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 30, 2004
No Rest During The Work Week
Proud commanders of battleships and ye of lowly dinghies,
My memories of the Monday through Wednesday time period of my trip are a bit of a blur to me. Let me first state that when Rush Girl and myself are together, we spend a majority of our time in the process of mocking and teasing each other. It’s what we’ve come to expect, and I must say, grown to enjoy. My girl can be difficult, and can aggravate me to no end, and to be honest, it’s one of the aspects I’ve come to appreciate about her the most. I myself mock her without mercy, imitating a frail old woman any time I do an impression of her to her face, and constantly teasing her about the relative worthlessness of the Canadian dollar. It’s fine, she quite overdoes the mocking of my own country. Yet, despite all our teasing, I believe we’re quite a perfect pair. Had we known each other as children, I suspect we may have spent many joy-filled hours in the pulling of each other’s hair. This isn’t to mention that she would have been 15 and nearly fully developed when I was 12 and still growing pubes, which is no doubt every Peter Pan-aged boy’s wet dream.
That all said, I have no doubt that we mocked each other mercilessly during those days when we had way too much free time on our hands. She, calling me her “gay banker”, and I referring to her as my “strong-willed biker dyke”. How many songs did I write in her honor, to be sung in her ear as I held her wrists and forced her to do arm motions in imitation of the Village People? I recall two, but there were probably more. How many wet willies did she give me as I laid unsuspecting? How many times did I pin her arms down and force wet, sloppy kisses on her, utilizing a disgusting overabundance of tongue, and missing horribly the general area of her mouth? I can’t recall the number, though I do recall her having a mysterious problem with acne during the duration of my visit.
Monday was the day I believe I quit smoking, throwing my last cigarette in the ashtray outside of the restaurant we then entered to eat breakfast in. The place was cozy, filled with fireplaces and couches, with a trendy menu to boot. We cursed ourselves once more, always late to leave the bed in the morning, having missed breakfast. I’d really had an urge for bacon and sausage too. I settled on a chicken sandwich (the cool thing to eat while you’re in Canada) which was good, but not great. It seemed a bit dry, a bit boring. After that, we walked back to her place, my body already starting to feel discomfort from nicotine withdrawal.
The next few hours were filled with the shakes, the two of us going out to exercise. Shmoops is fortunate enough that her employer provides her with free access to a battle-training room, complete with larger-than-life holograms of Rockwell and Madonna for sparring practice. I myself had my training program set to Corey Feldman, while I believe Nads had hers set to Emanuel Lewis. The Webster workout isn’t particularly effective but it’s good at relieving stress. Perhaps I should have given it a go, it may have made quitting smoking much easier. That night, after a delicious vegetarian dinner that I wasn’t able to appreciate, due to my excessive shaking and antsiness, my Rush Girl and I watched Being There, she holding my hand and giving it a squeeze every time my cravings began to become unbearable. Even with her support, it was a difficult evening.
The next two days were more of the same, spent exercising and going through nicotine withdrawal. Nothing much of note happened up until after our Wednesday workout, during which we both developed an intense craving for pizza and beer. This prompted an immediate trip directly from the gym to the dollar pizza joint just a short distance from her home. After paying our money and taking our first sip of beer from tap and having our first bite of pizza, it seemed the small snacking experience we were about to have would be quite nice. This was not to be the case.
The two of us sat in the rear corner of the joint, furthest away from the windows, with no staff anywhere near our position. As we slowly began to appreciate our cold beer and hot pizza (we were maybe two, three bites in) and old Canuck drunk picked up a stool from the table beside us, then put it back down. I initially thought nothing of this, assuming he was merely doing some sort of personal inspection, but then quickly noticed the two young, shining examples of white trash and their chubby, ebony, female companion heckling him. These three younger punks, ranging in their 20s to 30s, were clearly picking a fight with this solitary man drinking his beer. What was worse, they too were picking up chairs, and being a lot less subtle about what they intended to do, and I doubted they would care about the fact that Shmoops and I were two complete strangers completely uninvolved in this manner.
Now if there’s one thing I hate, it’s seeing a group of young punks harass and gang up on one old drunk. As if it isn’t bad enough that not one of these individuals can present a pair of balls, it makes it that much sadder that three of them together still can’t come up with a collective pair, opting instead to try to provoke a fight with an opponent that shows a clear disadvantage in the areas of general health, age, fitness, number of allies, and, to top it all off, these three fucks are STILL looking for weapons with which to attack him, I assume because even with their greater numbers, they’re still afraid to get close to him.
The saddest thing is, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen this happen.
Regardless, Shmoops and I hurried through our beers and pizza and got the heck out of there, we were far too tired from our workout to be dealing with this sort of crap. Furthermore, it was the responsibility of the staff to call the police and diffuse the situation, but they chose instead to ignore the whole event unfolding in their restaurant, and Nads and I certainly weren’t willing to scuff our shoes or blacken our eyes for the sake of their place of business. How could we possibly feel bad if a barstool flew through their window? Allowing thugs to hang out and harass others without consequence is not the best way to run a restaurant.
I remember feeling thoroughly agitated for the rest of that day, freshly reminded once more that much of humanity has not advanced that far from the sludge from which it originally came.
The arrival of Thursday meant that the time for the big borscht party was at hand. This initially had been intended as a private event between me and my Shmoops, in which she would teach me the finer points of making borscht, but had somehow gradually turned into a full-scale, massive party. Vanya and his buddy Mitch had been invited, I suppose partially in an effort to stretch out the celebration of festival, and so that I might become better acquainted with them. Likewise, Anna Banana and her boyfriend had been invited, if only to truly expose them to the musical world of William Shatner, Adam West, and Tim Curry, and perhaps, so that we males might get a few more performances of I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General under our belt. With all these guests already invited, Nads decided she might as well invite of her few of her friends as well.
Danielle, one of Nads’s friends, arrived first, carrying with her the massive box that contained the board game which we would spend the night playing. Vanya and Mitch arrived at the front door with as big a bottle of vodka as I’ve ever seen and an insane amount of food, perohi mostly, left over from our lunch in Castlegar. Anna Banana likewise brought a decent amount of the hard stuff, but was without Bryan, thus my dreams of singing away the night to the tune of Gilbert & Sullivan were crushed.
Into the kitchen we piled, all of us doing our part to help make the borscht, or merely to get drunk. Music blasted from the tiny speakers of my amore’s stereo system, the rocking sounds of William Shatner forcing us all to sit up and take notice. Like desert-stranded guppies we sucked down alcoholic beverages, pouring generous amounts of iced tea made with vodka down our throats.
Once the borscht was prepared, we crowded around the table, taking seats from wherever we could locate them, getting creative at points where necessity demanded it. Once we were all settled, the feast began. We tore through borscht like men fresh from the gulag, shoving perohi in our mouths and forcing down our throats bread and the slices of cheese we’d bought at Granville Island. We gorged ourselves until our bellies ached, and drank past double vision.
With our period of feasting ended, we moved on to the board game. It was kind of a forced event, but we all went along and played anyway, my Nads and I forming a team. Tim Curry played in the background, and we continued pouring ourselves our alcoholic iced tea, the fluid consistently spilling out of the pitcher and onto the board game, filling the boxes of trivia cards, causing Danielle to constantly nervously berate us for sullying her cardboard. The slightly uptight tinge in her voice was tangible enough to drive a stake through, and then, perhaps, spill more booze upon.
Adam West’s love ballad, You Only See Her, came on, and I couldn’t help but point out just how amazing it was that it was none other than the caped crusader singing this song. After a bit of bickering, and Shmoops being busted by the other players for trying to cheat, we eventually gave up on the game, which was clearly going nowhere. With the game out of the way, we got to the very serious business of getting blasted.
We ran inside and outside, smoking cigarettes. We spoke of loves lost, proper Russian pronunciation, and Doukhobor ethics. We compiled a group letter to the Doukhobor elders, addressing the future of Festival. We drank nearly every last bit of alcohol in the house, of which there was much more than we needed. We shrank in number as one by one the partiers passed out. Eventually, the legion of the unconscious claimed me too, as I passed out on the floor. Nads eventually woke me up, after which I crawled to the bathroom and vacated the contents of my stomach, to ensure a slightly more restful night. Vanya and Mitch took off, and Nads and I passed out on the futon, while her sister slept comfortably by herself in Shmoopy’s large bed.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
NEXT TIME: The Last Leg, The Road To Victoria
My memories of the Monday through Wednesday time period of my trip are a bit of a blur to me. Let me first state that when Rush Girl and myself are together, we spend a majority of our time in the process of mocking and teasing each other. It’s what we’ve come to expect, and I must say, grown to enjoy. My girl can be difficult, and can aggravate me to no end, and to be honest, it’s one of the aspects I’ve come to appreciate about her the most. I myself mock her without mercy, imitating a frail old woman any time I do an impression of her to her face, and constantly teasing her about the relative worthlessness of the Canadian dollar. It’s fine, she quite overdoes the mocking of my own country. Yet, despite all our teasing, I believe we’re quite a perfect pair. Had we known each other as children, I suspect we may have spent many joy-filled hours in the pulling of each other’s hair. This isn’t to mention that she would have been 15 and nearly fully developed when I was 12 and still growing pubes, which is no doubt every Peter Pan-aged boy’s wet dream.
That all said, I have no doubt that we mocked each other mercilessly during those days when we had way too much free time on our hands. She, calling me her “gay banker”, and I referring to her as my “strong-willed biker dyke”. How many songs did I write in her honor, to be sung in her ear as I held her wrists and forced her to do arm motions in imitation of the Village People? I recall two, but there were probably more. How many wet willies did she give me as I laid unsuspecting? How many times did I pin her arms down and force wet, sloppy kisses on her, utilizing a disgusting overabundance of tongue, and missing horribly the general area of her mouth? I can’t recall the number, though I do recall her having a mysterious problem with acne during the duration of my visit.
Monday was the day I believe I quit smoking, throwing my last cigarette in the ashtray outside of the restaurant we then entered to eat breakfast in. The place was cozy, filled with fireplaces and couches, with a trendy menu to boot. We cursed ourselves once more, always late to leave the bed in the morning, having missed breakfast. I’d really had an urge for bacon and sausage too. I settled on a chicken sandwich (the cool thing to eat while you’re in Canada) which was good, but not great. It seemed a bit dry, a bit boring. After that, we walked back to her place, my body already starting to feel discomfort from nicotine withdrawal.
The next few hours were filled with the shakes, the two of us going out to exercise. Shmoops is fortunate enough that her employer provides her with free access to a battle-training room, complete with larger-than-life holograms of Rockwell and Madonna for sparring practice. I myself had my training program set to Corey Feldman, while I believe Nads had hers set to Emanuel Lewis. The Webster workout isn’t particularly effective but it’s good at relieving stress. Perhaps I should have given it a go, it may have made quitting smoking much easier. That night, after a delicious vegetarian dinner that I wasn’t able to appreciate, due to my excessive shaking and antsiness, my Rush Girl and I watched Being There, she holding my hand and giving it a squeeze every time my cravings began to become unbearable. Even with her support, it was a difficult evening.
The next two days were more of the same, spent exercising and going through nicotine withdrawal. Nothing much of note happened up until after our Wednesday workout, during which we both developed an intense craving for pizza and beer. This prompted an immediate trip directly from the gym to the dollar pizza joint just a short distance from her home. After paying our money and taking our first sip of beer from tap and having our first bite of pizza, it seemed the small snacking experience we were about to have would be quite nice. This was not to be the case.
The two of us sat in the rear corner of the joint, furthest away from the windows, with no staff anywhere near our position. As we slowly began to appreciate our cold beer and hot pizza (we were maybe two, three bites in) and old Canuck drunk picked up a stool from the table beside us, then put it back down. I initially thought nothing of this, assuming he was merely doing some sort of personal inspection, but then quickly noticed the two young, shining examples of white trash and their chubby, ebony, female companion heckling him. These three younger punks, ranging in their 20s to 30s, were clearly picking a fight with this solitary man drinking his beer. What was worse, they too were picking up chairs, and being a lot less subtle about what they intended to do, and I doubted they would care about the fact that Shmoops and I were two complete strangers completely uninvolved in this manner.
Now if there’s one thing I hate, it’s seeing a group of young punks harass and gang up on one old drunk. As if it isn’t bad enough that not one of these individuals can present a pair of balls, it makes it that much sadder that three of them together still can’t come up with a collective pair, opting instead to try to provoke a fight with an opponent that shows a clear disadvantage in the areas of general health, age, fitness, number of allies, and, to top it all off, these three fucks are STILL looking for weapons with which to attack him, I assume because even with their greater numbers, they’re still afraid to get close to him.
The saddest thing is, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen this happen.
Regardless, Shmoops and I hurried through our beers and pizza and got the heck out of there, we were far too tired from our workout to be dealing with this sort of crap. Furthermore, it was the responsibility of the staff to call the police and diffuse the situation, but they chose instead to ignore the whole event unfolding in their restaurant, and Nads and I certainly weren’t willing to scuff our shoes or blacken our eyes for the sake of their place of business. How could we possibly feel bad if a barstool flew through their window? Allowing thugs to hang out and harass others without consequence is not the best way to run a restaurant.
I remember feeling thoroughly agitated for the rest of that day, freshly reminded once more that much of humanity has not advanced that far from the sludge from which it originally came.
The arrival of Thursday meant that the time for the big borscht party was at hand. This initially had been intended as a private event between me and my Shmoops, in which she would teach me the finer points of making borscht, but had somehow gradually turned into a full-scale, massive party. Vanya and his buddy Mitch had been invited, I suppose partially in an effort to stretch out the celebration of festival, and so that I might become better acquainted with them. Likewise, Anna Banana and her boyfriend had been invited, if only to truly expose them to the musical world of William Shatner, Adam West, and Tim Curry, and perhaps, so that we males might get a few more performances of I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General under our belt. With all these guests already invited, Nads decided she might as well invite of her few of her friends as well.
Danielle, one of Nads’s friends, arrived first, carrying with her the massive box that contained the board game which we would spend the night playing. Vanya and Mitch arrived at the front door with as big a bottle of vodka as I’ve ever seen and an insane amount of food, perohi mostly, left over from our lunch in Castlegar. Anna Banana likewise brought a decent amount of the hard stuff, but was without Bryan, thus my dreams of singing away the night to the tune of Gilbert & Sullivan were crushed.
Into the kitchen we piled, all of us doing our part to help make the borscht, or merely to get drunk. Music blasted from the tiny speakers of my amore’s stereo system, the rocking sounds of William Shatner forcing us all to sit up and take notice. Like desert-stranded guppies we sucked down alcoholic beverages, pouring generous amounts of iced tea made with vodka down our throats.
Once the borscht was prepared, we crowded around the table, taking seats from wherever we could locate them, getting creative at points where necessity demanded it. Once we were all settled, the feast began. We tore through borscht like men fresh from the gulag, shoving perohi in our mouths and forcing down our throats bread and the slices of cheese we’d bought at Granville Island. We gorged ourselves until our bellies ached, and drank past double vision.
With our period of feasting ended, we moved on to the board game. It was kind of a forced event, but we all went along and played anyway, my Nads and I forming a team. Tim Curry played in the background, and we continued pouring ourselves our alcoholic iced tea, the fluid consistently spilling out of the pitcher and onto the board game, filling the boxes of trivia cards, causing Danielle to constantly nervously berate us for sullying her cardboard. The slightly uptight tinge in her voice was tangible enough to drive a stake through, and then, perhaps, spill more booze upon.
Adam West’s love ballad, You Only See Her, came on, and I couldn’t help but point out just how amazing it was that it was none other than the caped crusader singing this song. After a bit of bickering, and Shmoops being busted by the other players for trying to cheat, we eventually gave up on the game, which was clearly going nowhere. With the game out of the way, we got to the very serious business of getting blasted.
We ran inside and outside, smoking cigarettes. We spoke of loves lost, proper Russian pronunciation, and Doukhobor ethics. We compiled a group letter to the Doukhobor elders, addressing the future of Festival. We drank nearly every last bit of alcohol in the house, of which there was much more than we needed. We shrank in number as one by one the partiers passed out. Eventually, the legion of the unconscious claimed me too, as I passed out on the floor. Nads eventually woke me up, after which I crawled to the bathroom and vacated the contents of my stomach, to ensure a slightly more restful night. Vanya and Mitch took off, and Nads and I passed out on the futon, while her sister slept comfortably by herself in Shmoopy’s large bed.
The Virgin Prince
NEXT TIME: The Last Leg, The Road To Victoria
