A Sound in Mourn in a Day

I cried… I honestly didn’t even know I was crying.

Then this woman showed me her phone screen. The news had confirmed Prince was gone. “Dead at 57” they called it. I strongly disliked this woman, instantly. A blind rage engulfed me. How dismissive she was about it. Suddenly it was 1997 again, and my mother was telling me Big was murdered, with a giggle. A fucking giggle. It was 1994 again, and this guy I just discovered...this Kurt, killed himself. That loneliness. That sudden emptiness that something that I really connected with was snatched away from me. Life reminded me that these feelings, these people don’t belong to me. I thought I’d never experience this again.

But here it was. And I vomited. Right in the street.

The admiration came early. I met His Royal Badness the way most people in my peer group did. I saw Purple Rain when I was a wee child. I think I was 9. It took me a minute to realize the guy on the screen, was the same guy I’d heard on the radio countless times riding shotgun with my Dad. This was the same dude that taught me the “Batdance.” I rewound that Betamax and watched it again. This guy rode a motorcycle. He played the guitar. He was stubborn, defiant, gorgeous, emotional...a storm of emotions. Raw. He tricked that girl into jumping into a filthy lake half naked. I dug this dude, and I hungered for more. Trust me kids, pre-Internet- if you wanted to get into an artist’s music, you had to put in that work. I was digging into my father’s cassettes. Calling radio stations. Spamming the video box network. And with each discovery, it was like a brand new Prince! Rock and Roll, Funk, R&B, Disco, Dance, Soul… the Blues even! Was there anything he couldn’t do?

The adoration came soon after. The Purple One changed his name to “The Artist.” Who the fuck can get away with that? LOL. He became an unpronounceable symbol. To fight his “bosses” He wrote ‘SLAVE’ on his cheeks. He told the people that said he needed them, to fuck off. He reinvented himself. He didn’t care what anybody thought. He did what made him feel good. He did what felt right. And I needed to see that as a young teen. I was on the verge of being pushed in so many directions that didn’t feel right to me. I too felt like a slave in my own body. I was supposed to walk, talk and be a certain way- but I didn’t want to. I remember looking at the cover of Lovesexy thinking… I don’t think I could ever be that free- that connected with my own sexuality, sensuality. That comfortable with myself. I made up my mind from that day forward, I would try. I would no longer be a slave either. Prince was going to teach me how to free myself.

Today, I saw someone tweet, “thinking about how we mourn artists we’ve never met. We don’t cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves” And I realize there isn’t a person on this Earth that can call themselves my friend without saying they’ve seen me wax poetic for hours about Prince; seen me go up on a karaoke stage and perform “Let’s Go Crazy”, shared my favorite video clips of Prince, told them about what edition of what album I was currently looking for, been out drinking with me and not seen me pour dollars on dollars in the jukebox on Prince. And I now realize it’s because he helped me discover myself.

I would never have been able to amalgamate my unique Mercutio like flamboyancy with my alpha masculinity if I hadn’t known Prince/Camille coming up. It’s just not fucking possible. You can’t say you know Tescadero if you haven’t seen that. I wouldn’t yearn for deeper meaning in sex, and desire if he hadn’t made me wonder what the greatest romance was. 

...Yo. Why DIDN'T Adam leave Eve?

The enigmatic status of how I love, and when I do...is based on knowing to look for adoration, a spiritual connection… Prince showed me that. Prince showed me that if you're going to do good deeds for people, just do them and no one has to know, and fuck what people think if they catch you in unusual appearances because of it- or not. Whatever.
We not gonna let these de-elevators bring us down!
Oh, no! Let's GO!

I would never have been okay with my weird relationship with God if Prince hadn’t shown me that he too straddled the line of belief, confusion, yearning to know...in his words. See, some people think you discovered God when you started refusing to sing songs like ‘Darling Nikki’ at shows… I like to believe his attraction with the Father came long before that- the evidence is in all of his albums. I mean come on. This the same guy that recited the Lord's Prayer over a dance break.

A year ago, I watched Purple Rain for the umpteenth time and those scenes with his alcoholic father, that desire to please him- and five minutes later despise him. It was all too human, and I related. And damn, I related. I felt that sting of trying to be your own person, but not being able to step out of the shadow of someone that everyone else idolizes.  
And that shit was so liberating to see someone wear that pain, to be free to love someone else all while beginning to love yourself... it's the look of animals striking curious poses, and it's the sound of doves crying.

Have you ever seen him perform?
That playful nature, that desire to want to see the girls dance freely, that funk. He had a PhD in advanced body movement, ya'know.
Hell, I don't think there's ever been a party where I didn't attempt his one of a kind splits. Shit, to be honest, Tescadero has been biting Prince since day one. Prince has been telling Tescadero that this love, this life is forever, and that’s a mighty long time. Honestly, Prince was the real reason Sean didn’t fall into complete, and total cynicism when this fucked up world kept kicking him down. Because every time Prince was filmed or appeared in public he found a way to poke a little fun at himself. There was always a Prince groove to pick you back up, a sassy comment.
Bob. George.
A devil-may-care smile as he handled that guitar like a wild Jezebel wanting to be molested, and tarnished in front of everyone. 
But hey-do you know where you had to go if you wanted to buy a Sam Cooke album?
“The wrecka stow”
He had that life giving charm in spades.  ...and... see?

See it hurts, because now…

Now I can’t go and get more.

It hurts because I want to mourn in privacy, but I can’t have this grief alone. He touched too many people. People are photo shopping in pictures with Whitney and Michael, and NO. NO. Why? No. It's not about them right now. He didn't have their demons. He's not even in the same tier of performer as them.

It hurts because there will come remixes, and remakes, and scratches, traps, screws, and duets and edits, that he would have fought tooth and nail to death. He would despise beyond no end. Because that’s what he did. He did what he did because it was his art. His love. And he shared it with us. When he was ready. When we were ready. He refused to be copied, and watered down. And if they call us arrogant for feeling that way, so be it. Right is right.
It hurts because I can't think of another artist now, or in the near future that was simply just a musical genius the way he was. Who's going to represent us for the next ten, twenty years?


"They're not playing me. They're playing themselves trying to play me."

It hurts because you can’t even teach those that never had the real pleasure of what he could do to a crowd without sounding like you’re high, or talking about a mythological creature.

“You say he played a song called Purple Rain, and it started raining? Bullshit.”

“So he threw a guitar in the air, and it may not have come down? Nigga are you high?”

“He played 50-something instruments, played them all, and did the same on countless other artist’s albums? Shut the fuck up.”

But that’s what he was wasn’t he? An unpronounceable symbol. You just had to see, or hear it for yourself.

And when you hear other well established artists give the world something that was his- Alicia, Andre, TLC. Dammit.

And even now. I’m crying again- and it’s word vomit. And I’ll rewrite this, and I’ll hide this. And I’ll publish this.

But. Even though I cannot cope,
I think of his own words.

“...don’t cry. One day all 7 will die.”

“...some say a man ain’t truly happy, until a man truly dies.”
"sometimes...sometimes life ain't always the way. Sometimes it snows in April."

It snowed for me today.

*sigh*

Baby, YOU were a star.

And. I never thought I’d feel this way again.

But I do. And I’m not ready to talk about it.

Goodbye. For a while.

 

This, That... and the Other. Who doesn't Want It?

I'm a pretty level dude. I think. I was speaking to my friend the other day about my relationship with my ex. I'm still pretty proud of myself for having few ex-girlfriends in relation to my high number of bed notches. See, I never wanted to be one these guys with a bunch of ridiculous baggage, all these exes, that know my business and what not.
Some people see a guy with a bunch of girlfriends as a womanizer... I see a foolish fast talking failure. My boy is the same age as I am, and he's had 11 exes. eleven. None of them talk to him anymore. All of them have met his parents, grandparents, all of them he's 'loved' and had pregnancy scares, and this, that, and etc.
I've had 5.
Two of them know the names of my parents. I'm still on good terms with four of them. I've only loved (romantically) two women. One is an ex, and she's dead. One is The Constant. You frequent readers know what that's about by now.
So I guess what I'm saying is, some guys like to step up to the plate and attempt homers at every pitch. I attempt to get on base. If I hit a homer, that's awesome.

So my friend asked me why I still talked to my exes. I had to explain to him that unlike him, all of my exes actually meant something to me. All of my exes could've potentially been my wife had we continued on the path we were going. More importantly, ALL of my exes were first my friends. That's why I'm so adamant to separate girlfriends from bed notches. I actually enjoy the company of my exes. We have inside jokes. We truly are friends. He asked me how it was possible to maintain a friendship with an ex-girlfriend, and I told him that I treat the relationship like we're 'Jerry and Elaine.' See, a long time ago, I realized that the 'Jerry and Elaine' machine is one of the most solid relationships ever recorded on television. I can't think of a better couple-well, maybe Paul and Jamie, (Mad About You) or Frank and Claire (House of Cards) depending on what your tastes are.

How to Tell you're Dating a Crazy Bitch. (...and not the good kind)

In my line of living, I run into all sorts of folks. I've met some great people along the way, great guys that end up with the worst women. You know... Bitches. (to be fair, I've witnessed several great women with horrible guys too, but I've defended the women like 8 times last year.)

So go ahead and attack that title, and my soon frequent use of 'crazy bitch'
Make sure you leave the page too, because it's not going to get better from here on out.

I warned you. Bitch.
*ahem*

Bitches be crazy! It's funny because it's true, right?

The funny things is though, there are several warning signs before guys get in too deep with them, maybe you see them, maybe you don't. But there had to be something you ignored before she's cussing you out at that gas station, starting fights in the club, stomping her feet and everyone is watching you. You're embarrassed! Hell she's even putting her head down, hair laid out all over the dinner table, and falling asleep- in a crowded restaurant (happened to me) or keying your car (also happened to me), taking control of your social medias, (will never happen to me) and so forth.

Six Degrees of Leonard. (or... 'Maybe None of this Shit Matters. It's a Daydream')

Earlier today, I was watching Marvel's Daredevil on Netflix. (again. judge me.) It was the episode where Matt Murdock briefly mentions how became blind in the first place. Every time I think of Matt's accident, I think of the origin of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Why? Because they are connected. The same canister of radioactive material that created Daredevil, spawned the Ninja Turtles. See that? Crossover. Shared Universe. Sorta. These crossovers can be really fun, (i.e. The Marvel Cinematic Universe) or they can be really confusing, and damning.

Giving the Devil his Due. (Why you LOVE Daredevil and don't even know it)

I've liked Daredevil since I was a kid.

I would read my Dad's old collections, and I remember it like yesterday when I first met the Man Without Fear. 

Amazing Spider-Man Vol 1 #16 -Spidey was bamboozled into performing at a circus where the performers were robbing the patrons, via the Ringmaster. (not just a title, but also the character's name) The Ringmaster had a special hat that would hypnotize the audience, and the unsuspecting Spider-Man. Coincidentally enough, there was a person in the crowd who couldn't be subdued by the Ringmaster's hat.

Because he couldn't see it.