The Virgin Prince's War Journal

Valued allies, hated foes, and curious onlookers,

A curious thing happened. I’d gone to Washington for a late Christmas celebration with my father, the deposed King of Pluto, and lost in the zeal of filling up my family’s stockings, spent a bit more money than I actually had in the bank. I caught the mistake fairly quickly, and knew I would need to stop by the bank swiftly, before all my checks had been cashed, to put some money back in my account by means of my wallet, to avoid any unfortunate overdraft charges.

We managed to stop at the bank on the day I was to fly home. I ran inside and filled out a deposit slip, yanking out my plane tickets in the process to try and figure out what the date was. Not that the ticket for my return trip actually listed the date of my flight, the only useful information it contained was the small code of four “S”s, which meant I’d be going through secondary screening again on my way back home. I pushed aside thoughts of having my baggage searched and my genitals groped once more, and instead divined the date from my pocket-watch, forcing myself to recall whether leap-year had made it one day fast, or one day slow.

After I’d made the deposit, and my mind was clear of concerns of any debt, I returned outside to the car. My father attempted to start it, to which the car responded with a quick death. A second attempt resulted in more of the same. As I began to notice the moments passing away before my flight was to depart, I started to wonder if this was the price for fiscal responsibility.

My dad popped open the hood, and I went out with him to check out the car, because that’s what guys do. The oil level was fine, and we couldn’t figure out why the car wouldn’t start. We were about to start investigating the car’s engine when the teller from the bank stepped outside and started calling my name. While this isn’t totally unheard of behavior for women that have just met me, I was rather puzzled.

She started asking me if I’d left something in the bank. I replied that I didn’t believe so, but followed her inside, as she made me very curious about whatever it was she’d found, as she wouldn’t tell me what it was. Once I stepped inside she showed me my airline tickets, which I could have sworn were firmly tucked in my jacket pocket. She made me show her my ID before she’d give them back, which I thought was funny since I’d just prior accessed my bank account through her, without any ID but a mere mention of my name.

It quickly occurred to me, upon reclaiming my airline tickets, that had I lost them in my local bank, I would never have seen them again. My good fortune was almost certainly due to the fact I was in a small town. As soon as I stepped outside the bank with my tickets in hand, my father started the car up with no difficulty. As to whether or not God was looking out for me that day, I couldn’t say.

We’re still not talking. I still haven’t forgiven the guy for letting Bush get back in office.

Off the topic of my refused personal election-day request to God, I must say Christmas wasn’t bad. I received not one, but both of William Shatner’s albums. I must say, I feel strangely… complete. The sheer brilliance of these albums, the quieting calm I experience as I listen to them… I must say, I’m hooked. I haven’t felt this good since I bought my first copy of the Essential Johnny Cash. And while I’d heard tracks from The Transformed Man before, tracks I’d swiped by means of Napster when the out-of-print-album eluded me, and I appreciated those tracks even then, to hear the whole album together, in order and in proper context, makes the whole thing seem as one of the most brilliant things I’ve ever heard. Elegy For the Brave had already been a particularly moving piece for me, but following quickly on the heels of King Henry the Fifth, the piece is increased in intensity.

I must admit, also, to being quite pleased by Shatner’s delivery of the Theme From Cyrano.

As for his newer album, Has Been, I must admit that it too is quite a success. Although I enjoy greatly the tracks Common People and I Can’t Get Behind That, I believe that I do prefer his slower, softer tracks. Much like Elegy For The Brave, the series of tracks starting with It Hasn’t Happened Yet and ending with Familiar Love are particularly easy on the ears, while in the middle, That’s Me Trying showing particularly well that when Ben Folds and William Shatner set their minds to it, they can create a piece of music so devastatingly beautiful that you’ll be left huddled in a fetal position on your floor for two weeks.

That reminds me of the time my friend the Amazing Sarcasma told me of how a story I’d written had caused her to break into tears over a period of two weeks. It was one of the single most flattering things I’d ever heard, especially so coming from one with such a noted sharp and witty tongue as hers. I wonder what ever happened to her. I’d always been fond of her, she being probably the first female Who enthusiast I’d ever met. Sadly, when she came back into my life I was already involved with Rush Girl, and have lost contact with her since. I do remember those curious glances though, those moments of wondering what it would be like.

I’m off-track, I’ll come back to this.

Apparently Shatner had a concert back in November. I wish I’d known, I would have loved to see it. From the written account of it, it sounds like it was spectacular. Here’s the link to read about it: ROCKIN’ AT THE EL REY

Wow, is there anything Shatner can’t do? He’s already won a Golden Globe and an Emmy, and while his previous album has been discussed endlessly by music scholars for decades now, his current album is widely critically acclaimed and popular. I’ve even got friends asking me to play tracks at parties.

I see that since I’ve come back from Washington my webpage has passed two thousand visits, at least according to Sitemeter. Yay! What an accomplishment is this! Of course, I probably could’ve gotten three thousand hits in a month if this had been a sex-blog. Oh well. I consider it that much more an accomplishment to have received so much traffic on a page as pure and virginal as this, even if the majority of you were looking for the Paris Hilton Sex Tape (or worse).

I have no doubts that wrongful Google-searches aside, my traffic has been helped somewhat by my story-listing on the Steve Perry fansite. The administrator was actually quite polite in his response to my letter of complaint (I did have to join the Steve Perry fansite to access his email address, however), and responded by removing the Journey-approved edited version of my tale which he’d posted without my permission. There is now a proper link to the story on my site, accompanied by complimentary praise, and removed of any negative charges of containing “B.S.” I’m still getting quite a bit of traffic from curious Journey fans everyday.

Due to my recent discovery of my old tale posted on the “Hotel De Perry”, this piece of prose written a year ago and not allowed to be forgotten, I’ve come to realize something: I’ve lost my way. I looked back on the tale I’d written, and read through the others on the archive page, and came to realize I was, at one time, very good. I compared my older tales to the postings I’d done of late, and realized I’d really fallen quite far from grace. No one wants to read about the boring trappings of modern, mundane life, to hear of problems with alcohol or the gripes about my less-than-spectacular ex-girlfriend. These are boring matters all, that every person experiences and by no means unique to me. Any person can come up with complaints of why their former paramour is the scum of the Earth, and weave tales of how badly they’ve had their heart broken, but who else can tell you the story of how they single-handedly saved the magical instruments of rock-band Journey from the likes of the vile Oasis?!

Only me.

I have committed the sin of forgetting what Shakespeare himself once wrote (and the cast of Giligan’s Island once further emphasized in a delightful musical episode), “To thine own self be true.” These are words I used to live by, and I’d completely forgotten.

Months of personal attacks on the quality of my writing by my former love gradually caused me to lose sight of what I’d been writing for. I’d developed such a doubt of my own talents and abilities that I found myself imitating the more common (and socially-accepted) style of her own writing, limiting my words to be used for little more than page-long bitchfests of little entertainment value to anyone other than myself.

Somewhere along the way, her complaints of how no one would like what I wrote, and how my writing ability was lacking, caused me to feel little more than an overwhelming doubt in my own abilities. My confidence crushed by the long-term impact of nightly abuse sessions over the phone, I really did gradually find myself robbed of any confidence in my ability. The repeated attacks, over time, had done their damage. I was so very aware of her own hatred and disappointment at what I’d written, I managed to completely forget the praise I’d received from friends and strangers alike. I’d forgotten how I’d been chosen to open up a performance for a local band, or how I’d performed for a crowd of happy, smiling fans every Thursday night. I’d forgotten of how people used to introduce me as “a great writer” and how complete strangers would come up to me after readings and compliment me and shower me with very flattering praise. I’d forgotten how the guys at work used to read my stuff when I left my desk and how fellow classmates had asked me when I was going to release my first book.

I’d forgotten the time the school paper had used an entire page to print up an angry letter I’d written them over having misquoted me, and not listing my major as “fighting evil” and how later that day my Karate teacher jokingly asked me if I wanted to teach the class. I’d forgotten the aforementioned emotional breakdown of a girl I’d been quite fond of due to a story I’d written.

In short, I’d forgotten every word of praise I’d ever heard and could recall nothing but the disdain of someone that supposedly loved me. Over a matter of months, my own personal Salieri had filled me with all the self-doubt her own neurotic brain had long plagued her with.

With my former love now removed from my life, I’ve been finding myself adjusting quite nicely for the most part. The more time I spend without her in my life, the more I seem to realize what an incredibly negative influence she was on me. No longer shall I write to please someone else, from now on I write only to please myself! I am, quite frankly, disappointed by the bulk of the writing I’ve done the past several months. Now, once more, I shall be completely true to myself.

I hope you all like the change back. If not, it’s your problem, not mine. There is no shame in having my writing un-liked by others, the only real shame comes from not being true to myself, and that is something I’ll no longer allow.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince