The Virgin Prince's War Journal
The grim and gritty side of things. If everyone had a soundtrack to their lives, mine would be the best.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Back From The North
To all you Yanks bleeding the triad colors of the flag,
Huzzah! Here I am, back from the overcast land up north, back on the firm, fresh soil of the land of my birth. I have returned from the inviting land of Canada, perhaps finally succumbing to its appealing pull. Indeed, the land has inherited the seductive ability of the sirens long forgotten, granting, with ease, this lad a happy phallus on every visit. Indeed, the plentiful multitude of striking females, coupled with gratuitous amounts of appeasing Canadian beer, and the promise of free healthcare for all, leaves me happier than a Viking stroking his mighty club.
Yet, I’m back, and perhaps stronger, for I’ve given up cigarettes and no longer receive a daily dose of alcohol. I know longer snack late at night and have virtually given up junk food altogether. My mind is focused, my lungs are clear, and my stomach grumbles. I feel a growing need for organization at home and a desire to keep things clean. Even my ape, Bobo, is in on the new way of thinking. Quite simply, it is time to clean house.
To call my trip “eventful” would be putting it mildly. On a Thursday afternoon, leaving directly from work, I hopped on a bus which took me straight to the airport. My flight was delayed by at least 30 minutes, so I killed some time with the reading of some of the finest publications that National Periodical puts out. I attempted to satisfy my grumbling stomach with a green salad and a tall glass of Fosters. It was hardly satisfying, but at airport prices, my meager purchase had wiped out my food budget. A little over some 2 hours later, I was flying to the marvelled land of Canada.
To my surprise, for the first time ever, I was able to get through customs with no line and no hassle. No agents jumped in my way, demanding to search my bag, no item on my person was scrutinized; not even the 12 heavy cans of Rockstar on my back, the slightly illegal amount of alcohol in my suitcase was allowed through without paying duty, and my hindquarters were left unassaulted, a thorough search saved for another day. This was far more delight to me than displeasure.
Walking out of customs, a near-look of death on my face, cultivated from the extent of my exhaustion, I stumbled past the waiting area, where all those expecting arriving guests wait. I’d nearly gotten past my dear Rush Girl without her noticing, she looked to be lost in thought, daydreaming once again about Tom Hulce, clad in a pink powdered wig and black leather speedo. Or perhaps she was caught up in reading the latest gossip on Britney Spears, seemingly her new closet-obsession; the point is, it wasn’t until she smelled my husky scent, the gruff fragrance of a true man, that her loving eyes looked up at me, filled with pure joy. She ran up to meet me.
“Baby, I have to use the restroom.”
After finally relieving my bladder from the three hour wait imposed upon it, I returned from the little homies’ room and wrapped my arms about my sweet shmoopy. It was a tight and firm squeeze; it had been far too long since I’d placed my lecherous hands on her. The lascivian in me took over.
We shot out of the airport in her father’s car, I, myself, feeling the effects of the mere four hours I’d slept the night before, she, discussing her rediscovered appreciation of the Cars and Rick Ocasek. This lead to sing-a-longs and discussions of Weezer. I was tired, I was hungry, I had the urge to be affectionate, but doubted I had the energy to do so.
Oh, but I was happy.
At her place, I changed into my pajamas, and she got to the task of feeding me. A fine job my Doukhobor woman did as well! I gulped down borscht, perogies, and some other manner of food I cannot recall the name of. We more than likely put on music and cracked open the discontinued Strawberry Stolichnaya I’d smuggled up for her. From there, the rest is blurry.
I slept in the next morning, while she went to work. After eventually waking, I went to the store to buy groceries, planning on presenting her with a fine dinner, one which excellently showcased the brilliance, the glory, the horrendously unappreciated excellence that is pineapple. Returning home, I got to the task of preparing my special teriyaki chicken stir-fry, the stir-fry of which there can be no equal. She returned home before I was finished, however, and so, she was assigned the task of making rice.
My recipe finished (but the rice lacking a proper amount of garlic, due to the amount of time it would take), we got to the actual act of eating it.
“Needs more spice,” she said.
Dumping spice onto her plate, enough to kill any natural flavor, we then spread a blanket out on her porch and had a quaint picnic as we looked out on Main Street, and curious cars, passerbys, and people entering and exiting the apartment complex, in turn, stared at us. We had the sliding door to her apartment open to better facilitate our listening to the swinging sounds of Vic Mizzy’s Addams Family Soundtrack, which we had playing loudly and was most likely audible across the street. After a few minutes of sitting on the ground outside, eating teriyaki stir-fry, and listening to One Little, Two Little, Three Little Tombstones, we realized how we might appear to others. We laughed.
After dinner, we dressed up and headed off to see the Shins. We had a feeling that attending a concert together would most likely be a lot of fun, each of us knowing the other’s deep appreciation for rock and roll. The alcohol in our systems, which had served to replace 3% of our blood supply, only served to increase our enthusiasm.
The opening band was a brother/sister team by the name of the Fiery Furnaces, and man, were they hep. They kinda had a Carpenters thing going for them, except for the fact that the band had kind of a double-organ Doors/Devo kind of sound, while the singer was a bit more Patti Smith. Regardless of how completely unclassifiable they may be, they were a fun, high-energy act, and they ensured that the headliner, the Shins, had their work cut out for them. Truthfully, I recall a lot less about the performance the Shins gave, except that they performed almost all the songs I recognized, and that I thought the drummer looked a lot like my friend Mike, if he got fatter and about 15 years older. That, and my dearest Shmoopy was really knocking back beer. We left early anyway, we knew we had to be up early the next day to begin our trek to Castlegar.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Next time: CASTLEGAR
Huzzah! Here I am, back from the overcast land up north, back on the firm, fresh soil of the land of my birth. I have returned from the inviting land of Canada, perhaps finally succumbing to its appealing pull. Indeed, the land has inherited the seductive ability of the sirens long forgotten, granting, with ease, this lad a happy phallus on every visit. Indeed, the plentiful multitude of striking females, coupled with gratuitous amounts of appeasing Canadian beer, and the promise of free healthcare for all, leaves me happier than a Viking stroking his mighty club.
Yet, I’m back, and perhaps stronger, for I’ve given up cigarettes and no longer receive a daily dose of alcohol. I know longer snack late at night and have virtually given up junk food altogether. My mind is focused, my lungs are clear, and my stomach grumbles. I feel a growing need for organization at home and a desire to keep things clean. Even my ape, Bobo, is in on the new way of thinking. Quite simply, it is time to clean house.
To call my trip “eventful” would be putting it mildly. On a Thursday afternoon, leaving directly from work, I hopped on a bus which took me straight to the airport. My flight was delayed by at least 30 minutes, so I killed some time with the reading of some of the finest publications that National Periodical puts out. I attempted to satisfy my grumbling stomach with a green salad and a tall glass of Fosters. It was hardly satisfying, but at airport prices, my meager purchase had wiped out my food budget. A little over some 2 hours later, I was flying to the marvelled land of Canada.
To my surprise, for the first time ever, I was able to get through customs with no line and no hassle. No agents jumped in my way, demanding to search my bag, no item on my person was scrutinized; not even the 12 heavy cans of Rockstar on my back, the slightly illegal amount of alcohol in my suitcase was allowed through without paying duty, and my hindquarters were left unassaulted, a thorough search saved for another day. This was far more delight to me than displeasure.
Walking out of customs, a near-look of death on my face, cultivated from the extent of my exhaustion, I stumbled past the waiting area, where all those expecting arriving guests wait. I’d nearly gotten past my dear Rush Girl without her noticing, she looked to be lost in thought, daydreaming once again about Tom Hulce, clad in a pink powdered wig and black leather speedo. Or perhaps she was caught up in reading the latest gossip on Britney Spears, seemingly her new closet-obsession; the point is, it wasn’t until she smelled my husky scent, the gruff fragrance of a true man, that her loving eyes looked up at me, filled with pure joy. She ran up to meet me.
“Baby, I have to use the restroom.”
After finally relieving my bladder from the three hour wait imposed upon it, I returned from the little homies’ room and wrapped my arms about my sweet shmoopy. It was a tight and firm squeeze; it had been far too long since I’d placed my lecherous hands on her. The lascivian in me took over.
We shot out of the airport in her father’s car, I, myself, feeling the effects of the mere four hours I’d slept the night before, she, discussing her rediscovered appreciation of the Cars and Rick Ocasek. This lead to sing-a-longs and discussions of Weezer. I was tired, I was hungry, I had the urge to be affectionate, but doubted I had the energy to do so.
Oh, but I was happy.
At her place, I changed into my pajamas, and she got to the task of feeding me. A fine job my Doukhobor woman did as well! I gulped down borscht, perogies, and some other manner of food I cannot recall the name of. We more than likely put on music and cracked open the discontinued Strawberry Stolichnaya I’d smuggled up for her. From there, the rest is blurry.
I slept in the next morning, while she went to work. After eventually waking, I went to the store to buy groceries, planning on presenting her with a fine dinner, one which excellently showcased the brilliance, the glory, the horrendously unappreciated excellence that is pineapple. Returning home, I got to the task of preparing my special teriyaki chicken stir-fry, the stir-fry of which there can be no equal. She returned home before I was finished, however, and so, she was assigned the task of making rice.
My recipe finished (but the rice lacking a proper amount of garlic, due to the amount of time it would take), we got to the actual act of eating it.
“Needs more spice,” she said.
Dumping spice onto her plate, enough to kill any natural flavor, we then spread a blanket out on her porch and had a quaint picnic as we looked out on Main Street, and curious cars, passerbys, and people entering and exiting the apartment complex, in turn, stared at us. We had the sliding door to her apartment open to better facilitate our listening to the swinging sounds of Vic Mizzy’s Addams Family Soundtrack, which we had playing loudly and was most likely audible across the street. After a few minutes of sitting on the ground outside, eating teriyaki stir-fry, and listening to One Little, Two Little, Three Little Tombstones, we realized how we might appear to others. We laughed.
After dinner, we dressed up and headed off to see the Shins. We had a feeling that attending a concert together would most likely be a lot of fun, each of us knowing the other’s deep appreciation for rock and roll. The alcohol in our systems, which had served to replace 3% of our blood supply, only served to increase our enthusiasm.
The opening band was a brother/sister team by the name of the Fiery Furnaces, and man, were they hep. They kinda had a Carpenters thing going for them, except for the fact that the band had kind of a double-organ Doors/Devo kind of sound, while the singer was a bit more Patti Smith. Regardless of how completely unclassifiable they may be, they were a fun, high-energy act, and they ensured that the headliner, the Shins, had their work cut out for them. Truthfully, I recall a lot less about the performance the Shins gave, except that they performed almost all the songs I recognized, and that I thought the drummer looked a lot like my friend Mike, if he got fatter and about 15 years older. That, and my dearest Shmoopy was really knocking back beer. We left early anyway, we knew we had to be up early the next day to begin our trek to Castlegar.
The Virgin Prince
Next time: CASTLEGAR
