The Virgin Prince's War Journal

To those of you with an aesthetic sense,

When I was young there was one thing I particularly wanted. It wasn’t the complete line-up of the Super Powers action toy line, nor was it a full compliment of He-Man figures, though those were a close second and third. No, my one desire was a tuxedo. My one recessive British gene somehow survived my plucky ancestors’ fateful voyage across the Atlantic in their mighty Mayflower, and manifested itself in a desire to dress myself in a black top hat and tails. You see, from a young age I had a pretty decent sense for what looks good. Not that I ever got that tuxedo, though I have made great efforts towards building myself up a fine selection of suits, and even wore a top hat for the majority of high school.

It was a classy gray hat, handed down from a relative, who himself had received it from a strange motorist while hitchhiking; not one of those tacky, generic black ones that dumb kids without a sense of individuality pick up at Hot Topic to look cool, or the kind of “beaver-skin” topper that vapid chicks buy to further fit in with their swinger friends. The hat served me well through the years and earned me a lot of nicknames (notably, “the Penguin”) until I finally retired it, after years of consistent use in all manners of weather had caused it to warp and lose shape. I’ve since misplaced it, though how a top hat disappears, I have no idea. I’m sure, however, that should I ever follow up on every man’s dream of becoming a hobo, the Lady of the Lake shall appear in a water fountain, public urinal, or bottle of Guiness to return the singular top hat with unmistakable character to me.

Other items of note within my wardrobe are my black double-breasted suit which I once used during daring spy missions (I’m amazed at the quality of the suit in how well it was able to withstand the stress of being worn as I scaled up onto rooftops, furthermore, its bulletproof weave seemingly also made it impervious to vomit), the powder-blue bellbottomed suit I used to wear when I felt like imitating Karl Kolchak (complete with ancient camera and straw hat), and a red and black checkered tuxedo jacket which allows me to channel Alan Freed every time I wear it.

As it works out, I’ve been spending a lot of time with old flings of late, and every reunion merely seems to remind me of why I never stuck around in the first place. Every girl I link up with seems to be too self-absorbed, thoughtless of others, and generally has at least one psychological condition. Furthermore, I rarely feel any sort of spark. The cynical, overly picky person I tend to be quickly finds flaws with nearly everyone. Now I seem to be comparing everyone I see with the standard I set for my ex; not the person she was necessarily, but more-so the person I thought she was. Whether she existed or not, I know how happy I was capable of being at one point, which I’m never sure whether it’s a help or a hindrance. I’ve hooked up with far too many a harpy in my time, damaging emotional vampires that I’m really not quite sure how I keep attracting. This leaves me often wondering which I’m more frustrated by: the lack of women in my life, or the quality thereof. It’d be swell to get a nice girl for a change, but I suppose the perverse logic of the universe seems to dictate that just as I keep somehow finding myself stuck with these loveless gorgons, the nice women on the other side of the coin seem to keep finding themselves attracted to men that gift them with black eyes, or knock them up to then leave them for the arms (or spread legs) of other women. I’ve certainly flirted with enough unhappy, married women to get this impression fairly well.

I’m off point. The point is, yesterday I was hanging out with a female friend with whom at one time I’d spend the mornings making out before work. It was the first time I’d seen her in a few years and, assuming that she had grown and changed a bit in that time, I’d asked her to come Christmas shopping with me, as I was interested to hang out with her and see the sort of person she’d become.

The same. Boring.

But despite the fact she hadn’t grown much of a personality, I really attempted to make the best of our situation. I tried, despite the fact it was difficult to even talk with her, her ability to converse, nil, and even stringing simple sentences together as a response seemed a bit beyond her. She tended merely to restate my statements, back in my direction. No wonder all we ever used to talk about was sex. I could barely even look her in the eye as the awkwardness was overwhelming, trying desperately to talk with this girl that just couldn’t talk. When she did speak, it was to make, far too often, a comment of how she still needed to lose 7 more pounds at least from her already frail frame. Her anorexia aside (which has become disturbingly obsessive) her only other topic of conversation was of how she thought she may very well be pregnant, as she’s gone back to sleeping with the 6’7 Armenian alcoholic jock she doesn’t actually like (she’s got the hots for another, but he’s too shy, and hasn’t yet made a move on her), and his condoms keep slipping off as he drunkenly has his way with her (an apartment’s-worth of his buddies all sitting in the other room, hearing quite well the whole show), and how he was unwilling to take her out to get the morning-after pill.

Needless to say, I was quite happy to get away from the evening on my own once more, the knowledge fairly firmly planted in my head that it would most likely be a few more years before I saw her again.

There was one break in the awkwardness, however, and this brings me to the subject. As we wandered through the shops, it was quickly apparent that she was more interested in browsing the clothing stores for herself than she was in actually looking for presents. This brought us to the topic of modern apparel, a topic on which we argued greatly.

I feel that ever since the introduction of the powdered wig, at which time fashion unquestionably peaked, the state of fashion has been in decline, losing prestige with every decade. People simply just don’t have an idea for what looks good anymore.

Back in the twenties, kids wore dress-shirts and slacks just to play stick-ball in the streets, and that was the working class! I shake uncontrollably in sheer envy of the finery that must have belonged to the children of the wealthy, those truly fortunate, personified examples of just what a dandy could be. Can you imagine how well most people looked, even in the midst of the American depression? Jeans were reserved for the workers, and for crusty old prospectors and dirt-encrusted cowboys out west. Back in the civilized world, in the modernized, mature America that was slowly stretching towards the west coast from its established home off the Atlantic, it was a time of trousers, of suspenders, of white button-up shirts, and respectable coats. It was the time of the fedora, the bowler, the flat cap, the pork pie hat, the boater, the straw hat, the Gatsby cap, and even the top-hat.

I look now at the sorry state of clothing and feel both a sensation of disdain for my fellow homo-sapien, and a pang of regret for having been born in this late period of time. I fail to see the lasting appeal of a girl’s pink t-shirt decorated in the sentence “my boyfriend’s out of town” or the allure of a black t-shirt with a star drawn upon it and the statement “porn star”. Why wear t-shirts that only serve to expose the stomach, one of the key areas that it is a shirt’s very job to cover? What is the appeal of wearing clothing that is specifically designed to largely advertise a brand-name or clothing company logo? Is there some sadomasochistic enjoyment to be had from treating oneself as a whored-out billboard, not paid for one’s efforts but rather paying extravagant amounts to the very company advertised on the item of clothing? I just don’t get it. Modern clothing sucks.

You can all stick to your big puffy FUBU jackets, and your gaudy items of Tommy Hillfiger clothing (which really just resemble the apparel of a Safeway employee anyway). I’ll stick to suits. Suits never go out of style and have existed, with gradual changes, over several centuries now. Compare this, by contrast, with, say, the failed Cross-Colours clothing line of the early 90’s.

I remember, in the days of my youth, seeing the kids of my school dressed in the gaudy, gaudy colors of this line of clothing. I believe the idea was to make a line of clothing that represented the historical and symbolic colors of Africa, yellows, and reds, and browns, and greens. It was a nice concept perhaps, but niceness doesn’t do a thing to make up for being hard on the eyes. It was particularly funny to see the numerous Caucasian males of my town dressed in the eye-torturing colors of African heritage, particularly, the image of a fat bully I knew, fully decked-out, comes to mind. Boy, did he look ridiculous; by the start of the next school year, I never saw him dressed in that particular set of gaudy wardrobe ever again.

Of course, I knew at the very first time I saw this very briefly existing collection of clothes that they were god-awful. It’s entirely possible that I’m wrong, though I’ve not found anyone to challenge my opinion on this yet, and perhaps I should also point out that I was quite aware of the inherent lameness of M.C. Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Snow, and the New Kids On the Block while the rest of young America was quite willing to offer up themselves in sweet surrender. Do I even need to point out that I was hip to William Shatner and his musical stylings long before Boston Legal was a hit show, and the release of his current critically-acclaimed album (and re-release of his classic album) or his current SERIOUS airplay on public radio stations? Do I need to bring up that I was vocally all for the resurgence of the classic kiddie-treat The Transformers when it was uncool to do so, long before Steven Spielberg decided to make a live-action movie out of the franchise?

I’ve taken a lot of crap from people in my time for not going along with the crowd, not attempting to fit in with their narrow concepts of normal society, but to me it’s clear as day. I know what’s cool.

And I beat everyone else to it by about 3 years. Give me time; Tim Curry is going to hit a huge resurgence in popularity.

For now, I’ll let you all have your doubts; I’ll let you stick to your concepts of cool and uncool. As for myself, I’ve got it all figured out. The key, if you haven’t figured it out already by looking at the very coloring scheme of my webpage, is to stick to the lessons taught by Batman’s rogues gallery. Rule number one: always wear a suit, and rule number two: stick to green and purple, and sometimes black. It is a keen sense of fashion that has contributed greatly to the lasting popularity of these vile characters. It is a talent for style (in addition, I suppose, to good character development) that has kept characters like the Joker, the Penguin, Catwoman, Two-Face, and (my favorite) the Riddler, well-known names, while, for example, Spiderman’s group of foes is memorable for being little more than a group of boring guys in animal costumes.

Honestly, Earth, Wind, and Fire have more flair.

Of course, you can all protest if you want to, but the truth of the matter is that the suit will still be alive and well when we’re all dead and buried. I just hope it won’t be made of sparkly metallic material at any time within the next few centuries. Well, I’m off to dream of Gilbert & Sullivan inspired bliss.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince