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 15, 2004
The Hero's Journey
Fools and Philistines, have you phalluses or fallopian tubes,
We woke up on Monday the 24th feeling like death. This seems to be the price for truly living it up. Weary, and with pounding heads, we were dragged from our beds, aching for still more rest, and perhaps, forgiveness from our bodies for the hell we had put them through the day before. But as horrible as we felt, it wasn’t just the ride home we had to look forward to/fear, we still had one more event before us, lunch with Vanya and his family.
Purely out of habit, I threw on my new purple shirt, which still had a very stiff and abrasive collar, and tied my Burt and Ernie tie around my neck tightly. This was the worst course of action possible for someone hung-over and feeling nauseous, but the notion of always looking spiffy is deeply ingrained within me, and I so wanted to look appropriate for the Doukhobor family I would be lunching with. A few quick stumbles and groans and we were off.
The four of us kids piled into the Honda, and off we sped down the windy mountain roads, in the general direction of Grand Forks, as I recall. My dearest Rush Girl was at the wheel, and handled the cd player, loading it up with Tom Jones’ Reload and anything else I saw fit. I kept myself entertained by conversing with Brian, telling him of the glory of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, of which, at that time, Canada was woefully deprived. After several winding turns and cliffside views, we were there.
Vanya’s house was somewhat difficult to find, being hidden from direct sight by a low, bushy overhang of plants over the driveway. Compounding the problem was the fact that the Doukhobor girls in the car couldn’t precisely remember where on the street his home was located. Within a minute or two, we found our way, Vanya’s father guiding us in.
Out of the car we stepped, our hung-over corpse-bodies slowly, and without balance, placing our feet on solid ground. “Hello, hello,” we said, greeting everyone as we stumbled inside the house, leaving our shoes at the door. The inside of the home was a very rare treat, the style of it looking virtually untouched since the 70s, the living room resembling something out of Casino. Unfortunately, they finally had it in their minds to update the interior appearance of the house to something more modern. How very droll. It’s truly a shame that only the youth seem to appreciate the nostalgic appearances of the past, while the adults that actually lived through such time-periods have long since grown sick of them. But I suppose that we don’t have to actually live there.
We sat on the couch and in the chairs, drinking beer, figuring a little more alcohol couldn’t possibly make us feel any worse. Nads and Vanya discussed Festival, leaving me with little more to say than to compliment Vanya on his performance. Before long, it was time for lunch, and what a feast we would have. We piled around the table (surrounding tiny tables with an excessively large amount of people seems to be a Doukhobor tradition) and were greeted with massive bowls and plates filled with food. There was a bowl of salad piled so high that it was doubtful the bottom of the bowl would ever be seen again, and a plate of perogies so numerous that they could feed a small platoon. I sat and looked at this task before me, somewhat concerned in my hung-over state about keeping my breakfast, or lack thereof, down.
After gorging ourselves to the point of fresh new stomach aches on this vegetarian feast, we went outside to receive another lesson in Doukhobor culture, the use of, and importance of, the scythe. Brian and I ran excitedly outside, this all being terribly new for us. A scythe? People use those in this day and age?
Outside, the history lesson began, chronicling the importance of the scythe in Russian history, and its impact over the years on Vanya’s family. I stood entranced, absorbing the tales of days old, while the Doukhobors around me snapped photographs of this fascinated yank. Vanya’s father stood sharpening the scythe, telling us the importance of keeping it razor-sharp, and of the proper way to handle this tool. Then, the scythe was handed to us, to give us a chance to participate in this time-honored tradition.
Brian was the first to take the scythe, I chose to bide my time, to wait and observe the proper way to do this task. Brain cut a healthy swath into the alfalfa crop growing in the yard, all the while impressing the Doukhobors standing around us with the ease at which he took to this new task. After him, came myself, looking quite a sight in my suit and tie, carrying a scythe. I received a brief instruction on the proper way to hold the scythe, after which I too began to cut the crop with a similar natural ability. I do recall that these country-raised Doukhobors seemed impressed by the fact that a suburb-raised California-boy so naturally took to wielding the scythe, though I’m not entirely sure why. The act of scything wasn’t that far from golfing, or playing croquet, or even using one of the old-style weed-whackers.
Lastly, my dearest Rush Girl took the scythe, her face red with nervousness. This part of my trip to Canada I remember especially fondly, for during the entirety of the weekend, and perhaps the majority of knowing her, I had been slowly, and subtly, mocked by her, she bragging of her grand Doukhobor heritage and its noble origins in Russian and Canadian history while pointing out the unsavory aspects of my pilgrim ancestors. She’d mocked my Irish liver with her boasts of being able to out-drink me due to her Russian genetics. She'd pointed out the grandness of a Russian reworking of the French national anthem, while dismissing the masterworks of Gilbert & Sullivan. But there in that field in the heart of Grand Forks, wielding a crucial tool of her ancestors, she whimpered in fear of slicing off her kneecaps, cutting alfalfa hurriedly and without precision, finally yelling out for someone to take the scythe from her. Whether it be a man’s work or not (and I would think such concepts would be outdated in these modern times), it amused me to no end, and I could not hold back my snickering as my dearest Nads, my lovely Doukhobor braggart, failed in this simple Doukhobor task after teasing me so mercilessly.
She later described this event as a testosterone-driven ode to destruction (namely, the cutting of plants) on the part of all males present, though personally, I figure this to be a smokescreen to explain away the rather lacking scything ability of my feminine-as-you-can-get beauty. I, of course, took two photographs of her in the act, one for evidence, and the other to induce chuckles on long, lonely nights. Proudly I keep this daguerreotype, overpowered by the adorability of my Shmoopy’s face forever etched in fear at the handling of this simple farming tool, Vanya’s father locked in time running to assist her. Naturally, I took two of him as well, wanting forever to remember the man who taught me to scythe.
It wasn’t long after that we left, Vanya’s father discussing the Cyrillic Lenin pin on my jacket with me, and Vanya’s mother making sure the Doukhobor girls in our company were fully appraised of how very lucky they were to have the companionship of a couple of guys like Brian and I (a fact of which I was already well-aware). I generously gave hugs to everyone around me, thanking Vanya’s father for his history lesson and our instruction in the use of the scythe, and thanking Vanya’s mother for the absolutely delicious, and no doubt, toiled-upon meal she had made us. During my time spent around the Doukhobor community I’d learned to be very liberal in the dispensing of my hugs, both from the excessive positive vibes floating around, and in small part to the generous amount of alcohol constantly flowing around us.
Back on the road, our hangovers temporarily suppressed, riding once more on winding roads under the fiery sun, my CDs spinning in the little Honda’s stereo system. From there, there is little of significance to mention about the ride back. There was a return of nausea and headaches, the effects of exhaustion kicking in. There was the reading of Star magazine, and Maxims, and various conversations between us, notably one about White Spot, the Canadian fast food chain. There were stops at produce markets, and a gas station where knives with pictures of Princess Diana on them were sold. There was the relief of making it back to Shmoopy’s parent’s house.
We were strictly in and out of her folks’ house, being exhausted as we were. Brian and I stepped out briefly for a cigarette and the girls were done unloading the car before we even got a chance to help. We hugged the parents goodbye, and took off, at long last, in the direction of home. Once there, we ate, or drank, or slept, I can’t recall; our minds had long stopped functioning.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Next time: WEEKDAY BLISS
We woke up on Monday the 24th feeling like death. This seems to be the price for truly living it up. Weary, and with pounding heads, we were dragged from our beds, aching for still more rest, and perhaps, forgiveness from our bodies for the hell we had put them through the day before. But as horrible as we felt, it wasn’t just the ride home we had to look forward to/fear, we still had one more event before us, lunch with Vanya and his family.
Purely out of habit, I threw on my new purple shirt, which still had a very stiff and abrasive collar, and tied my Burt and Ernie tie around my neck tightly. This was the worst course of action possible for someone hung-over and feeling nauseous, but the notion of always looking spiffy is deeply ingrained within me, and I so wanted to look appropriate for the Doukhobor family I would be lunching with. A few quick stumbles and groans and we were off.
The four of us kids piled into the Honda, and off we sped down the windy mountain roads, in the general direction of Grand Forks, as I recall. My dearest Rush Girl was at the wheel, and handled the cd player, loading it up with Tom Jones’ Reload and anything else I saw fit. I kept myself entertained by conversing with Brian, telling him of the glory of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, of which, at that time, Canada was woefully deprived. After several winding turns and cliffside views, we were there.
Vanya’s house was somewhat difficult to find, being hidden from direct sight by a low, bushy overhang of plants over the driveway. Compounding the problem was the fact that the Doukhobor girls in the car couldn’t precisely remember where on the street his home was located. Within a minute or two, we found our way, Vanya’s father guiding us in.
Out of the car we stepped, our hung-over corpse-bodies slowly, and without balance, placing our feet on solid ground. “Hello, hello,” we said, greeting everyone as we stumbled inside the house, leaving our shoes at the door. The inside of the home was a very rare treat, the style of it looking virtually untouched since the 70s, the living room resembling something out of Casino. Unfortunately, they finally had it in their minds to update the interior appearance of the house to something more modern. How very droll. It’s truly a shame that only the youth seem to appreciate the nostalgic appearances of the past, while the adults that actually lived through such time-periods have long since grown sick of them. But I suppose that we don’t have to actually live there.
We sat on the couch and in the chairs, drinking beer, figuring a little more alcohol couldn’t possibly make us feel any worse. Nads and Vanya discussed Festival, leaving me with little more to say than to compliment Vanya on his performance. Before long, it was time for lunch, and what a feast we would have. We piled around the table (surrounding tiny tables with an excessively large amount of people seems to be a Doukhobor tradition) and were greeted with massive bowls and plates filled with food. There was a bowl of salad piled so high that it was doubtful the bottom of the bowl would ever be seen again, and a plate of perogies so numerous that they could feed a small platoon. I sat and looked at this task before me, somewhat concerned in my hung-over state about keeping my breakfast, or lack thereof, down.
After gorging ourselves to the point of fresh new stomach aches on this vegetarian feast, we went outside to receive another lesson in Doukhobor culture, the use of, and importance of, the scythe. Brian and I ran excitedly outside, this all being terribly new for us. A scythe? People use those in this day and age?
Outside, the history lesson began, chronicling the importance of the scythe in Russian history, and its impact over the years on Vanya’s family. I stood entranced, absorbing the tales of days old, while the Doukhobors around me snapped photographs of this fascinated yank. Vanya’s father stood sharpening the scythe, telling us the importance of keeping it razor-sharp, and of the proper way to handle this tool. Then, the scythe was handed to us, to give us a chance to participate in this time-honored tradition.
Brian was the first to take the scythe, I chose to bide my time, to wait and observe the proper way to do this task. Brain cut a healthy swath into the alfalfa crop growing in the yard, all the while impressing the Doukhobors standing around us with the ease at which he took to this new task. After him, came myself, looking quite a sight in my suit and tie, carrying a scythe. I received a brief instruction on the proper way to hold the scythe, after which I too began to cut the crop with a similar natural ability. I do recall that these country-raised Doukhobors seemed impressed by the fact that a suburb-raised California-boy so naturally took to wielding the scythe, though I’m not entirely sure why. The act of scything wasn’t that far from golfing, or playing croquet, or even using one of the old-style weed-whackers.
Lastly, my dearest Rush Girl took the scythe, her face red with nervousness. This part of my trip to Canada I remember especially fondly, for during the entirety of the weekend, and perhaps the majority of knowing her, I had been slowly, and subtly, mocked by her, she bragging of her grand Doukhobor heritage and its noble origins in Russian and Canadian history while pointing out the unsavory aspects of my pilgrim ancestors. She’d mocked my Irish liver with her boasts of being able to out-drink me due to her Russian genetics. She'd pointed out the grandness of a Russian reworking of the French national anthem, while dismissing the masterworks of Gilbert & Sullivan. But there in that field in the heart of Grand Forks, wielding a crucial tool of her ancestors, she whimpered in fear of slicing off her kneecaps, cutting alfalfa hurriedly and without precision, finally yelling out for someone to take the scythe from her. Whether it be a man’s work or not (and I would think such concepts would be outdated in these modern times), it amused me to no end, and I could not hold back my snickering as my dearest Nads, my lovely Doukhobor braggart, failed in this simple Doukhobor task after teasing me so mercilessly.
She later described this event as a testosterone-driven ode to destruction (namely, the cutting of plants) on the part of all males present, though personally, I figure this to be a smokescreen to explain away the rather lacking scything ability of my feminine-as-you-can-get beauty. I, of course, took two photographs of her in the act, one for evidence, and the other to induce chuckles on long, lonely nights. Proudly I keep this daguerreotype, overpowered by the adorability of my Shmoopy’s face forever etched in fear at the handling of this simple farming tool, Vanya’s father locked in time running to assist her. Naturally, I took two of him as well, wanting forever to remember the man who taught me to scythe.
It wasn’t long after that we left, Vanya’s father discussing the Cyrillic Lenin pin on my jacket with me, and Vanya’s mother making sure the Doukhobor girls in our company were fully appraised of how very lucky they were to have the companionship of a couple of guys like Brian and I (a fact of which I was already well-aware). I generously gave hugs to everyone around me, thanking Vanya’s father for his history lesson and our instruction in the use of the scythe, and thanking Vanya’s mother for the absolutely delicious, and no doubt, toiled-upon meal she had made us. During my time spent around the Doukhobor community I’d learned to be very liberal in the dispensing of my hugs, both from the excessive positive vibes floating around, and in small part to the generous amount of alcohol constantly flowing around us.
Back on the road, our hangovers temporarily suppressed, riding once more on winding roads under the fiery sun, my CDs spinning in the little Honda’s stereo system. From there, there is little of significance to mention about the ride back. There was a return of nausea and headaches, the effects of exhaustion kicking in. There was the reading of Star magazine, and Maxims, and various conversations between us, notably one about White Spot, the Canadian fast food chain. There were stops at produce markets, and a gas station where knives with pictures of Princess Diana on them were sold. There was the relief of making it back to Shmoopy’s parent’s house.
We were strictly in and out of her folks’ house, being exhausted as we were. Brian and I stepped out briefly for a cigarette and the girls were done unloading the car before we even got a chance to help. We hugged the parents goodbye, and took off, at long last, in the direction of home. Once there, we ate, or drank, or slept, I can’t recall; our minds had long stopped functioning.
The Virgin Prince
Next time: WEEKDAY BLISS
