Friday, April 21, 2017

April 21, 2017

Dear Diary.

Even in my dark little bedroom where the drapes remain drawn and the bedsheets aren't changed more than once a month, time passes quickly.  I can't believe that it's been a year to the day that Prince, that short little fucker giant of popular music was found deader than a door nail left this world.  Now there was a fella who skyrocketed to fame, only to come crashing down.  I find it quite ironic that they found him in an elevator.  Hmmm.

I was very fortunate to have met Prince when he was chasing after Michael Jackson to see who was better at being less black the bigger pop star.  I recall that during the eighties, you were either a Michael Jackson person or a Prince person and people would get into all sorts of fights about it.  I always thought it was pretty much a tie, unless you factor in the plastic surgery, and then Michael Jackson won hands down because spent the bulk of his adult life looking as if his nose ran into a disk sander.

Prince didn't live past his fifties either, which is a shame, because he had so much left to give, musically speaking.  People say he could be a funny guy, but to be honest, I never saw that side of him.  Like that time when Bill and I met him at the White House. Bill couldn't believe how tiny Prince was, so as a joke, he asked him to dress up as a lawn jockey and stand on the west lawn.  We thought it was hysterical, but for some reason, Prince didn't think so. In fact, he stormed out and didn't even stay for dinner.  The day after, I noticed some silverware was missing, but decided not to make a big thing out of it.

I had a lot of Prince's CDs, too.  We used to "boogie down" to his hits after Bill had the disco ball installed downstairs in the White House bowling alley.  We'd invite all the underage young, supple hard-working interns down and dance to "1999," which was a lot easier for white people to dance to than "Little Red Corvette."  Now that I think about it, I think that's where Prince and Michael Jackson parted ways.  Michael's music had a bigger audience, probably because he was produced by Quincy Jones, who usually married white women had more industry experience and probably understood us the market better.

Originally, I had no idea that Prince was from Minnesota.  I thought all they had there were Vikings and Norwegians, so when I first met Prince, I was expecting a six foot Swede in a horned helmet. Boy, was I surprised! We all had to scramble, hiding the the cheese plates and wheeling in about ten cases of Mr. Pibb.

Well, all that's history now. Prince is gone but his music lives on in every heroin den across America our hearts.  I wonder what name he used on his tomb stone. He changed his moniker more often than most people change their socks.  I'll have to ask Bessie about that.

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