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
The Virgin Prince, 1:40 PM | link |

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

The Hero's Journey

Fools and Philistines, have you phalluses or fallopian tubes,

We woke up on Monday the 24th feeling like death. This seems to be the price for truly living it up. Weary, and with pounding heads, we were dragged from our beds, aching for still more rest, and perhaps, forgiveness from our bodies for the hell we had put them through the day before. But as horrible as we felt, it wasn’t just the ride home we had to look forward to/fear, we still had one more event before us, lunch with Vanya and his family.

Purely out of habit, I threw on my new purple shirt, which still had a very stiff and abrasive collar, and tied my Burt and Ernie tie around my neck tightly. This was the worst course of action possible for someone hung-over and feeling nauseous, but the notion of always looking spiffy is deeply ingrained within me, and I so wanted to look appropriate for the Doukhobor family I would be lunching with. A few quick stumbles and groans and we were off.

The four of us kids piled into the Honda, and off we sped down the windy mountain roads, in the general direction of Grand Forks, as I recall. My dearest Rush Girl was at the wheel, and handled the cd player, loading it up with Tom Jones’ Reload and anything else I saw fit. I kept myself entertained by conversing with Brian, telling him of the glory of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, of which, at that time, Canada was woefully deprived. After several winding turns and cliffside views, we were there.

Vanya’s house was somewhat difficult to find, being hidden from direct sight by a low, bushy overhang of plants over the driveway. Compounding the problem was the fact that the Doukhobor girls in the car couldn’t precisely remember where on the street his home was located. Within a minute or two, we found our way, Vanya’s father guiding us in.

Out of the car we stepped, our hung-over corpse-bodies slowly, and without balance, placing our feet on solid ground. “Hello, hello,” we said, greeting everyone as we stumbled inside the house, leaving our shoes at the door. The inside of the home was a very rare treat, the style of it looking virtually untouched since the 70s, the living room resembling something out of Casino. Unfortunately, they finally had it in their minds to update the interior appearance of the house to something more modern. How very droll. It’s truly a shame that only the youth seem to appreciate the nostalgic appearances of the past, while the adults that actually lived through such time-periods have long since grown sick of them. But I suppose that we don’t have to actually live there.

We sat on the couch and in the chairs, drinking beer, figuring a little more alcohol couldn’t possibly make us feel any worse. Nads and Vanya discussed Festival, leaving me with little more to say than to compliment Vanya on his performance. Before long, it was time for lunch, and what a feast we would have. We piled around the table (surrounding tiny tables with an excessively large amount of people seems to be a Doukhobor tradition) and were greeted with massive bowls and plates filled with food. There was a bowl of salad piled so high that it was doubtful the bottom of the bowl would ever be seen again, and a plate of perogies so numerous that they could feed a small platoon. I sat and looked at this task before me, somewhat concerned in my hung-over state about keeping my breakfast, or lack thereof, down.

After gorging ourselves to the point of fresh new stomach aches on this vegetarian feast, we went outside to receive another lesson in Doukhobor culture, the use of, and importance of, the scythe. Brian and I ran excitedly outside, this all being terribly new for us. A scythe? People use those in this day and age?

Outside, the history lesson began, chronicling the importance of the scythe in Russian history, and its impact over the years on Vanya’s family. I stood entranced, absorbing the tales of days old, while the Doukhobors around me snapped photographs of this fascinated yank. Vanya’s father stood sharpening the scythe, telling us the importance of keeping it razor-sharp, and of the proper way to handle this tool. Then, the scythe was handed to us, to give us a chance to participate in this time-honored tradition.

Brian was the first to take the scythe, I chose to bide my time, to wait and observe the proper way to do this task. Brain cut a healthy swath into the alfalfa crop growing in the yard, all the while impressing the Doukhobors standing around us with the ease at which he took to this new task. After him, came myself, looking quite a sight in my suit and tie, carrying a scythe. I received a brief instruction on the proper way to hold the scythe, after which I too began to cut the crop with a similar natural ability. I do recall that these country-raised Doukhobors seemed impressed by the fact that a suburb-raised California-boy so naturally took to wielding the scythe, though I’m not entirely sure why. The act of scything wasn’t that far from golfing, or playing croquet, or even using one of the old-style weed-whackers.

Lastly, my dearest Rush Girl took the scythe, her face red with nervousness. This part of my trip to Canada I remember especially fondly, for during the entirety of the weekend, and perhaps the majority of knowing her, I had been slowly, and subtly, mocked by her, she bragging of her grand Doukhobor heritage and its noble origins in Russian and Canadian history while pointing out the unsavory aspects of my pilgrim ancestors. She’d mocked my Irish liver with her boasts of being able to out-drink me due to her Russian genetics. She'd pointed out the grandness of a Russian reworking of the French national anthem, while dismissing the masterworks of Gilbert & Sullivan. But there in that field in the heart of Grand Forks, wielding a crucial tool of her ancestors, she whimpered in fear of slicing off her kneecaps, cutting alfalfa hurriedly and without precision, finally yelling out for someone to take the scythe from her. Whether it be a man’s work or not (and I would think such concepts would be outdated in these modern times), it amused me to no end, and I could not hold back my snickering as my dearest Nads, my lovely Doukhobor braggart, failed in this simple Doukhobor task after teasing me so mercilessly.

She later described this event as a testosterone-driven ode to destruction (namely, the cutting of plants) on the part of all males present, though personally, I figure this to be a smokescreen to explain away the rather lacking scything ability of my feminine-as-you-can-get beauty. I, of course, took two photographs of her in the act, one for evidence, and the other to induce chuckles on long, lonely nights. Proudly I keep this daguerreotype, overpowered by the adorability of my Shmoopy’s face forever etched in fear at the handling of this simple farming tool, Vanya’s father locked in time running to assist her. Naturally, I took two of him as well, wanting forever to remember the man who taught me to scythe.

It wasn’t long after that we left, Vanya’s father discussing the Cyrillic Lenin pin on my jacket with me, and Vanya’s mother making sure the Doukhobor girls in our company were fully appraised of how very lucky they were to have the companionship of a couple of guys like Brian and I (a fact of which I was already well-aware). I generously gave hugs to everyone around me, thanking Vanya’s father for his history lesson and our instruction in the use of the scythe, and thanking Vanya’s mother for the absolutely delicious, and no doubt, toiled-upon meal she had made us. During my time spent around the Doukhobor community I’d learned to be very liberal in the dispensing of my hugs, both from the excessive positive vibes floating around, and in small part to the generous amount of alcohol constantly flowing around us.

Back on the road, our hangovers temporarily suppressed, riding once more on winding roads under the fiery sun, my CDs spinning in the little Honda’s stereo system. From there, there is little of significance to mention about the ride back. There was a return of nausea and headaches, the effects of exhaustion kicking in. There was the reading of Star magazine, and Maxims, and various conversations between us, notably one about White Spot, the Canadian fast food chain. There were stops at produce markets, and a gas station where knives with pictures of Princess Diana on them were sold. There was the relief of making it back to Shmoopy’s parent’s house.

We were strictly in and out of her folks’ house, being exhausted as we were. Brian and I stepped out briefly for a cigarette and the girls were done unloading the car before we even got a chance to help. We hugged the parents goodbye, and took off, at long last, in the direction of home. Once there, we ate, or drank, or slept, I can’t recall; our minds had long stopped functioning.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince


Next time: WEEKDAY BLISS
The Virgin Prince, 1:43 PM | link |

Friday, June 11, 2004

Gorging On Cheese And Vodka

Hear ye all, be ye blacksmith or whitewasher,

Fun time was over for us kids as Rush Girl’s parents came back to the house, our easy-going time of lazing around, eating the treats left out, and eyeing half-lustfully the beer in the fridge was over. No longer would we lounge around in our pajamas, comfortable as kids in the grime that came from a good night’s sleep. Over was our time of watching gladiators jab each other with swords, the ogling of the slender, near-naked ladies in the Maxims and FHMs, our dancing around with upright hair, mocking our Doukhobor elders. The folks were back, and it was time for us to grow up again, to put on the suits of maturity, and head out, once more, to experience cultural reverence.

Nads was the first one down to the shower, bathing is always a genuine delight for her, she having been bitten (at an early point in her life) by an irradiated sea-monkey. Returning up the stairs from the dungeon shower, she went to get dressed, making it now my turn to bathe. I grabbed my razor and shaving cream to bring down with me, it was a necessity as I was beginning to resemble Lon Chaney Jr.

Returning upstairs, clean-shaven and fresh-faced, I headed to my room to dress in the manor of sophisticated men. Inside the room, my Shmoops surprised me, dressed in the attire of a traditional Doukhobor woman. I stepped back to catch my breath, the sight was more than I expected. There she was, a vision of beauty, looking, in reality, as I had always seen her in my mind. Her face exposed, an exhibit of absolute fairness, her body draped in the deep green and bright white that made my poor Irish heart beat faster. She looked to me as the ideal wife, ready to present me a delicious bowl of fresh borscht from the kitchen, while graced with the shapely hips to sate my more base desires (and, no doubt, one day grant me a healthy man-child, who would someday grow into a strapping young lad, capable of making the world grovel at his feet, in fear of his mighty hand and magnificent mind.)

I was left with no recourse but to complement her on her glorious appearance several times and stare at her dimly, entranced. Her mother helped her finish getting dressed, making sure she looked absolutely proper, while I threw on my One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish necktie. Shortly thereafter, we sat outside on the deck, so I could take pictures of her against the backdrop of the Castlegar mountainside, and stare at her yet some more. Then the whole family came out, dressed in their finery, to take photographs of each other, and commit general mischief in the farm area outside. After Brian and I were briefly locked in the underground basement of a musty old shack outside by Shmoopy’s father, we males participated in general shenanigans, Brian and I playing devil’s advocate as we rooted on Shmoop’s father to uproot a horseradish plant outside, he wielding a shovel while dressed in his nice suit.

Off again to Festival, this day being the more formal day, where every song sung would have a significance. We all took seats in the front very briefly, before Nads and her parents took off to perform on stage, leaving merely Anna Banana, Brian, and I to sit there. Brian and I sat with a tinge of nervousness, the two outsiders in the front row, with no knowledge of Russian, nor an understanding of how to read Cyrillic to join in singing the hymns. Then the performance started, with the parents singing first, then Shmoops, with her friends Vanya and Mitch all singing in the youth choir. There was an obvious look of nervousness on Shmoops’ and Mitch’s faces as they stood visibly singing, checking every so often on the cards in their hands on which the lyrics were written. Vanya, however, was calm and collected, he had every Russian word known to his heart, and sang proudly with gung-ho and enthusiasm. Afterwards, they all sang together, parents and youth, at which time we all took advantage of the opportunity to take pictures.

Afterwards, we milled about outside, I took photos of a bunch of people I don’t know, Brian and I got chided by an old Doukhobor woman for trying to smoke outside the dom, and then we ditched Shmoopy’s mother. After she rejoined us, we went for the drive back to the house and began furiously drinking once more. There were beers, and mixed drinks of vodka and whiskey. We were just getting warmed up for the party to come.

After several drinks and a slight sensation of euphoria, we headed out to a birthday party for Nad’s cousin’s husband, his name escapes me now, I drank quite a bit over the course of that evening. When we arrived at the house, it was filled with Doukhobors and children. Children everywhere, running, screaming, exposing themselves. We young adults felt a bit out of place inside the house and quickly scampered off to the backyard, where even more kids were running around. I slumped down against the wall of the house, sitting in the backyard, smoking cigarettes with Brian. There the girls sat with us, and the evening became a blur of cigarettes and alcohol, along the way containing discussions of the Vietnamese gangs overtaking Canada, and myself trying to drunkenly sing the songs of Tim Curry, but finding myself far too inebriated to even remember the words to the Zucchini Song.

Towards the end of our time at the party, we eventually wandered inside and up the stairs to the kitchen. At this point, the alcohol fumes I was exhaling were starting to make the smaller children pass out. I tried to balance out the alcohol in my system by eating some food, but the majority of the items there were primarily bread and cheese. Certainly no meat. Doukhobor food is notoriously decadent and unhealthy. It’s really good too.

Brian and I headed outside to the upstairs deck to smoke even more cigarettes still. With strong drinks in hand and the acids burning in my stomach, I had grown weary of seeing everyone around me continually singing Doukhobor anthems while I was left out of the loop. With a steady stream of alcohol pouring through my veins and a halo of nicotine overhead, I decided that it had now become my time to shine. I broke out with as eloquent a performance of I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General as ever a drunken tongue produced.

“That’s awesome,” Brian told me, “I wish I could do that!”

Those two statements would shape the course of the night.

We drunkenly stumbled out of the party, hugging relatives and complete strangers alike, thanking them all for a good time had. Shmoops and I were given a nice candle or two as we headed out the door, then we got in the car and drove back to the house in Castlegar, listening to the Addams Family Soundtrack and mocking her parents’ newly bought SUV all the way.

Back at the house we drank still more drinks, and Brian and I returned outside to smoke more cigarettes. It was at this point that I ran inside to my backpack to retrieve my Gilbert & Sullivan lyrics, presenting them to Brian to memorize, thus starting him on the path to musical excellence. After a few practice rounds, during which Brian began to master the proper pronunciation of the verses, overcoming terms such as Caractacus, we began to sing the song very properly, even attracting Shmoops’ father to watch the performance, and thusly, following up with the unofficial encore verses. After this, I expressed my appreciation for the song O Canada, while the Canadians at the table insisted upon the superiority of The Star Spangled Banner. Again, a sing-off was had. This led to the singing of fight songs, patriotic songs of war, to which I had no response but to sing the best rendition of The Ballad Of The Green Beret as I possibly could. There was nary a dry eye in the house, or more appropriately, the deck outside. We ended the evening with a conversation on how the Beatles are good, maybe even great, but not the best, and far from worth the hype. This topic of conversation caused Shmoopy’s father to retreat inside, and shortly thereafter, we retired as well.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince


Next time: THE VOYAGE HOME
The Virgin Prince, 6:34 PM | link |

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Beginning The Systematic Destruction Of My Liver

Cletuses and Claudiuses,

Shortly after entering the dom, dearest Rush Girl and I ran to the stairwell and sat down on the steps. Festival had received a good turnout of Doukhobors and the place was packed, the prospect of finding a proper seat looked unlikely. We sat there watching all the acts do the rousing, boisterous songs of their heritage, there was a men’s choir which I particularly enjoyed- they sang a song that sounded like it would have belonged in the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack, had it not been in Russian. At some point, a close friend of my dearest Shmoopy came down the stairs, wearing a Russian peasant’s shirt, bumping into us. His name was Vanya, and Shmoops considers him her “soulmate”, though not in any kind of way where she’s attracted to him, or has any kind of desire to become involved with him romantically. I’m not saying I understand it, I always thought we were about as close and like-minded as you can get, but I always respect my lady.

I think there was brief exchange of “Hi!” and “Hi!” between the two of them before he turned to me and said, “You seem cool!” He promptly ran off before I could get a word in, I assume to go get drunk outside with his buddy Mitch.

We returned to our seats on the stairs, enjoying the rest of the performance, and suffering through four of the younger girls doing a very poor, very off-key version of a Shania Twain song. Shania Twain is bad enough on her own. I decided then and there that the Doukhobors performing should stick to singing in Russian.

When the performance was over, Nads and I walked up to the front of the dom, her parents were sitting right in the front row. Her father was as tall as I remembered him, her mother as blonde. Her sister and her boyfriend were there as well, looking like they fitted in as much as I did. We exchanged pleasantries, Shmoops greeted a whole bunch of family friends, and I sat back, not knowing anyone. We then all took off, all of us kids in one car, Shmoops, her sister, sister’s boyfriend, and I listening to bhangra during the ride back to the house. The best part was about to come. Drinking with her family and family friends.

I love Doukhobor get-togethers.

Into the dining room we piled upon reaching the house, chairs pulled from every possible place to accommodate the large amount of Doukhobors in the minuscule dining room. There we sat, munching on Doukhobor snacks, drinking beer, wine, and screwdrivers. Rush Girl’s sister’s boyfriend, Brian, and I, occasionally sneaking outside for a smoke. My American cigarettes quickly began to vanish, as Shmoopy’s sister, Anna Banana, came to join us. Before long, we young ones started sharing gossip and family stories.

We returned inside, a nicotine glow filling us, to get back to the business of drinking with family. The Irishman within me takes his drinking very seriously.

Oh sure, you’re probably saying, “but I thought you were from Pluto! How can you be part Irish?”

Well I’ll tell you, we from the Royal Family of Pluto have interbred with humans quite a bit over the years. Why, in fact, it makes quite a bit of sense for the Prince of Pluto to be part Irish, for as Doctor Zachary Smith once said, “I am part Irish, and after all, all Irish have royal blood.”

That said, don’t be asking me about my ancestors from the Mayflower.

Anyway, back at the table, all of us were conversing, and knocking back drinks. The great thing about hanging with Doukhobors is, they never know when to quit. They never want to stop drinking, they just continue to open more bottles as the old ones empty out. So we’re approaching an out-of-this-world-mellow-stage and I start to notice that even with my computer-brain and seemingly endless supply of knowledge, there doesn’t seem to be anything I can say to Vanya’s father that he doesn’t already know, be it the United States Military’s involvement with the Mafia during World War Two, or just the state of politics back home. Ultimately, I found it simpler to listen to Rush Girl’s uncle telling stories of his dealings with the border patrol, and the random stories all around of illegal border crossings.

Having noted during a prior visit that my dear Nads’ father has a deep appreciation for chocolate, I had brought up a box of See’s nuts and chews, that being the best chocolate I know California to offer. Admittedly, I’m not an expert when it comes to chocolate, I’ve never cared too much for the stuff; when I want a junk food treat, I go for bacon. As daddy-dearest got up to head for the bathroom, I presented him with the box of chocolates. His bladder was more persistent than his sweet tooth however, and the box was soon handed to his wife, who began to eat the chocolates. Soon, the whole family joined in. Not me though, alcohol is my treat of choice. Not too long after, it was time for bed, and we all retired to our rooms.

I woke up the next morning to Shmoops’ mother knocking on the door to wake us up for molenyie, the Doukhobor prayer meeting. Honestly, I was ready to go, feeling rested enough and always curious to try new things. Rush Girl, however was not having it. Angrily, and tiredly, she protested, her argument ranging from, “I’m too tired,” to, “I’ll go later!” I lost track of time over the course of that morning, but with the many constant returns of knocking and her mother’s voice telling us to wake up over the course of that morning, I was pretty far from being able to sleep. Eventually, I could take no more, and I attempted to wake my fair lady with light, princely kisses, but she would not budge, my magic was lost on this sleeping beauty. After we’d been disturbed more times than I could count, her parents finally left for molenyie. We were left, at last, to rest.

Eventually, we arose, stepping out in our pajamas with strands of scraggly hair standing up to reach the heavens. Like Cthulu waking from a thousand-year sleep, we slowly, and without semblance to humanity, dragged our moss-covered feet along the sea floor, tangled in seaweed, out to the kitchen. There, we found the refrigerator and began the act of slowly scrounging for food to fill our angered bellies. It wasn’t long before Brian came up the stairs from the floor below and briefly joined us in the kitchen, before heading out to watch gladiator films on the television, and lay among the Maxims piled on the couch.

Sometime after we’d had a nice helping of borscht along with other breakfast treats, Shmoops’ parents returned. That was our cue to get ready for day two of Festival.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince


Next time: DAY TWO
The Virgin Prince, 2:31 PM | link |

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
The Virgin Prince, 2:29 PM | link |

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Back From The North

To all you Yanks bleeding the triad colors of the flag,

Huzzah! Here I am, back from the overcast land up north, back on the firm, fresh soil of the land of my birth. I have returned from the inviting land of Canada, perhaps finally succumbing to its appealing pull. Indeed, the land has inherited the seductive ability of the sirens long forgotten, granting, with ease, this lad a happy phallus on every visit. Indeed, the plentiful multitude of striking females, coupled with gratuitous amounts of appeasing Canadian beer, and the promise of free healthcare for all, leaves me happier than a Viking stroking his mighty club.

Yet, I’m back, and perhaps stronger, for I’ve given up cigarettes and no longer receive a daily dose of alcohol. I know longer snack late at night and have virtually given up junk food altogether. My mind is focused, my lungs are clear, and my stomach grumbles. I feel a growing need for organization at home and a desire to keep things clean. Even my ape, Bobo, is in on the new way of thinking. Quite simply, it is time to clean house.

To call my trip “eventful” would be putting it mildly. On a Thursday afternoon, leaving directly from work, I hopped on a bus which took me straight to the airport. My flight was delayed by at least 30 minutes, so I killed some time with the reading of some of the finest publications that National Periodical puts out. I attempted to satisfy my grumbling stomach with a green salad and a tall glass of Fosters. It was hardly satisfying, but at airport prices, my meager purchase had wiped out my food budget. A little over some 2 hours later, I was flying to the marvelled land of Canada.

To my surprise, for the first time ever, I was able to get through customs with no line and no hassle. No agents jumped in my way, demanding to search my bag, no item on my person was scrutinized; not even the 12 heavy cans of Rockstar on my back, the slightly illegal amount of alcohol in my suitcase was allowed through without paying duty, and my hindquarters were left unassaulted, a thorough search saved for another day. This was far more delight to me than displeasure.

Walking out of customs, a near-look of death on my face, cultivated from the extent of my exhaustion, I stumbled past the waiting area, where all those expecting arriving guests wait. I’d nearly gotten past my dear Rush Girl without her noticing, she looked to be lost in thought, daydreaming once again about Tom Hulce, clad in a pink powdered wig and black leather speedo. Or perhaps she was caught up in reading the latest gossip on Britney Spears, seemingly her new closet-obsession; the point is, it wasn’t until she smelled my husky scent, the gruff fragrance of a true man, that her loving eyes looked up at me, filled with pure joy. She ran up to meet me.

“Baby, I have to use the restroom.”

After finally relieving my bladder from the three hour wait imposed upon it, I returned from the little homies’ room and wrapped my arms about my sweet shmoopy. It was a tight and firm squeeze; it had been far too long since I’d placed my lecherous hands on her. The lascivian in me took over.

We shot out of the airport in her father’s car, I, myself, feeling the effects of the mere four hours I’d slept the night before, she, discussing her rediscovered appreciation of the Cars and Rick Ocasek. This lead to sing-a-longs and discussions of Weezer. I was tired, I was hungry, I had the urge to be affectionate, but doubted I had the energy to do so.

Oh, but I was happy.

At her place, I changed into my pajamas, and she got to the task of feeding me. A fine job my Doukhobor woman did as well! I gulped down borscht, perogies, and some other manner of food I cannot recall the name of. We more than likely put on music and cracked open the discontinued Strawberry Stolichnaya I’d smuggled up for her. From there, the rest is blurry.

I slept in the next morning, while she went to work. After eventually waking, I went to the store to buy groceries, planning on presenting her with a fine dinner, one which excellently showcased the brilliance, the glory, the horrendously unappreciated excellence that is pineapple. Returning home, I got to the task of preparing my special teriyaki chicken stir-fry, the stir-fry of which there can be no equal. She returned home before I was finished, however, and so, she was assigned the task of making rice.

My recipe finished (but the rice lacking a proper amount of garlic, due to the amount of time it would take), we got to the actual act of eating it.

“Needs more spice,” she said.

Dumping spice onto her plate, enough to kill any natural flavor, we then spread a blanket out on her porch and had a quaint picnic as we looked out on Main Street, and curious cars, passerbys, and people entering and exiting the apartment complex, in turn, stared at us. We had the sliding door to her apartment open to better facilitate our listening to the swinging sounds of Vic Mizzy’s Addams Family Soundtrack, which we had playing loudly and was most likely audible across the street. After a few minutes of sitting on the ground outside, eating teriyaki stir-fry, and listening to One Little, Two Little, Three Little Tombstones, we realized how we might appear to others. We laughed.

After dinner, we dressed up and headed off to see the Shins. We had a feeling that attending a concert together would most likely be a lot of fun, each of us knowing the other’s deep appreciation for rock and roll. The alcohol in our systems, which had served to replace 3% of our blood supply, only served to increase our enthusiasm.

The opening band was a brother/sister team by the name of the Fiery Furnaces, and man, were they hep. They kinda had a Carpenters thing going for them, except for the fact that the band had kind of a double-organ Doors/Devo kind of sound, while the singer was a bit more Patti Smith. Regardless of how completely unclassifiable they may be, they were a fun, high-energy act, and they ensured that the headliner, the Shins, had their work cut out for them. Truthfully, I recall a lot less about the performance the Shins gave, except that they performed almost all the songs I recognized, and that I thought the drummer looked a lot like my friend Mike, if he got fatter and about 15 years older. That, and my dearest Shmoopy was really knocking back beer. We left early anyway, we knew we had to be up early the next day to begin our trek to Castlegar.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince


Next time: CASTLEGAR
The Virgin Prince, 2:33 PM | link |