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.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Gorging On Cheese And Vodka
Hear ye all, be ye blacksmith or whitewasher,
Fun time was over for us kids as Rush Girl’s parents came back to the house, our easy-going time of lazing around, eating the treats left out, and eyeing half-lustfully the beer in the fridge was over. No longer would we lounge around in our pajamas, comfortable as kids in the grime that came from a good night’s sleep. Over was our time of watching gladiators jab each other with swords, the ogling of the slender, near-naked ladies in the Maxims and FHMs, our dancing around with upright hair, mocking our Doukhobor elders. The folks were back, and it was time for us to grow up again, to put on the suits of maturity, and head out, once more, to experience cultural reverence.
Nads was the first one down to the shower, bathing is always a genuine delight for her, she having been bitten (at an early point in her life) by an irradiated sea-monkey. Returning up the stairs from the dungeon shower, she went to get dressed, making it now my turn to bathe. I grabbed my razor and shaving cream to bring down with me, it was a necessity as I was beginning to resemble Lon Chaney Jr.
Returning upstairs, clean-shaven and fresh-faced, I headed to my room to dress in the manor of sophisticated men. Inside the room, my Shmoops surprised me, dressed in the attire of a traditional Doukhobor woman. I stepped back to catch my breath, the sight was more than I expected. There she was, a vision of beauty, looking, in reality, as I had always seen her in my mind. Her face exposed, an exhibit of absolute fairness, her body draped in the deep green and bright white that made my poor Irish heart beat faster. She looked to me as the ideal wife, ready to present me a delicious bowl of fresh borscht from the kitchen, while graced with the shapely hips to sate my more base desires (and, no doubt, one day grant me a healthy man-child, who would someday grow into a strapping young lad, capable of making the world grovel at his feet, in fear of his mighty hand and magnificent mind.)
I was left with no recourse but to complement her on her glorious appearance several times and stare at her dimly, entranced. Her mother helped her finish getting dressed, making sure she looked absolutely proper, while I threw on my One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish necktie. Shortly thereafter, we sat outside on the deck, so I could take pictures of her against the backdrop of the Castlegar mountainside, and stare at her yet some more. Then the whole family came out, dressed in their finery, to take photographs of each other, and commit general mischief in the farm area outside. After Brian and I were briefly locked in the underground basement of a musty old shack outside by Shmoopy’s father, we males participated in general shenanigans, Brian and I playing devil’s advocate as we rooted on Shmoop’s father to uproot a horseradish plant outside, he wielding a shovel while dressed in his nice suit.
Off again to Festival, this day being the more formal day, where every song sung would have a significance. We all took seats in the front very briefly, before Nads and her parents took off to perform on stage, leaving merely Anna Banana, Brian, and I to sit there. Brian and I sat with a tinge of nervousness, the two outsiders in the front row, with no knowledge of Russian, nor an understanding of how to read Cyrillic to join in singing the hymns. Then the performance started, with the parents singing first, then Shmoops, with her friends Vanya and Mitch all singing in the youth choir. There was an obvious look of nervousness on Shmoops’ and Mitch’s faces as they stood visibly singing, checking every so often on the cards in their hands on which the lyrics were written. Vanya, however, was calm and collected, he had every Russian word known to his heart, and sang proudly with gung-ho and enthusiasm. Afterwards, they all sang together, parents and youth, at which time we all took advantage of the opportunity to take pictures.
Afterwards, we milled about outside, I took photos of a bunch of people I don’t know, Brian and I got chided by an old Doukhobor woman for trying to smoke outside the dom, and then we ditched Shmoopy’s mother. After she rejoined us, we went for the drive back to the house and began furiously drinking once more. There were beers, and mixed drinks of vodka and whiskey. We were just getting warmed up for the party to come.
After several drinks and a slight sensation of euphoria, we headed out to a birthday party for Nad’s cousin’s husband, his name escapes me now, I drank quite a bit over the course of that evening. When we arrived at the house, it was filled with Doukhobors and children. Children everywhere, running, screaming, exposing themselves. We young adults felt a bit out of place inside the house and quickly scampered off to the backyard, where even more kids were running around. I slumped down against the wall of the house, sitting in the backyard, smoking cigarettes with Brian. There the girls sat with us, and the evening became a blur of cigarettes and alcohol, along the way containing discussions of the Vietnamese gangs overtaking Canada, and myself trying to drunkenly sing the songs of Tim Curry, but finding myself far too inebriated to even remember the words to the Zucchini Song.
Towards the end of our time at the party, we eventually wandered inside and up the stairs to the kitchen. At this point, the alcohol fumes I was exhaling were starting to make the smaller children pass out. I tried to balance out the alcohol in my system by eating some food, but the majority of the items there were primarily bread and cheese. Certainly no meat. Doukhobor food is notoriously decadent and unhealthy. It’s really good too.
Brian and I headed outside to the upstairs deck to smoke even more cigarettes still. With strong drinks in hand and the acids burning in my stomach, I had grown weary of seeing everyone around me continually singing Doukhobor anthems while I was left out of the loop. With a steady stream of alcohol pouring through my veins and a halo of nicotine overhead, I decided that it had now become my time to shine. I broke out with as eloquent a performance of I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General as ever a drunken tongue produced.
“That’s awesome,” Brian told me, “I wish I could do that!”
Those two statements would shape the course of the night.
We drunkenly stumbled out of the party, hugging relatives and complete strangers alike, thanking them all for a good time had. Shmoops and I were given a nice candle or two as we headed out the door, then we got in the car and drove back to the house in Castlegar, listening to the Addams Family Soundtrack and mocking her parents’ newly bought SUV all the way.
Back at the house we drank still more drinks, and Brian and I returned outside to smoke more cigarettes. It was at this point that I ran inside to my backpack to retrieve my Gilbert & Sullivan lyrics, presenting them to Brian to memorize, thus starting him on the path to musical excellence. After a few practice rounds, during which Brian began to master the proper pronunciation of the verses, overcoming terms such as Caractacus, we began to sing the song very properly, even attracting Shmoops’ father to watch the performance, and thusly, following up with the unofficial encore verses. After this, I expressed my appreciation for the song O Canada, while the Canadians at the table insisted upon the superiority of The Star Spangled Banner. Again, a sing-off was had. This led to the singing of fight songs, patriotic songs of war, to which I had no response but to sing the best rendition of The Ballad Of The Green Beret as I possibly could. There was nary a dry eye in the house, or more appropriately, the deck outside. We ended the evening with a conversation on how the Beatles are good, maybe even great, but not the best, and far from worth the hype. This topic of conversation caused Shmoopy’s father to retreat inside, and shortly thereafter, we retired as well.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Next time: THE VOYAGE HOME
Fun time was over for us kids as Rush Girl’s parents came back to the house, our easy-going time of lazing around, eating the treats left out, and eyeing half-lustfully the beer in the fridge was over. No longer would we lounge around in our pajamas, comfortable as kids in the grime that came from a good night’s sleep. Over was our time of watching gladiators jab each other with swords, the ogling of the slender, near-naked ladies in the Maxims and FHMs, our dancing around with upright hair, mocking our Doukhobor elders. The folks were back, and it was time for us to grow up again, to put on the suits of maturity, and head out, once more, to experience cultural reverence.
Nads was the first one down to the shower, bathing is always a genuine delight for her, she having been bitten (at an early point in her life) by an irradiated sea-monkey. Returning up the stairs from the dungeon shower, she went to get dressed, making it now my turn to bathe. I grabbed my razor and shaving cream to bring down with me, it was a necessity as I was beginning to resemble Lon Chaney Jr.
Returning upstairs, clean-shaven and fresh-faced, I headed to my room to dress in the manor of sophisticated men. Inside the room, my Shmoops surprised me, dressed in the attire of a traditional Doukhobor woman. I stepped back to catch my breath, the sight was more than I expected. There she was, a vision of beauty, looking, in reality, as I had always seen her in my mind. Her face exposed, an exhibit of absolute fairness, her body draped in the deep green and bright white that made my poor Irish heart beat faster. She looked to me as the ideal wife, ready to present me a delicious bowl of fresh borscht from the kitchen, while graced with the shapely hips to sate my more base desires (and, no doubt, one day grant me a healthy man-child, who would someday grow into a strapping young lad, capable of making the world grovel at his feet, in fear of his mighty hand and magnificent mind.)
I was left with no recourse but to complement her on her glorious appearance several times and stare at her dimly, entranced. Her mother helped her finish getting dressed, making sure she looked absolutely proper, while I threw on my One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish necktie. Shortly thereafter, we sat outside on the deck, so I could take pictures of her against the backdrop of the Castlegar mountainside, and stare at her yet some more. Then the whole family came out, dressed in their finery, to take photographs of each other, and commit general mischief in the farm area outside. After Brian and I were briefly locked in the underground basement of a musty old shack outside by Shmoopy’s father, we males participated in general shenanigans, Brian and I playing devil’s advocate as we rooted on Shmoop’s father to uproot a horseradish plant outside, he wielding a shovel while dressed in his nice suit.
Off again to Festival, this day being the more formal day, where every song sung would have a significance. We all took seats in the front very briefly, before Nads and her parents took off to perform on stage, leaving merely Anna Banana, Brian, and I to sit there. Brian and I sat with a tinge of nervousness, the two outsiders in the front row, with no knowledge of Russian, nor an understanding of how to read Cyrillic to join in singing the hymns. Then the performance started, with the parents singing first, then Shmoops, with her friends Vanya and Mitch all singing in the youth choir. There was an obvious look of nervousness on Shmoops’ and Mitch’s faces as they stood visibly singing, checking every so often on the cards in their hands on which the lyrics were written. Vanya, however, was calm and collected, he had every Russian word known to his heart, and sang proudly with gung-ho and enthusiasm. Afterwards, they all sang together, parents and youth, at which time we all took advantage of the opportunity to take pictures.
Afterwards, we milled about outside, I took photos of a bunch of people I don’t know, Brian and I got chided by an old Doukhobor woman for trying to smoke outside the dom, and then we ditched Shmoopy’s mother. After she rejoined us, we went for the drive back to the house and began furiously drinking once more. There were beers, and mixed drinks of vodka and whiskey. We were just getting warmed up for the party to come.
After several drinks and a slight sensation of euphoria, we headed out to a birthday party for Nad’s cousin’s husband, his name escapes me now, I drank quite a bit over the course of that evening. When we arrived at the house, it was filled with Doukhobors and children. Children everywhere, running, screaming, exposing themselves. We young adults felt a bit out of place inside the house and quickly scampered off to the backyard, where even more kids were running around. I slumped down against the wall of the house, sitting in the backyard, smoking cigarettes with Brian. There the girls sat with us, and the evening became a blur of cigarettes and alcohol, along the way containing discussions of the Vietnamese gangs overtaking Canada, and myself trying to drunkenly sing the songs of Tim Curry, but finding myself far too inebriated to even remember the words to the Zucchini Song.
Towards the end of our time at the party, we eventually wandered inside and up the stairs to the kitchen. At this point, the alcohol fumes I was exhaling were starting to make the smaller children pass out. I tried to balance out the alcohol in my system by eating some food, but the majority of the items there were primarily bread and cheese. Certainly no meat. Doukhobor food is notoriously decadent and unhealthy. It’s really good too.
Brian and I headed outside to the upstairs deck to smoke even more cigarettes still. With strong drinks in hand and the acids burning in my stomach, I had grown weary of seeing everyone around me continually singing Doukhobor anthems while I was left out of the loop. With a steady stream of alcohol pouring through my veins and a halo of nicotine overhead, I decided that it had now become my time to shine. I broke out with as eloquent a performance of I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General as ever a drunken tongue produced.
“That’s awesome,” Brian told me, “I wish I could do that!”
Those two statements would shape the course of the night.
We drunkenly stumbled out of the party, hugging relatives and complete strangers alike, thanking them all for a good time had. Shmoops and I were given a nice candle or two as we headed out the door, then we got in the car and drove back to the house in Castlegar, listening to the Addams Family Soundtrack and mocking her parents’ newly bought SUV all the way.
Back at the house we drank still more drinks, and Brian and I returned outside to smoke more cigarettes. It was at this point that I ran inside to my backpack to retrieve my Gilbert & Sullivan lyrics, presenting them to Brian to memorize, thus starting him on the path to musical excellence. After a few practice rounds, during which Brian began to master the proper pronunciation of the verses, overcoming terms such as Caractacus, we began to sing the song very properly, even attracting Shmoops’ father to watch the performance, and thusly, following up with the unofficial encore verses. After this, I expressed my appreciation for the song O Canada, while the Canadians at the table insisted upon the superiority of The Star Spangled Banner. Again, a sing-off was had. This led to the singing of fight songs, patriotic songs of war, to which I had no response but to sing the best rendition of The Ballad Of The Green Beret as I possibly could. There was nary a dry eye in the house, or more appropriately, the deck outside. We ended the evening with a conversation on how the Beatles are good, maybe even great, but not the best, and far from worth the hype. This topic of conversation caused Shmoopy’s father to retreat inside, and shortly thereafter, we retired as well.
The Virgin Prince
Next time: THE VOYAGE HOME
