We lived for many years near the artist known as Prince, not too far away from his famed Paisley Park studios in Chanhassen.
Never met the man. Stories abounded about early morning sightings on his little motorcycle, or the best route past his guard shack, or about the sound inversions during early morning parties at the studio that had resulted in disturbance of the peace complaints from 20 miles away.
We enjoyed the association, the mythology, but never did meet the man. We toured the studio when it was new, but never got invited to any exclusive late night events. We enjoyed his music as well as his quirky loyalty to his Minneapolis roots.
We got close once. Long before the TSA took control of the concourses at MSP, we were picking up a friend coming in from LA. Our gate area was unusually crowded that Sunday evening and a courtesy go-cart was parked in front of the gangway.
Soon we learned what all the hubbub was about. Our local celebrity was returning from the coast. Our lasting vision will always be of that airport courtesy cart rushing past us at top speed, the The Little Prince crumpled up on its rear-facing seat like so much baggage. Tires squealing, the Prince clinging for dear life, he quickly escaped the people who had come to love him --- then disappeared into the night.
We’ll truly miss having Prince around. . . even though we never met.
Rest In Purple
