I am a dedicated wife. I am a hardcore Prince fan. I have been romantically linked to my husband for nearly 16 years and married to him for 13 years. I have been listening to Prince regularly for 29 years. Sometimes my dedication to the Purple One makes things a little uncomfortable in my marriage, especially when my twelve-year-old son asks questions while trapped in the car.
Hey Mom, Prince is a stupid name. What is his real name?
Prince Rodgers Nelson. Prince really is his birth name. His dad named him after his band, Prince Rodgers Trio.
What is Dad’s real name?
Birth name Tommy. Legally changed to Thomas when you were a baby. Goes by Tom. He is Dad to you.
Where was Prince born? Minneapolis, Minnesota
Where was Dad born? Orange, Texas.
When’s Prince’s birthday? June 7
When's Dad’s birthday? December 26.
Mom, I think you know more about Prince than dad.
No, I don’t. I know everything about your father and I know almost nothing about Prince.
Who was Prince’s first girlfriend?
Don’t know. Not playing this game. (Impossible to point to just one, but Susan Moonsie, who joined Vanity 6, was Prince’s high school girlfriend.)
Who was Dad’s first girlfriend?”
Not playing this game, kid. (Tina, Toni, Renee or something like that.)
What was Prince’s first job?
Don’t know. Don’t care. Time to move on. (Not sure that he did much but make music. Wrote first song when he was seven, first demo tape done in 1976 and first album released in 1978 when he was 19 years old.)
What’s was Dad’s first job?
Not playing this game but I know for a fact he bagged groceries at Wal-Mart. Your nanny made him walk to work.
What did Prince do in high school?
How would I know? (Played basketball and many instruments)
What did Dad do in high school? Football and baseball. He was great athlete unlike your mother.
So, Mom how many books have read about Prince?
None. I read an article about Prince in Teen Beat the year that Purple Rain came out. That is extent of my biographical knowledge, so let it go.
Mom, every time I use the computer, Prince.org is open.
Keep it up and I got three words for you: Computer Password Protected.
All right then. Dad, where are we going for dinner?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Smack Of Life
Silence. No crying kids. No bloody noses or split open lips. School yards and gym classes around the country are void of tradition and the rite of passage. Yes, it is true. The travesty known as the “dodge ball ban” is being spread across the country.
This wrong must righted as I implore schools and recreation centers to not deprive children of a good smack in the face that is needed as a stinging, bright red reminder that life is hard. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, it is violent. But so is life off the playground. Just about everything that I needed to know about the world, I learned from a brutal game of dodge ball.
This wrong must righted as I implore schools and recreation centers to not deprive children of a good smack in the face that is needed as a stinging, bright red reminder that life is hard. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, it is violent. But so is life off the playground. Just about everything that I needed to know about the world, I learned from a brutal game of dodge ball.
- Move fast, stay tough, be aware, watch for your competition or your face will be bloodied.
- Do not cry! No matter how much it hurts, do not cry. Crying is just like peeing your pants in school. Once it happens, the stigma follows you forever and you will never be redeemed.
- People who hate you certainly will use any opportunity to beat the hell out of you with smiles on their faces and in the name of good fun. They will say it is just a game and is not personal. It is never just a game and it is always personal.
- Being picked last for a dodge ball team is damaging to the ego but being picked last to have your nose-bloodied might not be so bad.
- Being slow means you are out of the game first, but that allows you more time to enjoy the demise of others.
- Although unlikely, it is plausible that your opponents will experience head injuries and die on the spot. Sometimes the hope of a blood-spewing aneurism that is messier than a Gremlin being blown up in a microwave is the only thing that helps one get through the day.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Trust Me, I Am Not Contagious!
I am not equipped to raise a popular child. I do not have the wherewithal or sensitivity to understand youthful happiness and joy. Give me an angst-filled, self-loathing child any day and I know exactly what advice to give. “Adolescence sucks. But take comfort in the fact that most of the assholes who tortured you during childhood will gain weight, lose hair or end up in minimum wage jobs in adulthood.”
So as a parent not versed in the charmed life of the popular, I have no ability to understand my son’s athletic friends who are always stopping by, the flurry the female admirers and all the party invitations. I especially have no tolerance for questions like these: “So, my mom, what group were you in when you were in school?”
“No group. I was an individual. A free-spirit.”
“So that means you didn’t have friends.”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“So, you were uncool and a loser?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Really? But you have so many friends now. Are you sure?”
“Okay, what’s up with all the questions? Why are inquiring about my social history?”
“Just wondering.”
“Unpopularity is not genetic. You are not suddenly going to develop uncoolness one day. Don’t believe there is such a thing as the “uncool gene.”
“Okay, so that means you hung out with the smart kids.”
“Not really. I wasn’t really that smart either. I just worked hard and got good grades by studying and applying myself.”
“So, you hung out with the nerds.”
“No, they didn’t much like me either.”
“I can’t believe my mom was a loser."
“Yes son , I was a loser and now I am a librarian. Probably one of the few professions that encourages oddness. The dorkier that I am, the better service people think that they are getting. People expect librarians to be nerds and it gives them comfort. It is the balance of life, child. Now go comb your perfect hair and leave me alone.”
“You’re a dork, mom.”
So as a parent not versed in the charmed life of the popular, I have no ability to understand my son’s athletic friends who are always stopping by, the flurry the female admirers and all the party invitations. I especially have no tolerance for questions like these: “So, my mom, what group were you in when you were in school?”
“No group. I was an individual. A free-spirit.”
“So that means you didn’t have friends.”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“So, you were uncool and a loser?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Really? But you have so many friends now. Are you sure?”
“Okay, what’s up with all the questions? Why are inquiring about my social history?”
“Just wondering.”
“Unpopularity is not genetic. You are not suddenly going to develop uncoolness one day. Don’t believe there is such a thing as the “uncool gene.”
“Okay, so that means you hung out with the smart kids.”
“Not really. I wasn’t really that smart either. I just worked hard and got good grades by studying and applying myself.”
“So, you hung out with the nerds.”
“No, they didn’t much like me either.”
“I can’t believe my mom was a loser."
“Yes son , I was a loser and now I am a librarian. Probably one of the few professions that encourages oddness. The dorkier that I am, the better service people think that they are getting. People expect librarians to be nerds and it gives them comfort. It is the balance of life, child. Now go comb your perfect hair and leave me alone.”
“You’re a dork, mom.”
Monday, July 11, 2011
Yet Another Open Letter to Prince: Why Are You Such an Embarrassment to Your Fans?
Dear Prince:
Months ago, I promised my husband that I would no longer write open letters to you on my blog because it is not a productive use of time for a mother of four, and my correspondence makes me look moderately crazy. But, you did again it and once again I am willing to look insane for your sake. You did something so asinine that I feel behooved as a fan to give you some advice. Shut up! Stop talking and do not give interviews at all.
You have always been a bit of a freakish embarrassment to your fans, but the majority of your most dedicated fans love your crazy ass despite your ramblings that make you look like a semi-retarded, seriously mentally ill nincompoop. But this time you went too far with this mouthful of sexism and racism that recently appeared in the Guardian, "It's fun being in Islamic countries, to know there's only one religion. There's order. You wear a burqa. There's no choice. People are happy with that." When asked about the fate of those unhappy with having no choice, he replied: "There are people who are unhappy with everything. There's a dark side to everything."
It’s fun to not have a choice and to be told what to do by the government? It is fun for women to be suppressed? Suppression equals happiness and fighting for equality is the “dark side?” To try to explain your reasoning for this vitriol would be as difficult as explaining why you wore assless pants or wrote "slave" on your face. Just one more inexplicable stupid ass thing for your fans to accept just like your conspiracy theory that the government is using chemtrails to keep the black man down and your profound observation that the “Internet is dead.” In fact, this statement is just as about as open-minded and progressive as “God came to earth and saw people sticking it wherever and doing it with whatever, and he just cleared it all out. He was, like, Enough."
Although there is no end to your imbecility, you receive unconditional love from your most dedicated fans. You are adored despite the fact you are a crazy old man who wants to seem like an intellectual, but in reality you spent your youth writing brilliant songs about fucking opposed to getting a higher education. Now that you are a distinguished musician who has won just about every award possible in the music industry, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Really the answer is simple. Stop talking, go release the 25 minute version of Xtralovable that your fans desperately want to hear; lock yourself up in the studio; continue to bang your pretty little ballerina (who is young enough to be your daughter) for inspiration and get back to writing sex-laden songs.
Please no more nonsense about gays, chemtrails, the Internet, women or religion. Your social commentary is not wanted or needed. Your music on the other hand is. You are musician, so go make music.
Forever Always Your Fan,
Garbageman’s Daughter
Months ago, I promised my husband that I would no longer write open letters to you on my blog because it is not a productive use of time for a mother of four, and my correspondence makes me look moderately crazy. But, you did again it and once again I am willing to look insane for your sake. You did something so asinine that I feel behooved as a fan to give you some advice. Shut up! Stop talking and do not give interviews at all.
You have always been a bit of a freakish embarrassment to your fans, but the majority of your most dedicated fans love your crazy ass despite your ramblings that make you look like a semi-retarded, seriously mentally ill nincompoop. But this time you went too far with this mouthful of sexism and racism that recently appeared in the Guardian, "It's fun being in Islamic countries, to know there's only one religion. There's order. You wear a burqa. There's no choice. People are happy with that." When asked about the fate of those unhappy with having no choice, he replied: "There are people who are unhappy with everything. There's a dark side to everything."
It’s fun to not have a choice and to be told what to do by the government? It is fun for women to be suppressed? Suppression equals happiness and fighting for equality is the “dark side?” To try to explain your reasoning for this vitriol would be as difficult as explaining why you wore assless pants or wrote "slave" on your face. Just one more inexplicable stupid ass thing for your fans to accept just like your conspiracy theory that the government is using chemtrails to keep the black man down and your profound observation that the “Internet is dead.” In fact, this statement is just as about as open-minded and progressive as “God came to earth and saw people sticking it wherever and doing it with whatever, and he just cleared it all out. He was, like, Enough."
Although there is no end to your imbecility, you receive unconditional love from your most dedicated fans. You are adored despite the fact you are a crazy old man who wants to seem like an intellectual, but in reality you spent your youth writing brilliant songs about fucking opposed to getting a higher education. Now that you are a distinguished musician who has won just about every award possible in the music industry, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Really the answer is simple. Stop talking, go release the 25 minute version of Xtralovable that your fans desperately want to hear; lock yourself up in the studio; continue to bang your pretty little ballerina (who is young enough to be your daughter) for inspiration and get back to writing sex-laden songs.
Please no more nonsense about gays, chemtrails, the Internet, women or religion. Your social commentary is not wanted or needed. Your music on the other hand is. You are musician, so go make music.
Forever Always Your Fan,
Garbageman’s Daughter
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