Does Prince Tire of the Adulation?

I wonder what it must feel like, to have people scream and throw under things at you as you’re sorting through the produce at the farmer’s market. After 40 years, does it ever get tiresome? I imagine it would take its toll on you – which explains why Prince is so reclusive when he’s not on stage. What is life like when your mere presence reduces otherwise very dignified folk to a frenzied amalgamation of screeching lunatics?

It must be a heavy burden, being so bloody brilliant. And when that brilliance translates into millions of women (and a few hundred thousand men) clamoring for your attention, however brief – even if it’s a momentary glance – it can transform a person; sometimes into something very ugly. Fortunately, Prince has the type of inner fortitude that prevents his tremendous fame from mutating him into a tremendous douche wad.

Of course, this is all speculation, because whatever documented sins he’s committed (outside of his very public visceral ones) have been more tightly sealed in court documents than a reformed stripper’s undies. But to the point, let’s imagine what a typical day for Mr. Nelson Rogers is like. I’ll play the rabid, adoring fan, tracking him closely as he exits Paisley Park on his white unicorn, Prometheus.

 

As he hits Rodeo Drive, Prometheus halts his full gallop and Prince alights from his shimmering, mythical steed. He has reached his destination: The Pancake Shop on Rodeo. Suddenly, he stops just in front of the door. The sound of my labored, panting breath is heavy in the air. Even the sounds of the whizzing luxury cars can’t drown it out.

“Hello, Malaka,” he says without turning around. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Oh muh gawd! How did you…”

“I knew you were coming here before you came,” he said, cutting me off. “I know everything about my fans.”

“How can that be?”

“The crystal ball. The crystal at Paisely Park tells me everything I need to know. That and Prometheus whispered that someone was trailing us.”

“Wow….”

“How can I help you Malaka?” he presses. “What can the Purple one do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering if – I mean that is – if you don’t mind I’d…”

“Would you like some pancakes?”

A crowd has been amassing as we’ve been conversing. A man in plaid booty shorts faints from the intensity of it all.

“I’d like some pancakes!” a 42 year old woman screeches suddenly.

“Pancakes, pancakes!”

The cry for Prince to provide pancakes to the people is almost deafening. A  throng forms around him. For the safety of his hungry fans, he leaps onto his noble steed, the unicorn, and nudges the masses out of harm’s way with his blue leather heeled boot.

“Come Prometheus, we must away!” he calls melodically.

“Prince, wait!” I wail mournfully.

 “No Malaka. We must have our pancakes another day. Wait patiently for it…and until then, purify yourself in preparation for a grand pancake party in the waters of Lake Minnetonka.”

As people scream and faint all around me, I watch Prince gallop away. The last image I’ll have will be Prometheus’ enormous bum bidding me farewell as he whisks my heart’s love away.

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