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.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
In The Land Where The Doukhobor Runs Free (And Still I Have To Wear Pants)
Amputees and Oddities,
On the early morning of Saturday the 22nd, there was no time for love, only the frantic rush of last-minute packing, the proper dressing and grooming of ourselves, my semi-infrequent lecherous whines. With a deliberate thought on my part, I immediately ran over to the cd player to eject the Best of Rodney On the ROQ and placed it in it’s case, the bringing of it along with us being the first thing on my mind. I promptly forgot to bring it with us as we loaded up the car. As I recalled this aggravating error as we began our journey, I reminded myself it was only a small inconvenience, after all, we still had Vic Mizzy’s Addams Family Original Television Soundtrack, Neil Young’s Trans, Devo Hardcore Volume 2, Bhangra Revolution, and Supertramp’s Breakfast In America. Should even technology fail us, I still had every word to Gilbert & Sullivan’s I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General committed to memory, and a copy of the lyrics sheet should my dearest Nads choose to sing along.
(In hindsight, I think perhaps her complete lack of British blood, she being devoid of even a half-drop, renders her incapable of appreciating what is without a doubt one of the greatest songs ever written. The vocal cords handed down to her from her Russian ancestors probably likewise prevent her from being able to properly pronounce the intricate eloquence of proper British locutions. Were I to ask her to sing along, the only lyrics to pass through her lips would more than likely be an improvised “Strawberry, Raspberry”. Fair enough, I find pronouncing the Russian tongue to be quite a challenge myself.)
My dearest Rush Girl has always suggested to me that the best cure for a hangover is a hearty helping of greasy junkfood from your local corporate-owned burger peddler. In my opinion, the best method of dealing with such a situation is rest, but we were on the go, and I was in no position to argue. We pulled into a Burger King and I set aside my self-imposed ban on beef. After all, we were in Canada, and my boycott on the American beef industry for their lack of proper safety and testing practices would not be felt here. I ordered a Whopper for the first time in a long time, it was my first time eating beef itself in two to three months, oh, but it had felt like an eternity. I enjoyed myself immensely, I’d always had a deep appreciation for the occasional dirty burger.
The road to Castlegar is a long, winding, unsettling one. Though it should be noted that Canada seems to better allocate its money than our bureaucrats here in the States seem to, it should also be noted that as a general rule, the roads in Canada seem to be shit. Vancouver, for example, is a city far too big for the small streets that seem to meander through it. Driving through Vancouver is far more slow-paced and stressful than it should be, indeed, more than once I’ve seen the red flicker behind my ladylove’s eyes, and heard the faint hint of the theme to The Omen as she’s driven me across mere blocks of the cloud-covered city. But the road to Castlegar was worse by far, a long, winding pathway through mountainside, with a steep drop down just mere inches from where the lanes end, with very little, if anything, in the way of guard-rails along the way. The relatively low parts of the road, the parts in which a massive descent to our deaths wasn’t assured, weren’t much better, as the lanes were parallel to bodies of water over the majority of the trip, thus ensuring a slow, drowning death for those afraid of heights.
Noting a truck to our left that looked unretrievably pinned between where the road stopped and the mountain’s face started, I suppose it was best that my dearest Rush Girl did all the driving. I’ve never much cared for staying within the lines.
We stopped somewhere in a nothing town, eating at a restaurant/junk store in Who-the-hell-cares, British Columbia. Our waitress was strange, and could not pronounce the names of the items on the menu. Our meal was good, and we each had a fine glass of local micro-brew beer to go with it. Towards the end of my drink, a fly found himself compelled to land in my glass. With much annoyance, I angrily gulped him down, sentencing him to slow death at the whim of my ever-bubbling stomach acids. This I did for three reasons:
1. Every time you waste booze, baby Jesus cries.
2. For the bad-ass factor and respect it would gain me from Shmoops.
3. You just don’t mess with my beer.
After the meal, two police officers in bullet-proof vests sat down to eat. It seemed a bit extreme for such a small town, but perhaps could have also served as a warning to get out quickly. We briefly looked in the junk store, finding within it a glass case filled with just about every awful item ever used by a killer in a horror film, whether rusty or not. The catch we found was a box filled with cool old buttons, my favorite being the one that proudly said, “1977, A banner year for British Columbia tourism!” We paid the girl for the buttons, after which she kept my change. I was initially annoyed at how presumptuous she was until I realized my silly Shmoops hadn’t given her any tip. After that, a Canadian nickel didn’t seem so bad.
After several hours of musical enjoyment, plus Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, the trip was over. Precious Rush Girl demanded most insistently upon a drink to calm her nerves. Her hands were shaking, her understanding of right and wrong had been severely blurred from the exhaustion of the trip, and considering she has the kicking strength of ten angry mules, I was in no position to argue. So we’d be late for the big Doukhobor Festival. No big deal. The important thing was to pacify her with an issue of Star and a can of TNT.
Once my Shmoops had returned to her general angelic state of being, we finally headed off to Festival. Rushing inside the dom, the meeting place for the huge fest, we were immediately greeted by one of her friends, a Doukhobor lad by the name of Mitch that had the look of alcohol-sparked enthusiasm to his eyes. He hurriedly said hello to us and then ran outside to drink with his buddies. And people say cultural pride is dead!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Next time: HANGING WITH FAMILY
On the early morning of Saturday the 22nd, there was no time for love, only the frantic rush of last-minute packing, the proper dressing and grooming of ourselves, my semi-infrequent lecherous whines. With a deliberate thought on my part, I immediately ran over to the cd player to eject the Best of Rodney On the ROQ and placed it in it’s case, the bringing of it along with us being the first thing on my mind. I promptly forgot to bring it with us as we loaded up the car. As I recalled this aggravating error as we began our journey, I reminded myself it was only a small inconvenience, after all, we still had Vic Mizzy’s Addams Family Original Television Soundtrack, Neil Young’s Trans, Devo Hardcore Volume 2, Bhangra Revolution, and Supertramp’s Breakfast In America. Should even technology fail us, I still had every word to Gilbert & Sullivan’s I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General committed to memory, and a copy of the lyrics sheet should my dearest Nads choose to sing along.
(In hindsight, I think perhaps her complete lack of British blood, she being devoid of even a half-drop, renders her incapable of appreciating what is without a doubt one of the greatest songs ever written. The vocal cords handed down to her from her Russian ancestors probably likewise prevent her from being able to properly pronounce the intricate eloquence of proper British locutions. Were I to ask her to sing along, the only lyrics to pass through her lips would more than likely be an improvised “Strawberry, Raspberry”. Fair enough, I find pronouncing the Russian tongue to be quite a challenge myself.)
My dearest Rush Girl has always suggested to me that the best cure for a hangover is a hearty helping of greasy junkfood from your local corporate-owned burger peddler. In my opinion, the best method of dealing with such a situation is rest, but we were on the go, and I was in no position to argue. We pulled into a Burger King and I set aside my self-imposed ban on beef. After all, we were in Canada, and my boycott on the American beef industry for their lack of proper safety and testing practices would not be felt here. I ordered a Whopper for the first time in a long time, it was my first time eating beef itself in two to three months, oh, but it had felt like an eternity. I enjoyed myself immensely, I’d always had a deep appreciation for the occasional dirty burger.
The road to Castlegar is a long, winding, unsettling one. Though it should be noted that Canada seems to better allocate its money than our bureaucrats here in the States seem to, it should also be noted that as a general rule, the roads in Canada seem to be shit. Vancouver, for example, is a city far too big for the small streets that seem to meander through it. Driving through Vancouver is far more slow-paced and stressful than it should be, indeed, more than once I’ve seen the red flicker behind my ladylove’s eyes, and heard the faint hint of the theme to The Omen as she’s driven me across mere blocks of the cloud-covered city. But the road to Castlegar was worse by far, a long, winding pathway through mountainside, with a steep drop down just mere inches from where the lanes end, with very little, if anything, in the way of guard-rails along the way. The relatively low parts of the road, the parts in which a massive descent to our deaths wasn’t assured, weren’t much better, as the lanes were parallel to bodies of water over the majority of the trip, thus ensuring a slow, drowning death for those afraid of heights.
Noting a truck to our left that looked unretrievably pinned between where the road stopped and the mountain’s face started, I suppose it was best that my dearest Rush Girl did all the driving. I’ve never much cared for staying within the lines.
We stopped somewhere in a nothing town, eating at a restaurant/junk store in Who-the-hell-cares, British Columbia. Our waitress was strange, and could not pronounce the names of the items on the menu. Our meal was good, and we each had a fine glass of local micro-brew beer to go with it. Towards the end of my drink, a fly found himself compelled to land in my glass. With much annoyance, I angrily gulped him down, sentencing him to slow death at the whim of my ever-bubbling stomach acids. This I did for three reasons:
1. Every time you waste booze, baby Jesus cries.
2. For the bad-ass factor and respect it would gain me from Shmoops.
3. You just don’t mess with my beer.
After the meal, two police officers in bullet-proof vests sat down to eat. It seemed a bit extreme for such a small town, but perhaps could have also served as a warning to get out quickly. We briefly looked in the junk store, finding within it a glass case filled with just about every awful item ever used by a killer in a horror film, whether rusty or not. The catch we found was a box filled with cool old buttons, my favorite being the one that proudly said, “1977, A banner year for British Columbia tourism!” We paid the girl for the buttons, after which she kept my change. I was initially annoyed at how presumptuous she was until I realized my silly Shmoops hadn’t given her any tip. After that, a Canadian nickel didn’t seem so bad.
After several hours of musical enjoyment, plus Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, the trip was over. Precious Rush Girl demanded most insistently upon a drink to calm her nerves. Her hands were shaking, her understanding of right and wrong had been severely blurred from the exhaustion of the trip, and considering she has the kicking strength of ten angry mules, I was in no position to argue. So we’d be late for the big Doukhobor Festival. No big deal. The important thing was to pacify her with an issue of Star and a can of TNT.
Once my Shmoops had returned to her general angelic state of being, we finally headed off to Festival. Rushing inside the dom, the meeting place for the huge fest, we were immediately greeted by one of her friends, a Doukhobor lad by the name of Mitch that had the look of alcohol-sparked enthusiasm to his eyes. He hurriedly said hello to us and then ran outside to drink with his buddies. And people say cultural pride is dead!
The Virgin Prince
Next time: HANGING WITH FAMILY
