Stan Clear 19.5.12
Prince strolls through the open greenroom door for the seventh time, but on this occasion I am waiting for him. ‘You call this a gig? Get back on stage this instant, you sexy motherFUCKER!’
He doesn’t try to hold back his famous half-smile. ‘Hello Stan, how’s your secretary?’
‘Always the chicks with you. Wouldn’t you like to know? I mean you never called, emailed. Ha, she’s good as always… so have you made it to the actual stage yet?’
He rolls his eyes and strips to the waist. A devastating woman approaches him with the next costume as another skirt-hugged bombshell with surgically implanted fishnets holds a microphone to his lips. You can hear the sparkle of Prince’s eyes as he gently caresses his briefly exposed left nipple and addresses the expectant audience, ‘Do you feel sexy… I feel sexy… mmm, yeah… I could do this all night…’ A muted roar surrounds us from the arena above. He winks at me and saunters back to center symbol.
Prince fleetingly flaunts his purple reign for two songs and returns to the greenroom for the same shtick. Before his final encore we get to chat for 15 minutes. Chantelle plies us with Yogi Mayan Cocoa Spice herbal tea and casual aerosol sprays of candlewood scented tiger hormones.
Stan- So, man formally known as symbol, what’s with the short-notice tour? No sooner is it announced and you’re here grinding those narrow hips.
Prince- You know, I had a sexy dream about Australia and, well, I just had to blow my love all over the southern lands.
P- So, Stan, do you like my Too Many Hits routine?
S- Yeah, I thought you were talking about your website for a second. Fwango! It’s an admirable concept, to be sure, but slightly flawed in my opinion.
P- How so, Stanley?
S- You could play a dozen of those snippets for real if you reigned in the over-extended funk waffle, but hey, everyone knows you’re beyond accountability in the supreme court of self-indulgence.
P- You know how it is.
S- Bet I do, Ooze-Man. So how ‘bout the next release? What’s shakin’ baby?
P- I’ve written two more songs while we’ve been sittin’ here… (he stares middle distance for nearly a minute) … We’ll see.
S- Do you ever get tired of this aloof, misterioso performance? Booby. Talk to me.
S- ‘uckin’ A. You’re slier than a greased polecat. Should we adjourn to after-party?
P- Momentarily. Now, I must discharge my most perpetual juice of love over the arched stomach of the southern regions to lubricate my functions down-under…