The "Revolution" is Right Outside Your Door

I've never been a “glass half-full” kinda guy. Shocking, I know. I'm more of a “half-full or half-empty it better be alcohol in that damn glass because the voices in my head won't STFU” kinda guy. I rant. I rage. It's what I do. If you had known me before I found a creative outlet for the demons that poke my brain with pitchforks on a regular basis, you probably would have just shaken your head and said, “Bless his heart” as we tend to do here in the South when confronted with the mad (I'm well aware that some of you say this now and when I say “some of you” I'm mainly talking about my family and people in my hometown). I'm a chemically-imbalanced miscreant, infected with a large dose of misanthropy that masks itself with a veneer of sarcasm, but who still tries to exercise the empathy muscle, because I'm convinced that empathy is the only thing that will stop the self-destruction that the human race has rushed toward ever since the first caveman knocked his brother over the head with a rock and discovered that that was much easier than negotiation as a means to eat the last mammoth leg. I spend most of my time disappointed with humans, but dammit, I can't quit you and I want us to do better. I want us to evolve to the next level of our existence and it makes me angry enough to bite my tongue in two when I see things like violence and greed and racism and bigotry and willful ignorance holding us back. I exist somewhere between pessimism and nihilism and I still have to turn the channel when the ASPCA abused puppy and kitty commercial comes on because I'm not fond of openly weeping and because seeing animals suffering sets me on a course into the blackest of depression and hatred that ends with holes punched in the dry wall and a hangover that lasts for three days. I got problems. Luckily, I can write passably enough to be somewhat entertaining and I can channel all of the above into a comedy act that, while it ain't for everybody, a few people dig enough to drop a five dollar bill to watch every once once in a while.
What I'm saying is that I'm not known for my “bright side.”
There is one, though. If you live here in Paducah, we have an awesome new mayor and I'm hopeful that our city will continue to grow and be an example to the rest of the world of what a town of our size can accomplish. Change does indeed start at home. The “revolution” is right outside your front door. You want things to get better nationally, do whatever the fuck you can do to make things better locally, wherever that may be. Take all of that sadness and frustration and rage and put it into your neighborhood, local government, charity organizations, and helping those that need it. Be kind to animals. Adopt one from a shelter. Teach your kids empathy. Talk to people who are different. Support local artists and musicians (and comedians). 
And if you're white and straight like me...recognize your privilege and open your eyes to the FACT that not everyone in this country has had the same American experience as you. You see, that's where that whole empathy thing comes into play. Stand up, for, and with everyone who is a victim of racism, bigotry, homophobia, and xenophobia. If you see them being attacked, step in and speak out. Let the worst of us know that they won't continue to beat down the best of us. Not on our watch. Not now. Not ever. 
"I am made by my times
I am a creation of now
Shaken with the cracks and crevices
I'm not giving up easy
I will not fold
I don't have much
But what I have is gold." - R.E.M.

I'm Done Being Tolerant of the Intolerant

Frances Scott Key said that African-Americans were, “a distinct and inferior race of people, which all experience proves to be the greatest evil that afflicts a community.”
There are people in the United States of America today who share this sentiment.
You know them. I know them. We all know them.
For most of this young country's history, people were raised with the belief that the white color of their skin made them more than or better than. I used the word belief purposely. I'm not talking about opinions or notions. It's a BELIEF. It's a belief that is kept in the same part of their hearts as their belief in God. It's a belief that is accepted as a fact that can't be questioned.
Water is wet.
The sky is blue.
God is in Heaven.
America is the greatest country ever.
Black people are less than.
You see, in their minds, believing that last part doesn't make them racist. “It's just how it is.”
Those of us who don't share that belief need to stop protecting those who do. I'm past the point of give a shit on this issue. I don't care if it's family, friend, coworker, who-the-fuck-ever...if you say or do racist shit, you deserve to be called out on it.
You might want to think twice before you elbow me and give me that conspiratorial wink and proceed to tell me some racist joke and assume that I'll find it as hilarious as you do because I'm white. I just might decide to share that shit with the world.
I'm done being tolerant of the intolerant.
And it has nothing to do with being ashamed of being white. I'm not ashamed of being white. I'm ashamed of how white people have treated anybody who is not white throughout the entire existence of America.
If you think racism is not one of, if not THE biggest problem facing our country, well, you are entitled to that belief and I'm entitled to tell you you're wrong.
There are millions of people in this country who belive African-Americans are inferior to whites and they will protest any efforts to achieve equality.
They simply won't stand for it.
But, let a black man protest and refuse to stand and...well, you know the rest.
Racism isn't over. Our silence when confronted with racism, equals our approval.
I'm going to start flipping the racist's nationalistic bullshit on them.
“Oh, you think white privilege doesn't exist and black folk need to STFU? That's un-American, asshole! You must not love this country as much as the rest of us. Perhaps you need to find another country that will put up with your racist ass. This is America, Jethro! Love all colors or leave it!”

YEEHAW! Death Spiral!

Well, it’s not without entertainment value. This whole death spiral of the Republican party that we’re witnessing. For most of my life, I’ve been told by conservatives that THEY are the party of God. THEY are the ones who support “traditional family values.” THEY are the ones who love the military. THEY are the REAL Americans and they America better than us liberals and progressives, because WE were the ones who wanted to DESTROY America. It’s kind of quaint to type that now. When you chose Donald Trump to be your nominee for President of the United States and when you continue to put a positive spin on every outlandish turd that he shits out of his mouth, well, you’ve blown all that other bullshit to smithereens. I’m talking nuclear annihilation. Trump is like Slim Pickens in “Dr. Strangelove,” riding a nuclear warhead straight into the heart of the GOP. He has shit on your religion. He has shit on the Constitution. He has shit on your leaders. He has shit on women and minorities and fire departments. He has shit on the military and those who have died fighting for this country. And you not only let him get away with it, you cheer it and hold your babies up to him, hoping a little bit of that Trump bullshit will land on them, too. After all those years of your pious, bible-thumping, we-are-the-true-patriots Americagasms, it turns out it was really about worshiping money and the people who have it and wanting someone to make you feel safe from all those scary brown people. Some of us kinda expected that all along, but I appreciate the conformation. What do I mean by “worshiping money and the people who have it?” Trump has money and in this country, if you can make money, you automatically are a SMART PERSON AND WOULD MAKE A GREAT LEADER. It totally does not matter if you were born into it and had a one million dollar head start on everybody else. Oh, and by “brown people,” I mean the Mexicans you’re so frightened of you want to build a wall to keep them out because Berlin had the right idea. I also mean Muslims, who have a right to practice their religion in this country, thanks to the Constitution you claim to revere so damn much. I’m also talking about that black family that lives in your neighborhood. The one you always said were some of “the good ones (wink),” until they put a Black Lives Matter bumper sticker on their car and became the enemy. That’s always been your thing, though, hasn’t it? Anybody, even your fellow Americans, who don’t share the exact same shiny-white vision that you have of this country is THE OTHER. It’s why you dry-hump the 2^nd Amendment and hoard all the weapons you can, because you never know when you might have to fight your own government to stop tyranny (by the way, it will be the death of irony when you lock and load and drive off to the battlefield to fight the mean ol’ gubmint in your pickup truck with all the Blue Lives Matter and I Support Our Troops bumper stickers on it). Republicans love to remind Democrats that it was the Dems in the South that started the KKK all those years ago, as if nothing ever changes or evolves. I’d like to remind Republicans that they used to be the party of Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, and Dwight D. Eisenhower. That grand old party is being brought down by a two-bit con man who fantasizes about fucking his daughter. Of course, if he wins, he could bring down the whole damn country.

Defeating Tiny Hands McWhite Supremacist

I'm voting for Hillary Clinton. I did not arrive at this decision lightly. As most of you know, I am a Sanders supporter. I voted for Bernie because I preferred the candidate who didn't take any money from the unholy cabal of greed demons on Wall Street who tanked the world's (again, THE WORLD'S) economy back in 2008. As Matt Taibbi recently wrote,

“When I think about the way the Democrats and their friends in the press keep telling me I owe them my vote, situations like the following come to mind. We're in another financial crisis. The CEOs of the ten biggest banks in America, fresh from having wrecked the economy with the latest harebrained bubble scheme, come to the Oval Office begging for a bailout. In that moment, to whom is my future Democratic president going to listen: those bankers or me? It's not going to be me, that's for sure. Am I an egotist for being annoyed by that? And how exactly should I take being told on top of that that I still owe this party my vote, and that I should keep my mouth shut about my irritation if I don't want to be called a Republican-enabler?”

Bernie didn't win the primary, though. I'm going to vote for Clinton, because I want to keep an honest-to-God fucking comic book villain out of the White House. Plus, those Supreme Court nominees are a pretty big deal, if things like LGBT rights are important to you and you believe women's health choices, including abortion, belong to them and not a group of pasty-white legislators with Baptist haircuts and an axe to grind with every woman who couldn't be satisfied by their half-flaccid Vienna sausage dicks. Also, I'm definitely anti-wall. There's also the fact that I'm legitimately terrified for my Muslim friends if we elect Orange is the New Fascist. I'm NOT crazy about how cozy Hillary is with Wall Street (And, yes, the Mule is just as addicted to and dazzled by money as the Elephant) and the fact that we'll probably continue bombing the bejesus out of brown people on the other side of the world (Middle Eastern parents watching a drone strike blow up their kid probably don't give a shit if it was sent by a Democrat or a Republican).

So, there ya go Democratic Party. You got my vote. Surely you won't mind a little constructive criticism, right? You can't keep running campaigns based on the “lesser of two evils” platform. Granted, the evil you're running against this time is pretty goddamn fucking evil, however, this attitude is becoming more and more frustrating for voters. Don't be afraid to actually be liberal and progressive. An example from right here in Kentucky: If you took the campaign ads from Jack Conway and Alison Lundergan Grimes and showed those to people above the Mason-Dixon Line, they'd assume they were watching Republicans. The days of holding a shotgun and saying Jesus to inspire Democrats to get off their asses and to polls are over. It's pandering, it's insulting, and it's everything you accuse the other side of doing. Most importantly, though, it would be a grave error to alienate and ignore all the millennials who support Bernie. Probably not a good idea to continue being snide and condescending to them (and older liberals, like yours truly), as well. The main reason? Most of the millennials that I know don't give fuck one about the Democratic Party. They care more about candidates who take therm seriously and who they can believe in. When they hear calls for “party unity,” they hear “you're idealism is adorable, but now it's time to be cynical bastards like the rest of us and choose the lesser of two evils because this is the system we have, blah, blah, blah.” Look, I'm old enough to remember when there were only three channels to choose from on the TV. These kids grew up with 200 fucking coffee flavors to choose from every day of their lives. Good luck convincing them that only two parties are really the best we can do as a country. It's going to take more than continually pointing to the other side and saying “BOO” to inspire them. And I, for one, admire the hell out of that. I even married one.

Again, before you feel the need to Demsplain to me about party loyalty, I've already said I'm voting for your candidate. Just remember, if we defeat Tiny Hands McWhite Supremacist in November, don't think that gives you a free pass to coast next time. We'll talk again in four years.

Giant Tubs of Peanut Butter: A Post for My Mammy

Giant tubs of peanut butter. I’m trying to memorialize my grandmother, Kathy Holloman, (“Kitten” to some, “Rose” to my Grandad, “Mammy” to her grandkids. She didn’t have a middle name, so all the pet names made up for that) and all I can think about are these giant, food-service size tubs of peanut that she and my Grandad would bring me when I was in college at WKU. I was a theatre major and they never missed a I play in which I was cast (even a play called “Pvt. Wars” where I had to show my naked ass on stage. She said I was too skinny). Mammy, being a grandmother, always worried that I wasn’t eating. Of course, I wasn’t. I was a college student. I spent my money on cigarettes and beer and the occasional cup of coffee and slice of pie at Murray’s diner. So, whenever they came to Bowling Green, they would bring me a giant tub of peanut butter so I “didn’t go hungry.” To this day, when I need comfort, I will get a jar of peanut butter and eat it with a spoon. Mammy’s house became a popular destination for some of my college friends, because food. Dear lord, THE FOOD. An average weekend home from school would find a couple of pizzas, burgers, BBQ, bacon and eggs, banana pudding, coconut cake, and any number of sides and all of it prepared because, “I didn’t know what y’all would be in the mood for.” It’s at this point where things might get disjointed, because that’s how my mind is right now as I write this. Mammy’s oldest son, Bobby Holloman, my Dad, died at the age of 24 in 1975. I was five and my sister, Brandy, was eighteen months old. As a result, we were very close to Mammy. We would spend just about every weekend with her and Grandad. We went on a few vacations with them to Mammoth Cave or to spend a few days in a cottage at Kentucky Lake. One time, we were headed to St. Louis for a trip and I was torn, because there was a movie playing at the Capitol Cinema in Princeton that I really wanted to see. We were about 50 or so miles down the road when I pronounced that this movie was more important to me than St. Louis. Grandad turned the car around, we drove back to Princeton and went to the movies that night. I don’t remember what movie it was. It may have been Star Wars. Mammy played board games with me. She and Grandad taught me how to play Poker, Rummy, Black Jack, and Rook. When I was older, I lived with them off and on, when things would get tough. The woman loved Christmas. Nothing made her happier than a house full of family. I get a lot of my sense of humor from Grandad and it was honed and practiced on Mammy. There were many head shakes and eye rolls thrown at me and Grandad over the years. She was old school and would not leave the house unless her hair was done and she was made up. She loved to shop. There were times when we would ask how she was feeling and would tell us she wasn’t feeling that great and we would tell her that’s too bad, because we were going to go shopping and she would immediately respond with, “Well, let me get ready.” She lived long enough to see me get married, which was something I had been assuring her for years would never happen. She loved her grandkids. As long as she was able, she was at every play, show, recital, graduation, and court date. That last one was a joke. It’s going to be very weird on this planet without her on it, too. I lost my maternal grandmother, Mammaw, about eight months ago. This Christmas will be the first without both of my grandmothers. Considering that I’m 46, it’s remarkable that I got this many years with them both. I won the grandma lottery. We buried Mammy yesterday. She was laid to rest right next to my Dad. Everyone who knew her will miss her. She was 87. If she had lived just a little bit longer, she and Grandad would have been married 68 years. He and the rest of us were lucky to have her for so long.

I'm Done

I’m in a dark place today and I’m done. I’m writing this for myself and for others who feel the same way and no one else. I’m done debating gun control. If, by some miracle, there is ever legislation to support, I will support it, but after reading comments and reactions to the worst mass shooting in US history, I’ve decided that debating the issue on social media is pointless. If you should read this and disagree with anything I’m about to say, please take this as your invitation to move on. I know I can’t change your mind. Any comments that are designed to get a rise out of me or start a debate with me or any of my friends will be deleted. I’m done. You see, I’ve had a revelation and it’s this: You could take the NRA and all of the people who oppose ANY kind of restrictions on access to guns of ANY kind and throw them into a pool filled with the blood of every victim of gun violence in this country and shove their faces in the guts of the children who have been cut down by bullets fired from assault rifles that were designed for WAR and they would emerge, still stinking of death and gore, screaming about GOOD GUYS WITH GUNS or MENTAL HEALTH or PROTECTION FROM THE GOVERNMENT or, my new personal favorite, CRIMINALS WILL STILL GET THEM ON THE BLACK MARKET! (Oh really, middle class white person? Please share with me your vast knowledge of the criminal underworld and its inner workings. What? Do you think you’re “woke” because you’ve seen all the “Taken” movies?) They would explain, as they toweled off the blood and brains and chunks of dead flesh, how they are the true patriots and love this country more than anyone else and it’s the libtards that are ruining it and how Obama still has a few months left to snatch up all the guns. The 2^nd Amendment and money are the great golden calves that are worshipped in America. Sure, other amendments have been amended due to changing times and morals, but not that 2^nd one. I mean, why do we even need all those other pussy amendments anyway? Especially when the people for whom the 2^nd is the end all-be all are usually the people who favor some restrictions on speech, voting rights, and really, really wish that the government would just go ahead and declare Christianity as our national religion. These are some of the same people who are the first to defend law enforcement, but will wish death upon police officers who suggest that we need some kind of gun control, because the cops are tired of knocking on doors with AR-15’s on the other side. “Sorry you got shot, Officer, but even having a reasonable conversation about gun control is too much of a burden for me to bear.” So, I’m done. There can be no reasonable debate where there is no reason. As I said before, the people who oppose any kind of gun legislation see themselves as patriots. They see themselves as warriors, fighting a war for freedom. But, what kind of war is fought by people in air-conditioned houses, sitting and typing frantically on a laptop, while the victims of their “war” are innocent citizens who are out on the town just having fun…or at school…or at church…or at work? That’s not a war. That’s a group of privileged motherfuckers who would rather risk the lives of their fellow citizens, than change a law that might inconvenience them. You think the barest minimum of gun control is insane? Fine. I think that's inhuman. I don’t understand it. I can't fathom it. I’m done debating it. 
I am done.

Produced, Arranged, Composed, and Performed by Prince

The first Prince song I remember hearing was “Jack U Off.” I’m sure I had heard “I Wanna Be Your Lover” before that, but Prince wasn’t on my radar at the time. A friend of mine in middle school had it on a cassette. “You gotta hear this song about jacking off!” I was at the age where jacking off loomed large in my life, so I did indeed need to hear it. I will confess there was a bit of confusion when I heard the song. He wasn’t singing about jacking himself off. He was jacking someone else off. Now, at that age (12 maybe), my views and experience with sexuality were extremely limited. It was all boobs, masturbation and the occasional French kiss at the movies or middle school dance. When Prince sang, “I’ll Jack YOU off,” I thought he had to be referring to man, because lady parts didn’t come equipped with something to jack. It was exciting, thrilling, dirty, and a bit disturbing. I had to hear more.

I got more...a lot more...when “1999” was released the following year. It's hard to explain what a seismic shift that album caused. This was 1982 in the midst of the Cold War. There was this new cable channel called MTV that showed nothing but these things called “music videos.” Cursing and foul language were not commonplace in pop music. If you wanted to hear the word “fuck” you listened to Richard Pryor comedy albums or watched R-rated movies. Don't get me wrong, there were tons of pop songs that were about fucking. They just didn't say “fucking.” Prince came right out and said, “I want 2 fuck u.” That was from “Let's Pretend We're Married” and me and my friends lost our shit over that song. Another gem from that song, “...I sincerely wanna fuck the taste out of ur mouth. Can u relate?” We couldn't relate, of course, but goddamnit we wanted to.

Apart from the most brazenly sexual lyrics I had ever heard in my short life, “1999” was a political statement. It asked the question, “Mommy, why does everybody have a bomb?” The answer? “I don't know, so shut up and dance.” During those days, we all lived with the knowledge that the entire world could blow up at any second. And here was this bad-ass motherfucker, who dressed like he came straight out of the court of Louis the XIV (and who had previously rocked bikini underwear and thigh-high boots, but more on that later), telling everybody that the only way to face the pending apocalypse was to dance and fuck our asses off and if we didn't know how to do that, just listen to this record and if, by the end, you still didn't know how, then you're a double drag fool and there ain't no hope for you. Also, there was a giant dick right there on the album cover.

After “1999,” I went back and got “Controversy” and “Dirty Mind.” The former has “Jack U off.” The latter is one of Prince’s best. It’s pop, funk, soul, R&B, rock and roll, and punk, all in the service of anti-war anthems, songs about individuality, “When You Were Mine” one of the greatest break-up songs ever, and sordid tales of giving a bride-to-be head on her wedding day and incest with your sister that would make a Lannister blush. This was also the album cover that featured Prince in the aforementioned bikinis, etc. I had a poster of that iteration of the Purple One on my wall, which, I’m sure, led my mother to wonder if I may be a little confused sexually. In reality, I was just a straight white boy who had found a new hero. A hero who was slowly making my world larger and more interesting.

This is probably a good time to reveal that previous to Prince, the edgiest thing I had ever listened to was rock band/comic book heroes/multi-media corporation Kiss. In my grade school years of the 70’s, I was more apt to be found listening to the “Grease” soundtrack, the “Star Wars” soundtrack, and, for some ungodly reason (ahem…white boy), Andy Gibb’s “Shadow Dancing.” I grew up in a small town in Kentucky and didn’t have access to Creem magazine and had no idea about the cool music being made in New York City and London. The Ramones and The Clash would have to wait until my world got a little larger. Prince was one of the main catalysts for the broadening of my horizons. He became a star at the same time as I was going through puberty. Trust me when I tell you that going through all the confusion and terror that comes with puberty was much more exciting with Prince playing in the background.

In 1984, the world turned completely purple with the release of the movie and album “Purple Rain.” The album is one of the best ever made. The movie has its share of problems, amateurish acting, misogyny, and did I mention misogyny? The musical performances, however, are some of the most exciting ever captured on celluloid and it has lots of Morris Day, which is never a bad thing. It was a massive hit at the time. There’s really not another rock and roll movie like it. It wasn’t an Elvis movie. It wasn’t “A Hard Day’s Night.” It’s “like father, like son” dynamic is simplistic (father beats mother, son beats girlfriend), but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t truth in the narrative and the final performance of “Purple Rain/I Would Die 4 U/Baby I’m a Star” is just fucking brilliant. It was a brave choice of subject matter for a rock star’s first film (can you imagine Michael Jackson doing anything similar?) and it paid off. On a personal level, as a kid who was prone to (undiagnosed at the time) depression, seeing my favorite singer in a film where he imagines his own suicide and not only survives, but triumphs, was damn near a religious experience and one that I would revisit again and again whenever the thought of killing myself would rear it’s ugly, selfish head.

“Around the World in a Day” confused the hell out of everybody when it came out. Mainly, because most people wanted “Purple Rain II” and not this baroque-while-simultaneously-psychedelic masterpiece. It’s one of my favorites.

Next up was “Parade.” It was the soundtrack to the film “Under the Cherry Moon,” which was written and directed by Prince himself (and about which the less said the better). “Parade,” the album, is Prince’s “Sgt. Pepper.” No two songs on the album are alike. Each one a brilliant reminder that the writer/performer is a genius.

Then came an album that is, start to finish, a two record set that belongs on any list of the greatest albums ever made and proving, yet again, that if there’s a room full of bad-ass motherfuckers and Prince is in that room, he would be the baddest-ass, funkiest motherfucker of them all. I’m talking about “Sign O’ the Times.” It’s art that you can dance to. It covers multiple genres of music with Prince singing in multiple voices. I defy anyone to stand or sit still when “Housequake” is playing. Ever wonder what a children’s album written by Prince would sound like? Based on “Starfish and Coffee,” it would rival Dr. Seuss. Do me a favor. Go listen to “The Ballad of Dorothy Parker” right now and come back to this. Done? Good. That song sounds like nothing that came before or that has come since. It’s new wave, pop, jazz, and lyrics that read like a tone poem thrown in a blender that still comes out giving up the funk (and no matter style of music Prince is indulging in on any given album, he ALWAYS brings the damn funk). “The Cross” out-Jesuses most Jesus songs. It’s an album that will leave your head spinning and your ass shaking.

I could go on about other albums, because there’s something on each one that I love the shit out of (“Sexy M.F.”, damn…”Pussy Control”, fuck yeah and oh by the way read the words it’s actually a pro-feminist anthem), but you would get bored reading that.

It seems like Prince has always been there. His genius was so massive that he didn’t seem human, but something otherworldly that this planet had never seen before. He sang about God and sex in equal measure, sometimes in the same song. It was heady stuff for a kid who was raised in a Baptist church. Whenever I was dealing with all the guilt that comes with teenage sexuality (particularly those of us who were told in church that sex was a sin), there was Prince singing about fucking his way to divinity. Suddenly, Sunday School was boring. Especially with “D.M.S.R.” playing in your head on repeat.

Prince is the greatest vocalist in the history of popular music. Don’t debate me on this. You will lose. Any list of the greatest guitarists of all time that doesn’t have Prince in the top three is bullshit. He could play any instrument he laid his hands on. There are numerous albums and individual songs that are nothing but Prince, playing and singing everything. I’m trying to wrap this up and I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’ve conveyed how important the man was to me. I was only in the same building with him twice and that was seeing him live. First in Atlanta with Troy Lambert on the “Lovesexy” tour. Second in Evansville with Jeff Kolodey. How was Prince live? Only the best live performer I’ve ever seen. I always hoped I’d get the chance to see him again. That ain’t happening, though, and it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart because I’ll never get to see him with my wife. It breaks my heart because it turns out he was human, after all. It breaks my heart that he died, alone, in an elevator. It breaks my heart because the world was better with him in it. At the darkest moments of my life, when I was alone and nobody else was there, when I didn’t know if I should draw another breath, when I was hurting, he was there on my radio, in my cassette player, on my turntable, and in my headphones. He was there when I was happy and life was good. His name was Prince. And he was funky. It was a privilege to exist with him on this planet at the same time.

“Sometimes it snows in April

Sometimes I feel so bad

Sometimes I wish that life was never ending

But all good things they say never last…”