Filthy Cute

25 Apr

My mother was a big fan of MTV when I was a kid (it’s not for nothing that my little sister’s first words were to “Welcome to the Jungle”) and I remember being totally enraptured by Prince’s music videos. Very clearly I recall sitting on the floor in the living room of our 2 bedroom duplex and whispering to my older sister, “I think Prince is probably kinky.” I  didn’t know that word in any context other than Prince.

In college, I used all my tips from a night of bartending to buy a ticket to see him on his Musicology tour. I was recently obsessed with “When U Were Mine” because Crooked Fingers covered it and I have, if nothing else, a perpetually broken heart. He played “Cream” on acoustic guitar, alone on the stage in the round, and in that moment I am pretty sure I became a woman. Menstruation and maidenhead paled in comparison to seeing this tiny man sing.

At my wedding, after we danced to an appropriately lovely love song, we chose “Let’s Go Crazy” to play right after. And we did, for three immeasurable years.

I bonded with my therapist over our shared love of Prince – she had actually seen him in Minneapolis and I felt she had sufficient good taste to guide me through my madness.

I am selfishly sad that he died because I wanted to enjoy more of his music. Like most people, I am greedy even in my grief.

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