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.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Lessons From Sci-Fi or Hi-Fi
“Mr. Spock, on your planet, women are logical. That’s the only planet in this galaxy that has that distinction.”
-Captain Kirk
To all you vertebrates on Valium, Vicadin, Viox, and Viagra,
It’s been one of those days where I just can’t stop singing “The Edison Museum” to myself, though I know virtually none of the lyrics , thus, I hum most of it. I’ve been humming this fugue of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore, because my mind is afflicted with the condition of having far too much thought going towards Brian Dewan. Perhaps it’s the entirely unique sound of his self-built zither that has me so entranced, or perhaps merely his mastery of lyrics in terms of folklore and originality, or perhaps still it’s his distinctive singing voice, I couldn’t say. What I do know is that I’ve been getting 3:00 a.m. urges to hear “Rumplestiltskin”, and when I wake up in the morning, a listening of “99 Cops” is my first thought, and, seemingly, a requirement if I’m to be stirred from rest. It’s like a strong cup of joe, 15 See’s sugar-sticks, a Jolt Cola mint, and an act of physical appreciation as performed by a lithe young Brazilian female dressed in a sailor outfit, all rolled into one.
I used to like Brian Dewan, but these past few days, his musical works have affected me like the second coming of Johnny Cash. Maybe there’s just something to guys that build their own experimental instruments. It certainly worked for Queen’s Brian May, and Devo, for that matter. That short little student film with the prototype electronic drum set gained viewings spanning the world, gaining many a Japanese imitator in the process, and stopping along the way in Germany to further apply an impression on Kraftwerk.
Whatever the case, I blame my old pal Super-Crowl, for turning me on to this bizarre, classically-trained innovator of modern music.
Old Super-Crowl would swagger into the coffee shop where we used to all hang out between classes, slump back in one of the couches, open-legged, and immediately figure out a way to bring up a frank discussion of what usually turned out to be sexual experiences and histories. Somehow, he was the one guy that could pull this off without seeming at all like a lecherous old pervert, though certainly, he was a small bit lascivian, this was unavoidable, but his sense of humor, that ever-present slight-grin, and that small bit of feigned innocence he always used in his defense, always kept him in our good graces. Sooner or later, there’d be the inevitable command, “Cut your hair!” spewing from his mouth whenever my hair got a little too shaggy, or I went a few days too many without shaving.
This, of course, was a line from one of his favorite Brian Dewan songs, whom, in time, he would educate us about.
Of course, back in those days I went by the name of “Big Beard”, a name Super-Crowl himself had picked for me, due to my lack of any real ability to grow facial hair, and based on the name of a beardless soldier, crudely drawn on the back of the cardboard packaging for some cheap $1 G.I.Joe knock-off, that came with a helmet that didn’t fit (the head already had a hat sculpted on to it), a TNT (or moonshine) barrel he couldn’t hold, and an arm that was already snapped off when the toy was still mint in package. Of all of us in the core group of male friends that loitered around that coffee shop, we all took names from the poorly-drawn group of soldiers pictured on that brown cardboard. The Lusty Lascivian, who had bought the toy, as I recall, became “Sea-Hank”, which we all assumed had to be a misprint. Super-Crowl became “Captain J.B.”, though I often called him “Captain B.J.”, as there was no question he was easily the seasoned commander of our small squad. Neither of his names really stuck, however, both lacking the inherent machismo and grandeur of names such as “Big Beard” and “Sea Hank”.
The day I first met my tall pal, we were both sitting on opposite sides of the same coffee table, around which all of us young slackers would center ourselves. We’d never spoken before, but we knew the same people, and it was he that spoke first. As I recall, at the time I was manhandling a Transformer, a scarab I’d bought for $5, and was transforming as a matter of curiosity. It was at this point the big guy randomly asked me a question about what I recall to be the topic of cunnilingus. I didn’t know how to respond, having no knowledge of the subject, I, being very much a virgin prince. There were two or three others of pure virtue amongst our number of friends, though I was singularly noticed, being the only virginal male of the pack; Mr. Mystere, the prude from New England, having left our number for his journey to Fresno.
Being surprised that he had stumbled upon one with such purity and naiveté as myself, old Super-Crowl downplayed the revelation with the simple statement which would soon become a commonly-stated catchphrase used only between him and I.
“Someday, you will be a passionate man!”
It wasn’t long after that “Big Beard” preceded the statement, and Super-Crowl and I were good pals. By then, I had developed the “evil eye of Big Beard” and had my own trademarked catchphrase I used in response to my tall pal. Those were fun days, when we were care-free wild-men, our biggest concern the songs of sock puppets, and the occasional boxing match. We were all so young then, myself, Cap’n B.J., Sea Hank, Immoral B, Foxy Valentino, and Mr. Mystere. Those were the days of Hawaiian shirts and bell-bottom jeans, and barely a hair graced my chest.
As the time has passed, we’ve all seen less of each other, the Cap’n having become a virtual phantom, rarely heard from and even more scarcely seen. He calls about three times a year, whenever a notable holiday occurs. Foxy Valentino left us for the warmer climate of Southern California, and now only pops up for brief periods of time, most of which are spent by him, the Lusty Lascivian, and I, drinking whiskey, running, and eating pizza. Mr. Mystere has become a bit of a hermit, or at the very least, doesn’t like going outside when it’s dark. Immoral B and the Lascivian have become less sociable as well, either for reasons of rarely seen girlfriends, or for an over-commitment towards work.
As for all the other friends of mine from the days before or directly following the time of coffee table conversation, I’ve nearly completely lost touch with all. My buddy The Castle occasionally calls from Florida with tales of leaving freshly-baked pies on the porch-steps of females he’s attempting to woo, and he notably has much less success than he did when he was on the western coast of the country. I hear from him probably only about once a month, and of all my friends with whom I was once very close, either before, or following the time of B.J., Big Beard, and Sea Hank, he’s the only one I hear from at all.
It amazes me just how many friendships have slipped through my fingers. I suppose this is why I’ve been incredibly impressed by my good pals the Red Rightwing, and the Caroling Canuck. Where the rest of my friends are slowly losing contact, and enabling our friendships to slowly dissipate, the two-fisted two from Santa Cruz have been remarkably consistent in calling me and in joining me in hijinks. The three of us even walked away from a car crash together. Their good friendship hasn’t gone unnoticed by me, and I was more than happy to petition the government on their behalf to ensure the risk of deportation wouldn’t remove them from American soil.
I must say I continue to be surprised at the way things turned out, considering the Red Rightwing and I had never been particularly close in our earlier days, he seemingly feeling much more comfortable in the company of Immoral B or Mr. Mystere when we were in, and fresh out of, high school. We were initially just casual acquaintances, meeting through them. Likewise, the Caroling Canuck was a complete stranger to me, up until the day she wed ol’ Red, which was the first time I met her. I think we shared a “Hello”, and that was all I knew of her until we hung out again, which must have been months later. The amount of times we’ve hung out since could still probably be counted on my fingers and toes. Yet these people, who both started out as perfect strangers, still call me for every party, and always leave a futon or tent free for me at every carousal.
All said, I’m glad to have people like them as friends.
I’ve traveled terribly off-subject haven’t I, starting with Brian Dewan and meandering over to my friends Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck? Not at all! For you see, just this past Friday night I engaged in a loud and boisterous rendition of “The Edison Museum” while at their abode. When I was done singing about the “oldest, greatest, and most famous haunted mansion in New Jersey”, the room had cleared, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.
Still beats the Black Eyed Peas.
Or Sublime.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
-Captain Kirk
To all you vertebrates on Valium, Vicadin, Viox, and Viagra,
It’s been one of those days where I just can’t stop singing “The Edison Museum” to myself, though I know virtually none of the lyrics , thus, I hum most of it. I’ve been humming this fugue of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore, because my mind is afflicted with the condition of having far too much thought going towards Brian Dewan. Perhaps it’s the entirely unique sound of his self-built zither that has me so entranced, or perhaps merely his mastery of lyrics in terms of folklore and originality, or perhaps still it’s his distinctive singing voice, I couldn’t say. What I do know is that I’ve been getting 3:00 a.m. urges to hear “Rumplestiltskin”, and when I wake up in the morning, a listening of “99 Cops” is my first thought, and, seemingly, a requirement if I’m to be stirred from rest. It’s like a strong cup of joe, 15 See’s sugar-sticks, a Jolt Cola mint, and an act of physical appreciation as performed by a lithe young Brazilian female dressed in a sailor outfit, all rolled into one.
I used to like Brian Dewan, but these past few days, his musical works have affected me like the second coming of Johnny Cash. Maybe there’s just something to guys that build their own experimental instruments. It certainly worked for Queen’s Brian May, and Devo, for that matter. That short little student film with the prototype electronic drum set gained viewings spanning the world, gaining many a Japanese imitator in the process, and stopping along the way in Germany to further apply an impression on Kraftwerk.
Whatever the case, I blame my old pal Super-Crowl, for turning me on to this bizarre, classically-trained innovator of modern music.
Old Super-Crowl would swagger into the coffee shop where we used to all hang out between classes, slump back in one of the couches, open-legged, and immediately figure out a way to bring up a frank discussion of what usually turned out to be sexual experiences and histories. Somehow, he was the one guy that could pull this off without seeming at all like a lecherous old pervert, though certainly, he was a small bit lascivian, this was unavoidable, but his sense of humor, that ever-present slight-grin, and that small bit of feigned innocence he always used in his defense, always kept him in our good graces. Sooner or later, there’d be the inevitable command, “Cut your hair!” spewing from his mouth whenever my hair got a little too shaggy, or I went a few days too many without shaving.
This, of course, was a line from one of his favorite Brian Dewan songs, whom, in time, he would educate us about.
Of course, back in those days I went by the name of “Big Beard”, a name Super-Crowl himself had picked for me, due to my lack of any real ability to grow facial hair, and based on the name of a beardless soldier, crudely drawn on the back of the cardboard packaging for some cheap $1 G.I.Joe knock-off, that came with a helmet that didn’t fit (the head already had a hat sculpted on to it), a TNT (or moonshine) barrel he couldn’t hold, and an arm that was already snapped off when the toy was still mint in package. Of all of us in the core group of male friends that loitered around that coffee shop, we all took names from the poorly-drawn group of soldiers pictured on that brown cardboard. The Lusty Lascivian, who had bought the toy, as I recall, became “Sea-Hank”, which we all assumed had to be a misprint. Super-Crowl became “Captain J.B.”, though I often called him “Captain B.J.”, as there was no question he was easily the seasoned commander of our small squad. Neither of his names really stuck, however, both lacking the inherent machismo and grandeur of names such as “Big Beard” and “Sea Hank”.
The day I first met my tall pal, we were both sitting on opposite sides of the same coffee table, around which all of us young slackers would center ourselves. We’d never spoken before, but we knew the same people, and it was he that spoke first. As I recall, at the time I was manhandling a Transformer, a scarab I’d bought for $5, and was transforming as a matter of curiosity. It was at this point the big guy randomly asked me a question about what I recall to be the topic of cunnilingus. I didn’t know how to respond, having no knowledge of the subject, I, being very much a virgin prince. There were two or three others of pure virtue amongst our number of friends, though I was singularly noticed, being the only virginal male of the pack; Mr. Mystere, the prude from New England, having left our number for his journey to Fresno.
Being surprised that he had stumbled upon one with such purity and naiveté as myself, old Super-Crowl downplayed the revelation with the simple statement which would soon become a commonly-stated catchphrase used only between him and I.
“Someday, you will be a passionate man!”
It wasn’t long after that “Big Beard” preceded the statement, and Super-Crowl and I were good pals. By then, I had developed the “evil eye of Big Beard” and had my own trademarked catchphrase I used in response to my tall pal. Those were fun days, when we were care-free wild-men, our biggest concern the songs of sock puppets, and the occasional boxing match. We were all so young then, myself, Cap’n B.J., Sea Hank, Immoral B, Foxy Valentino, and Mr. Mystere. Those were the days of Hawaiian shirts and bell-bottom jeans, and barely a hair graced my chest.
As the time has passed, we’ve all seen less of each other, the Cap’n having become a virtual phantom, rarely heard from and even more scarcely seen. He calls about three times a year, whenever a notable holiday occurs. Foxy Valentino left us for the warmer climate of Southern California, and now only pops up for brief periods of time, most of which are spent by him, the Lusty Lascivian, and I, drinking whiskey, running, and eating pizza. Mr. Mystere has become a bit of a hermit, or at the very least, doesn’t like going outside when it’s dark. Immoral B and the Lascivian have become less sociable as well, either for reasons of rarely seen girlfriends, or for an over-commitment towards work.
As for all the other friends of mine from the days before or directly following the time of coffee table conversation, I’ve nearly completely lost touch with all. My buddy The Castle occasionally calls from Florida with tales of leaving freshly-baked pies on the porch-steps of females he’s attempting to woo, and he notably has much less success than he did when he was on the western coast of the country. I hear from him probably only about once a month, and of all my friends with whom I was once very close, either before, or following the time of B.J., Big Beard, and Sea Hank, he’s the only one I hear from at all.
It amazes me just how many friendships have slipped through my fingers. I suppose this is why I’ve been incredibly impressed by my good pals the Red Rightwing, and the Caroling Canuck. Where the rest of my friends are slowly losing contact, and enabling our friendships to slowly dissipate, the two-fisted two from Santa Cruz have been remarkably consistent in calling me and in joining me in hijinks. The three of us even walked away from a car crash together. Their good friendship hasn’t gone unnoticed by me, and I was more than happy to petition the government on their behalf to ensure the risk of deportation wouldn’t remove them from American soil.
I must say I continue to be surprised at the way things turned out, considering the Red Rightwing and I had never been particularly close in our earlier days, he seemingly feeling much more comfortable in the company of Immoral B or Mr. Mystere when we were in, and fresh out of, high school. We were initially just casual acquaintances, meeting through them. Likewise, the Caroling Canuck was a complete stranger to me, up until the day she wed ol’ Red, which was the first time I met her. I think we shared a “Hello”, and that was all I knew of her until we hung out again, which must have been months later. The amount of times we’ve hung out since could still probably be counted on my fingers and toes. Yet these people, who both started out as perfect strangers, still call me for every party, and always leave a futon or tent free for me at every carousal.
All said, I’m glad to have people like them as friends.
I’ve traveled terribly off-subject haven’t I, starting with Brian Dewan and meandering over to my friends Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck? Not at all! For you see, just this past Friday night I engaged in a loud and boisterous rendition of “The Edison Museum” while at their abode. When I was done singing about the “oldest, greatest, and most famous haunted mansion in New Jersey”, the room had cleared, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.
Still beats the Black Eyed Peas.
Or Sublime.
The Virgin Prince
