The Virgin Prince's War Journal

Fleshlings, one and all,

I've been left thinking about my past, and how Michael Jackson relates to it. I suppose it all started back when I was in pre-school, and every morning, shortly after being dropped off, I, dressed in my red jacket, would promptly begin my daily imitation of Michael Jackson, dancing on the floor and letting out high-pitched "ooh!"s. Michael Jackson was of course huge at the time, and his album was ever present on the floor of my living room, not tucked away in the bottom cabinet with the other albums, but leaning against it, forever engraving in my mind the image of Michael Jackson laying on the floor in his white suit. His video Beat It was played in constant rotation on the television, and on occasion, Thriller was as well. I suppose you could say that aside from my father and a handful of Star Wars characters, Michael Jackson was my first real male role-model. It's not as bad as it sounds, he was still black at the time, resembled a male, and quite frankly, hip. Back then, it even seemed like he liked women.

Every morning I continued my routine of imitating Michael Jackson. I suppose I thought he was pretty cool. There was a girl I liked back then (if it's possible to like girls in pre-school), her name, I think, was Stephanie. It's been too long, I really can't recall. Every time, I would dance like Michael Jackson, and she would be there watching, cheering me on and smiling. That was the extent of our relationship as I recall it, still, it was clear that we were sweet on eachother. I had a lot of fun in those early pre-school days, playing with He-Man figures, Star Wars figures, riding around on a tricycle, imitating Elliot from E.T., emulating Indiana Jones on the swing set, crawling underneath the play area where I wasn't supposed to be, sneaking with my friend Will into the storage closet and painting ourselves green so that we could each be the Hulk, and breathing in the exhaust of passing cars and enjoying it far too much.

Later, it was time for Kindergarten and I was transferred to a new school. It was run by the same people, but decidedly less fun. The staff there always seemed to have a grudge against me, confiscating my toys (as was standard for any student) but then giving them back to everyone else. I never got my toys back. Not that they didn't give them back, they just never gave them back to me. For some reason, I'm not sure why, they'd give my toys to everyone else. Other kids, perhaps they liked better, or the children of teachers. There was only one time I can recall they actually attempted to give me a toy back, however another kid started claiming it was his. I don't know why, whether it was a deliberate lie, or he was just confused, though I think he knew he was lying. I had, after all, brought in the toy and had it confiscated the same day, I knew durn-well what my toy looked like. Eventually, the guy that ran the place sat us both down in his office and questioned us. I told him how it was my toy and I'd brought it from home, the other kid proceeded to make up a big story about how it was his. Guess who got it?

It always has, and continues to, tick me off when I think about all the toys those people stole from me. Had they given even half of them back, I'd have a fortune in old Star Wars figures (yes, they ARE worth a lot), and I'd have the two first Transformers I ever got, which I've been trying unsuccessfully for years to replace. Part of what bothers me the most, is I often didn't get to keep my toys for even a week.

Halfway through the year at my new school, there was a massive influx of new students. One of the kids I remember I immediately noticed, he had a certain swagger to him that I didn't trust. Freddy, I think his name was. Before long Stephanie was hanging around him instead. Not that I minded too much, but one day I started to dance for her, once more imitating Michael Jackson.

"Michael Jackson sucks." She told me, repeating the words of the newcomer. There was a hurtful tone to the way she said it, the comment wasn't aimed solely at Michael Jackson. I went outside to swing on the swing set alone, a strange pain in my stomach. She never spoke to me again.

Not too long after that, I was kicked out of the place. I guess I wasn't feeling too chipper anymore. I pulled out a large clump of another kid's hair after he dumped a large bucket of sand on my head for no apparent reason. I didn't even know the kid. I guess that's why anger took over.

I don't think I was generally too bad a kid there. I didn't steal other people's toys, like they stole mine. I didn't try to be mean. I didn't intentionally swear. I only recall doing a few bad things. My parents took away my cowboy boots because I'd been kicking people with them, though I doubt I was kicking them solely for the sake of kicking them, they'd probably been teasing or harassing me at the time. I remember there was at least one kid at the school that delighted in tearing up the pictures I had drawn, only for the sake of doing it.

Once, I said, “Tina Turner is a bitch” into a microphone connected to a loud speaker. My statement was heard throughout the school. I wasn’t trying to be bad, I was just repeating something my sister had told me, and Tina Turner just happened to be playing at the time. I also deliberately smashed the head of a porcelain doll that had belonged to one of my classmates. The doll had been given to her by her grandmother, I think, and I fear, it was a family heirloom. I hadn't smashed the doll’s head out of pure maliciousness, though perhaps there was some present. The truth was, the doll scared me. Those dolls with the porcelain heads always scared me and caused me nightmares, they often haunted my unpleasant dreams. There was a room in my aunt’s house I couldn’t enter until I was 10 because it was filled with those terrifying things.

I wasn’t really a bad kid I think. I was actually pretty friendly and even affectionate. I remember making a new friend and kissing him on the cheek. He pushed me away and told me that guys didn’t kiss other guys. It was new information to me, I always kissed my father on the cheek after all.

To this day, two of my biggest regrets come from pre-school. I've always felt bad about pulling out that kid's hair, though everyone has assured me it would grow back. As for the porcelain doll, I didn't remember that until later, but upon getting a full recollection of the event, I felt absolutely horrible. I'd aged enough to no longer be afraid of those hideous things, and had developed an understanding of it's actual worth. I'm sorry, truly sorry for it. I'm sorry for it all.

A year later, I was in first grade and going to public school. My Christmas score had been pretty good. I got a kick-ass Transformer that my grandfather broke within an hour of opening, and, strangely enough, a Michael Jackson doll. I suppose my mother put my fan-ship of Michael Jackson before any concerns of giving a boy a doll. She repeated this on a later Christmas when, noting my dream of being an astronaut, she gave me a Cabbage Patch Kid in a space-suit. Still, I was by no means disappointed to receive my Michael Jackson doll. I thought it was actually pretty cool. He was in his early pseudo-military outfit and most likely came with the one white glove. He was an interesting addition to the Sonny and Cher and Donny and Marie dolls already in our household.

So when show-and-tell time rolled around in school, I knew what I was bringing. The Michael Jackson doll of course! But that’s not all. Now, stop me if you don’t get my logic, but isn’t it always better when you have a set of toys that go together as opposed to just one? I mean, a Batman figure is good, but if you’ve got Robin and the Joker too, you can set up way more interesting situations, and if you’ve got the car, well then, you’re set! Anyway, with that logic running through my head, I borrowed my sister’s Barbie car and a few of her dolls, so as to further impress my classmates.

I spent the majority of that day at school walking around with a pink Barbie car sticking out of the top of my backpack. Every so often, a boy would ask me what I was doing with a girl’s toy, mocking me slightly. I’d of course tell them it was my sister’s toy, not thinking much of it. Finally, the time for show and tell came and I walked up proudly with my backpack, dumping out the contents for all to see.

“This is my Michael Jackson doll,” I told the class, “and he fits in this car. But this car’s cool because it’ll hold four people, see?” I’d shoved three other dolls into the seats. I rolled it back and forth once to show off the car in all it’s glory.

The class watched me with mixed reactions. Half of them I’m sure didn’t really think much of it though. The reaction that sticks out in my memory is the teacher’s. She was well aware that something was very strange, at least from her viewpoint. She made no efforts to shut me up and spare me embarrassment however, no attempt to convince the class that I was indeed acting quite normally or that it’s okay to appreciate the toys meant for another gender, the toys of one’s sibling. No, the biggest look of disgust was on her face, and she spoke to me in a mocking tone, joining the class in treating me like a junior pariah. I sat down on the floor once more with my classmates, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

I’m sure it’d been determined then and there in my teacher’s mind, and perhaps the minds of a few of the more socially-aware children that I would grow up to be quite a dandy. That indeed one of these kids was not like the others. Not that I had any concept of “gay”. From the first time I saw a partially-exposed woman on the box for a shower-head at the tender age of 4 or 5, I knew what I wanted. Guys and girls, that’s how I understood it. This is all unnecessary information, the point is, I learned that day that boys play with boy toys and girls play with girl toys and if you go against that, there’s something wrong with you.

Back to Michael Jackson, I continued to appreciate him for the next few years. He was, after all, the epitome of cool. I did the Captain Eo experience at Disneyland, played the Moonwalker videogame, memorized the lyrics to Bad, or, failing that, Weird Al’s Fat, and watched The Wiz over and over throughout my childhood, my favorite character always being the extremely soft-spoken scarecrow. Smooth Criminal constantly echoed throughout the insides of my skull.

Then Black Or White came around and Michael Jackson really wasn’t that interesting anymore. I mean, it was a cool video, but then he followed it up with that really awful video with Eddy Murphy and that was it for him. Career death. So Michael Jackson sucks. Kindergarten prophecy comes true.

Did he touch boys? Who knows? There’s enough reasons out there to not like him. Deliberately outbidding his then-friend Paul McCartney and getting the rights to all the Beatle’s songs, then not answering McCartney’s calls when he decided to sell, and promptly selling the songs to Sony. Well I suppose Linda McCartney is partially to blame, she did give away the song rights in the first place, to a greedy music exec, no less. But then there’s Jackson’s self-appointed demi-god status, his questionable marriages, the two-kids he owns that aren’t his. All this and he’s incapable of even admitting the truth about himself, such as providing a realistic number of plastic surgeries he’s had done, or claiming that his last two kids are his and that the mother was black. Two black parents don’t normally produce white kids.

You know, the more I think about it, the more I think that Stephanie telling me that Michael Jackson sucks and the hair-pulling incident happened on the same day, which explains a lot to me. Well, it doesn’t matter. The past is filled with unpleasant memories and I think perhaps there are some things better not remembered. Forget the past, tomorrow I’m back to crime fighting. There’s always tomorrow.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Dearest comrades,

I came to the realization nearly a year ago that a Storm Trooper's uniform can indeed look quite flattering on a female form. While I'm not sure if it's the type of thing that would look universally wonderful on all women, it certainly suited the tall, slender redhead that stood out prominently among her fellow soldiers on a San Francisco sidewalk. Also at the comic book convention I was attending with the Green Mike and Red Raven, there was another pack of people in uniform, namely, a large group of Stargate SG-1 enthusiasts. While I respect their fanship of a syndicated Sci-Fi show, I couldn't help but look down on them, at least a little bit, for being fans of a show with such poor writing and cliché solutions to the weekly problems faced. Needless to say, their camoflage soldier uniforms were not as flattering to the females wearing them. I myself was dressed in a black suit, white shirt with the top button unbuttoned, loosened double-windsored black tie (I had been partying the night before after all), and my polished black and white shoes. Even with the few hours-worth of stubble I had, I looked much cooler than them, though probably not half as cool as the guy that came dressed as Pimp Green Arrow.

When The Green Mike and I weren't snickering at their expense, we were busy looking at bootleg videos and observing the celebrities in attendance. Regretfully, I lost my chance to speak to the ultra-beautiful redheaded goddess, Cassandra Peterson, better known as Elvira. There is still a tinge of regret there, I not seizing my opportunity to talk with the former Vegas showgirl, the lady who lost her virginity to Tom Jones (and subsequently had to have medical attention), the classy dame that worked with Frederico Fellini in her young years, and later, alongside Paul Reubens in Pee Wee's Big Adventure. The woman who so captivated me in my youth with that marvellous rack partially concealed under that tight black dress, and in my early adulthood with her slender gorgeous body, a nice ivory color, contrasted by the natural, fire-red hair that existed on both the upper and lower halves of her body, a vision made available to me courtesy of the photographs she'd posed for in her youth.

There was an unexpected surprise later in the convention. As we strolled around, I noticed a booth behind us with several pictures of noted Penthouse Pet, internet model, and not quite pornstar, not quite actress, Aria Giovanni. "Ooh! Aria Giovanni!" I said in surprise, no doubt very audibly. I then looked up to see her standing there. "Oh shit!" I thought as I quickly walked away. I panicked. She wasn't on the guest list! What does one say to one of such beauty, one of such fame? Call it superficial if you wish, to hold in such high regard one famous for nothing more than having a stellar body and being willing to show it for money. But if only you could see her smile. Oh lord, her beautiful smile.

A smile that could launch a hundred warships to Troy. A smile that could make the old and infirm feel young and strong. I suppose you could say that smiles are the most important thing to me on a woman. It's certainly the first thing I look for and the thing that attracts me most. It was indeed a smile that put me under Rush Girl's power, a smile so appealing and lovely. It is without a doubt Mandy Moore's smile that has caused my infatuation with her. A delicate and genuine smile that shows more clearly than words that inside, she knows real happiness, that at her core there is a genuinely beautiful soul. Likewise, it is Britney Spears' unappealing, artificial, and labored-looking smile which makes any attraction for her minimal, helps to form my opinion that she is shrivelled, cancerous, and empty inside, and seems to reinforce my feelings that she is merely a faker, a paid whore. She attempts to deceive us with her smile, and that makes me angry. Faith Hill is another that wears a clearly false smile, and it causes me to despise her. That and her trite music.

Back to the story at hand, after making my swift getaway, I suddenly realized that nervous as I was, if I passed up on a chance to talk to the great Aria Giovanni, I would surely regret it for a long time to come. I had to go back. This time I would be ready. Though himself paired with the Red Raven, Green Mike accompanied me for moral support.

"I think you rock." I told Ms. Giovanni as I presented her with a big thumbs-up.

"Oh, why thank you!" she said to me, widening her smile in such a way as one does when they actually do feel flattered and glad to hear what you've said.

We made small-talk, discussed her projects, what she was working on, what the life was like. "Here, take a card," she told me, shoving a postcard in my hand, the picture on it was a rather flattering one of her in nothing but a pair of thin pink panties. I asked her about the films she'd worked on, which prompted her to direct my attention to a stack of adult videos she'd done. Though I'd been referring to the actual acting she'd done in plot-driven films (admittedly low-budget movies), I suppose she assumed that all anyone would be interested in from her were scenes of her stripping, showering, shaving her pubic region, and shoving her hand in her crotch. I thought she was selling herself short, and it saddened me a bit.

What impressed me the most about Aria Giovanni was how nice she was. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, based on the opinions I'd formed on her smile in the photographs. She seemed honestly to enjoy talking to me, had not treated me in the thinly-veiled disgusted and patronizing manner I had expected from a statuesque model talking to yet another nobody fan-boy. She'd impressed the crap out of me.

Though before I'd even arrived at the convention I had firmly decided that I wished to write, that I would make efforts to follow that as a possible career, it was without a doubt Aria Giovanni that gave me my ultimate feelings of motivation. I decided that when I came back a year later, I wanted to be somebody. When I next would see Aria Giovanni, I wanted to feel not as a lesser, but as an equal, a semi-celebrity in my own right. I wanted to be able to ask her to pose for the cover of my very own comic book. That is the tale of how I got my first great push of motivation, the energy which started me on the furious process of constant writing.

Many months have passed since, and I'd all but forgotten of Aria Giovanni. While rifling through my drawer of personal items the other night, looking for a comb so that I might trim my sideburns, I found my long-lost pocket-knife, given to me by my cousin all those summers ago, and that well-worn postcard of Aria Giovanni. I looked at it again out of curiosity. Though she remains cute as ever, I felt no special feelings, no overwhelming desire to meet her again. Rush Girl has her claws in me now. It is her I desire, her I miss, her I want. My feelings have changed about so many things.

So without the desire to impress Aria Giovanni, why do I write? I write because I like to write. I write because I'm good at it. I write because people like what I write and I like to entertain. I write because The Virgin Prince is the best darn superhero around and I won't stop until I'm damn sure you all know that. I'll have a partner in my quest, for Rush Girl too has a love for the English language and an ability for sculpting grand groupings of words. And sometimes, it's a good feeling to be joined in your mission.

I have to go now, Bobo the Virgin Chimp has made a terrible mess all over my Twister mat. It's better you don't ask.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Friends and Foes,

Too long has it been since I've written. Too long since the gelatinous orbs in your skulls took in the vision of fresh, new literary finery. Too long since your minds were reminded once more of my absolute magnificence. Suffer the blandness of your peon-minds no longer, the Virgin Prince has returned!

I've been ridiculously busy with work, crime-fighting, and vampire hunting, not to mention a few bouts of ceremonial combat in the underground mud-pits of the jade women, the warrior people that live in the center of the Earth. Three fierce female warriors I had to face, so that they might complete the ritual of attaining womanhood. Indeed, at times during the grappling match, it felt that I myself had likewise achieved manhood. Though I held my own, the fighters initially overwhelmed me with an attack I had never seen before, "the camel-toe-stomp". Indeed, the girls were well-trained, I very nearly submitted. After nearly passing out from lack of oxygen, I quickly adapted, and repelled the comely lasses once more. Strange that they should know what camels are, down deep within the center of the Earth.

A recent phone conversation with Rush Girl reminded me of my annoyance with Bush. Now that we've successfully landed two rovers on Mars, suddenly the prez wants to build a base on the moon and send people to Mars, this within 15 years. NASA has been saying we're at least 30 years from going to Mars, but what would they know? Conversely, it's well known that everyone that gets a cushy position in the National Guard is well-trained in astrophysics, with extra lessons given to those that abandon their posts. And in order to properly run an oil company into the ground, one must first have a complete knowledge of our current technological ability.

And where will the money come from for this ridiculously large project? Never fear, Bush has it all planned out. The cost will of course be paid by the middle and lower class families of our fair nation, thanks to extra taxation. But fear not, the upper class will do it's part as well, no doubt providing future well-paid NASA staff and astronauts, courtesy of their expensively, and therefore better, educated children.

The saddest thing of all is that NASA has pulled the plug on the Hubble telescope, probably our greatest achievement in space in recent years, due to El Presidente's mandate. Though it continues to function properly and still maintains great potential, the Hubble will be allowed to turn into space-junk and drift off, so that we can focus instead on the fantastic trip to Mars. I hope they make sure to pad the ship with garlic for protection against space-vampires and rainbow-tracking software for finding pots of gold. The crew will have to be the best of the best, namely Papa Smurf, Frankenstein, Strawberry Shortcake, the Little Prince, and Falcor, the luck-dragon. Gee, I sure hope they don't lose any teeth during the voyage, that'd be a long way for the tooth-fairy to travel.

At least Hubble is a reality.

Of course, this is the problem with a president that has the mental development of an 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy with a coke habit. We send a few rovers to Mars and suddenly Bush realizes that space is cool, having already outgrown his collection of Yu-Gi-Oh cards. "We're gonna build a space station on the moon and go to Mars!" he proudly exclaims. If we'd found a new dinosaur fossil instead, I have no doubt that Bush would have promised us Jurassic Park in 15 years. Oh well, all that's left to do is wait for Bush to get bored and move back to an interest in cowboys, or Pokémon.

As Johnny Cash said, “There’s a silver lining behind every cloud.” I have glorious news as well! William Shatner is coming out with another album. Thank god! It’s about time. Those Priceline commercials have been off the air for some time now, and the only recent song on a cd is his “Still In Love” song with Ben Folds. Wait, I take that back. There’s also “Miss United States” from the Miss Congeniality soundtrack. But prior to that, we hadn’t heard from him since “The Transformed Man”, and woefully, that is out of print.

The new album was produced by Ben Folds of course, who likewise was on the Priceline commercials with old Bill. The album will also feature guest appearances, including Kris Kristofferson and Henry Rollins. Perhaps, with a little luck, when this album comes out later this year, it’ll prompt a rerelease of “The Transformed Man”. A man can hope. I have my happy thought!

All this, plus an upcoming Batman movie that WON’T be horribly destroyed by Joel Schumacher and his homosexual fantasies. Well I’d better get going, there’s a burrito shop out there that needs patrolling, but I’ll be back tomorrow, and with tales of grand, new adventures! Try not to go incontinent as you wait until then.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince