being.

But perhaps it’s simply the lure of the female cop in fishnet stockings.

We decided we’d left the girls waiting long enough and headed back to Delirium. On the walk back we noticed the length of distance we’d traveled. My feet were sore and hurting, and I was exhausted from alcohol consumption and my lack of food consumption over the course of the day. The last-minute pizza I’d consumed had come too late and my body was suffering for it. We made it back to Delirium and found the girls inside getting soused.

After a quick trip to the restroom, in which I’d seen a long-not-seen friend, The Patman, dressed as a cop, I headed back into the bar. Upon freeing himself from urinary heaven, the Patman finally recognized me. We greeted each other as we hadn’t done in a long time, then headed into the back room with our combined and consolidated crew. The back room was where the dancing was going on, complete with DJ and loud music. It was incredibly crowded. I must admit, I’ve never cared much for crowded quarters, and I suspect this is my main reason for preferring suburbia over over-cramped city-life. We squeezed uncomfortably through crowds of rude people until we had found ourselves square in the heart of boogie-central.

In the back room, dancing amongst the filth of San Francisco society, I found myself grooving with the girls once more. As I boogied down with the Magnificent M, I noticed a skull-faced lad about a foot or two taller than us dancing behind her. I thought little of the matter, figuring this merely to be some pathetic lad digging on my woman and looking desperately to get laid. I must admit, I did find it rather curious that he didn’t get the hint and move away once I’d started dancing with my lady love and begun showering her with hugs and kisses. As my feet tired, I stopped dancing and joined with my buddies at a table to the side.

To my surprise, there was Methadone Mike, sitting with a girl at his arm, dressed up as Lex Luthor. Methadone Mike was an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a long time, and in all honesty, I hadn’t planned on ever seeing again. He’d been a heroin addict when I’d last seen him, and to be quite to the point, regardless of whether he was a drug addict or not, I'd found him to be an asshole; if not for the rude comments he’d made in regard to my sister, then at least for his general hatred of all womankind. Last I’d heard, he’d killed someone in an accidental hit-and-run. I honestly hadn’t expected on seeing him again.

At this point the Magnificent M sat on my lap and I showered her with affection. I won’t lie; on this night she was a cold fish. She’d been a cold fish from start to finish, but I dealt with it. Everyone has their off-nights, and I suppose this was hers, even if it was my favorite night of the year. I later found out that part of the reason she’d come over and sat with me was because the tall costumed jackass had resumed dancing behind her, apparently getting a bit too forward and friendly in the process. Had I known at the time, I would have shoved my hand between his legs, ripping off his testicles with my clutching fingers. I would have kneed him in the gut, pushed in his eyes with my thumbs, and torn out his throat with my spitting, gnashing teeth, then taken the time to savor the taste of his blood in my mouth. I suppose it might sound barbaric, but is it really so wrong to care strongly about someone?

I shouldn’t need to point out that I, The Virgin Prince, have never acted inappropriately towards the opposite gender, even when at my drunkest drunk. Certainly, there may have been a time or two when I was granted a thick set of beer goggles, but I have never groped, slapped, or harassed any of the female breed while under the influence. Now, in the case of my male friends that may not necessarily be true, but anything that might have happened, happened in good fun. I’ve never even allowed myself to become physical with a willing female when she was in a state of noticeable intoxication (my ex-girlfriend being the exception to this statement, though to be honest, she existed in constant state of inebriation; any attempts on my part to get her to sober up were met with the utmost highs of hostility and direct assaults against me.) Even dazed and fazed, The Virgin Prince controls his animal urges!

It was late, we were tired, and we decided it was time to go home. We said our goodbyes (though I was pretty bad about this, being as tired as I was and simply wanting to leave) and we headed out of the bar, past pushy girls dressed like skanks and onto the street. As we were leaving, our old chum Horatio Hegley was chatting up some people in front of the bar. He was quite a sight, dressed like Oscar the Grouch, complete with green, furry arms and a trashcan about his body. As we readied ourselves to leave, we witnessed a girl come up to Hegley, yell something at him, and dump a nearly-full beer over his head (which must have collected inside his trashcan.) Whether this was a friend of his having fun with him, or whether Hegley had done something lascivious again while in a drunken state, I couldn’t say. We were off.

The Red Rightwing led the Magnificent M and I through the streets of San Francisco, back to his place. We grabbed our stuff, I stowed my mustache, and we said goodbye and headed off. After a relatively short drive back to M’s place, we parked the car a block or two away to avoid the street cleaners, walked home on sore and tired feet, hopped in pajamas, and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning with black all over my arm, face, and ears, and a noticeable dark spot on the pillow from the temporary hair dye I’d used. I cleaned myself up as best I could, but the black clung to me like a baby possum, designed particularly for the purpose of sticking fairly resiliently. There was no time for a shower; I had to head to work. Work was fine, and I got through it well, but I was itching for a shower, feeling as dirty and besmudged as an Italian painted up to look like a Mexican for a spaghetti-western. I did finally get my shower upon reaching home, though the water, and shampoo I used took on ebon tones, and the bathtub itself was stained black, necessitating a thorough cleaning the next day.

All in all, Halloween was a great time this year, and I pity all who did not take part in it. If I have one regret, it’s that no one seems to have a picture of me from that night, even though I recall posing for a few. A shame too, my costume was killer, and what with my big wide grin, I was a dead ringer for John Astin. With my matching haircut, styling threads, and everything else, I could have easily passed for one of his bastard children. A shame. I’d like to show you all for posterity, but quite frankly, I’m not sure I could deal with that fake mustache and the black hair dye again.

And now it’s now. I’ve partied even more, drank others under the table, and filled my recycle bin twice over. I’ve cried “ayyo for Jäger”, enjoyed further fake mustaches, said goodbye to departing friends, enjoyed the adoration of females around me, and beaten a cold. It seems fitting to me that tonight, as the full moon begins to wane, I say my farewells to alcohol.

Not a hoax, not a joke, not a trick: tonight I bid alcohol “adieu”. It saddens me a little bit; I’d finally figured out my tastes, discovered all the best beers, and finally learned to appreciate a good whiskey (and scotch). Tonight I completely remove an element of my life that has been the most consistent thing in my life for the past decade, ever since I discovered Momma’s long-forgotten and well-stocked liquor cabinet back in high school. Farewell, Alcohol, my beloved “Vitamin A”, my most loyal friend. You were there in the good times and bad, helped me through many a crisis, dulled pain, and occasionally were a bad, though fun, influence. I’ll miss the Irish whiskeys and the triple-stouts, the mixed gin drinks, the Bass, the Guinness, the Harp, the Smithwicks, and lord knows I’ll miss the Middleton’s. Goodbye old friend, and know that soon, in the coming months, my buddy Nicotine will be joining you.

As I sit here now with fresh realization and insight, I suddenly recall how right yet how completely wrong Rush Girl had been in criticizing me during our last phone conversation together. I did have many problems (lack of motivation, weight gain, and unemployment being key among them), and I’ve just realized and removed the cause. It strikes me as funny, now looking back, that she could so acutely and accurately view and report all my problems, yet never really see or acknowledge the underlying cause, the biggest problem of all. Maybe she couldn’t see it. Or maybe she could and couldn’t bring herself to say it, or realize it, or allow the thought to become acknowledged in her brain. Maybe she knew that in acknowledging my problem, the consequences would be much greater and have a far bigger impact than simply just revealing a problem within me.

And maybe it’s just not funny at all.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince