Flights of angels must be singing “Let’s go crazy”.
I’m stunned by the depths of my own sorrow.
On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being people who only knew who Prince was and 10 being people who have been known to dumpster dive at Paisley Park so as to own a receipt for pizza that Prince may have touched, I’m a 3.
I’ve never bought any of his cds and I’ve only caught bits and pieces of Purple Rain on TV. But I never changed the channel when his stuff came on the radio, I really liked those songs I was familiar with, I acknowledge his artistic genius, his musical virtuosity and his obvious business savvy.
I was far more a fan of Prince, the person than Prince the Icon.
If you had asked me two weeks ago how sad I’d be if Prince predeceased me, I’d have said ‘not very.’
So I’m stunned.
When I first saw the news last Thursday morning, on a friend’s Facebook page, I felt as though I’d been kicked in the gut. I screamed “NOOOOO!” in my head. It may have been out loud, I don’t know: I was home alone.
I had to run errands that day and every time a clerk handed me change and said “Have a nice day!” I stared blankly back at them, thinking Haven’t you heard? It’s a terrible day. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t bring myself to be the person who told anyone that news.
I guess I never realized how much I took his presence among us for granted.
Yeah, our sports teams suck and the weather is legendarily awful but for all that, we had Prince. Hey, New York, LA, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta and Miami: our celebrity kicks your celebrity’s ass!
He was born among us, grew up and went to school here and when he could have lived anywhere in the world, he stayed here. Prince himself decided that we were the only people in the world cool enough for him to live among. Of course we’re not but he felt at home with us.
My sister put it perfectly.
The rest of the world is mourning the loss of a great artist but here in Minneapolis, it’s hard to describe. Most of downtown turned into a three day wake/block party last weekend. Everything is lit up in purple and flags all over town are at half-mast.
Someone told me that Amy Schumer had a show downtown on Thursday night. Can you imagine? Jerry Seinfeld on a college campus wouldn’t be facing a tougher audience: she had to make people laugh in Minneapolis on the night Prince died.
I walked into the Basilica of St. Mary, at the edge of downtown, on Sunday. The pianist on the altar was playing a gorgeous rendition of Purple Rain before Mass began. It made me cry.
I’ve been reading articles and watching videos of him for six days.
My brother Bill described him perfectly.
I cannot believe how sad I am.
Part of what makes it so shocking is how young he was and that he seemed so fit.
How in the world can Prince just up and die on a Thursday morning?
Last night, Zack and I watched the rerun of Prince on New Girl. As funny as it was, the whole show made me cry. Zack kept yelling “that’s not his house! I’ve been to his house, he served me pancakes!”
Right now, an awful lot of us feel just like the characters did at the end of the episode, as they sat dazed on the couch, saying “did that really happen?” and “What do we do now? Are we just supposed to get up and go to work in the morning?” and “I think Prince is magic.”
Prince made Minneapolis cool.
Of course he was magic.