6:53. Go to 6:53. It cured my cancer.*
OR
Prince listened to a lot of Zappa.
OR
It takes a rare and specific combination of complexion and chestiness to pull off–really pull off, man–yellow.
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“Guy takes a sax solo while the rest of the band vocally encourages him” is some Ascended Master shit. This happens at a show you’re at, make an offering to Schnitzel** on the way home.
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Prince shared a gift with George Clinton and Miles Davis and James Brown: He was preternaturally good at hiring drummers.
OR
Couldn’t play the oboe. Any other instrument in his hands, he’d coax phrases from immediately, then break your heart shortly thereafter. Not the oboe, though. The doctor said it was a phase. Princes go through phases, that’s what the doctors said.
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This fucking hospital is full of fear bears.***
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If one gets a blood transfusion–I’m asking for a friend–how much conjecture on the ethnicity of the donor is permissible? Obviously, in public, out loud, the answer is “None, and even considering it makes you a monster.” But if we’re keeping it between ourselves, I would say that one is not allowed to have a Hard Pass List, but a general ranking of preferences is only natural.
OR
They’re gonna do a Prince biopic, and it’s gonna be awwwwwwwwful and never mention what a religious whackadoo he was.
*Nah.
**A god, and also delicious.
***It is not; I just wanted to short-circuit your brain a little with the phrase “fear bear.”
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