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Prince on Saturday

Probably the best 8 minutes of music televiosn, EVER! This is 8 years old and I still love it. Why? When all the ladies sing Chakka Khan's "Sweet Thing." LOVE. THAT. SONG.

I think there are commericals in this. I can't control that. They are only 20 seconds though. Sorry.

When Prince went on tour in 2004, I was living in Chicago. My brother was coming in to see me because I had scored rather good seats for the Prince concert and I wanted him to go with me.  See in high school, there wasn't an inch of inside-locker-space that was plastered with Prince's face. Most of my bedroom was covered with him too, save for my Cure poster, my Fine Young Cannibals poster and The Smiths poster, natch. I also had my Harvey Edwards ballet framed print (I considered this very fancy, indeed) that I still own. It's hanging in my studio. I guess I'm still a 15 year old at heart.

Anyway, my brother was a FULL ON Dead Head in high school. Hair as long as mine is now; gorgeous, naturally curly locks that mimiced the costly spiral perms that were all the rage at the time. There was a lot of tie-dye happening. Anyway, ALL he listened to were The Dead. Different damn versions of the same fucking song over and over and over. God, I wanted to blast my brains out. Of course, he scoffed mightily at my musical selections. Prince was a faggot. Faggots only listened to Prince. And I'd be all, "Well then I guess I'm a fag then, because Prince freakin' ROCKS!" I'd storm off in my lace-up granny style boots, black fishnets and the gold lamé dress circa 1960 that I picked up at the consignment store. I'd stomp right into my room, slam in the cassette, hit play and CRANK that mini boom box, bitch. Parents be damned, we were going to listen to some MOTHER FUCKING PRINCE UP IN HERE.

A few years prior, my brother had come to Chicago with some chick he was seeing. She let the beans spill that my brother actually secretly LOVED Prince, but that he was too embarrassed to listen to him because of all his Dead Head buddiesor whatever. Stupid teenage shit. So the cat was out of the bag that Austin loved Prince and I thought it fitting we should go together.

The buzz-kill was that the DAY BEFORE the concert, the drummer's daughter passed away and the show was postponed for a future date. Alas, we did not get to go see Prince together. However, we did go to the Crosstown Classic instead: White Sox vs. The Cubs (GO CUBBIES!) at Wrigley Field (also the best baseball field EVER) and got bleacher seats that we paid WAY too much money for. We drank lemonade sluggers, cheered the Cubbies on to victory and went to see a live blues band. The trip was not a waste.

When Prince finally made it back to town, I took a girl I worked with, who incidently now lives here in Charlotte. And we're still friends. We got to our seats, all giddy. As soon as the lights went down and Prince stepped out on that stage? It's like I went zooming backwards in time and slammed right into my 15 year-old self. I think the same exact thing happened to my friend because we turned from the stage, looked at each other, clutched hands in some sort of weird solidarity and screamed at the top of our lungs. We screamed like the teenagers we felt like inside.

And it rocked.


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