U ever have the feeling, u got too many hits?

Prince is the musical throughline of my life. Sensual, sexy, funky and otherworldly, I've learned more, and felt more from his music than any other. Would my view of women, or sex, or romanticism, have developed the same way in the absence of "Anna Stesia", or "The Beautiful Ones"? Maybe, maybe not. 

I can, perhaps, even credit Prince with giving my new relationship a chance. If it wasn't for his spectacular flame-out in the public eye, would there have even been an opportunity to connect with another big Prince fan? Reminding someone that he's made some great music post 2000? Maybe, though possibly not. Was that innocuous interaction last year a meaningful foundation point or just a forgotten sideline? Who really knows.

Yet, it's a powerful thread among many between us, which made going to see Prince in concert without her a bittersweet experience. An unfortunately timed trip prevented her from coming tonight to a high-energy Prince show that proved two things: 1) I'm probably too big of a Prince fan, and 2) You can't be too big of a Prince fan, because when the Purple One is in the room, it's categorically impossible for him to disappoint. 

On the first point, the opener of his three concerts on one night was exceptionally routine from a setlist standpoint. Having tracked his fan message boards too long, there was nary a surprise to be had, with the exception of a delightful, sexy, "If I Was Your Girlfriend" following a blistering version of "Shhh", which never fails to tear down the house (making it all the more understandable why he hasn't left it off his routine for the past 5-7 years). Ironically, these two highlights were the kind of moments that I was dying to share with L, and sincerely hope we'll have more chances to during the Purple LA residency. 

Beyond this, Prince didn't surprise much. It was high-energy and fun, but the Nokia Theater sound was merely average, and there was a litany of songs that I never care to hear live, from "I Feel 4 U" (when is he going to retire this?), to "Kiss", to "1999" (a song that is never benefited by live treatment), to a pedestrian version of the uninspiring "Crimson & Clover". And even when he's exceptional in performance, I'll confess to getting a little tired of him pulling out "Play That Funky Music" and "Come Together". He's brilliant at them, and I was dancing my ass off like everyone else, but I'll admit that I'd like a little more variety in his set-lists. Even when I only see shows in LA, I read about all the others, and he's getting a little staid. This set-list wasn't demonstrably different from Coachella. Though, I'm certain that the two later shows will provide more variety and dig deeper into the catalogue... the songs I probably wanted to hear. I knew this going in though, and it's not fair to complain about his structuring of the mainstream crowd show.

Still, the massive HD video screens were a delight, giving audience members a rare treat to catch every single glance, smirk and guitar pluck in 1080p. Even though our seats were decent, they weren't close enough to capture that energy head-on, but the exceptional video production provided an impressive intimacy with an artist who was both deeply irritated by frequent sound problems (affecting his playback more than the audience), and strangely touched by a return to the big stage. His final thank yous, where he shook perhaps every hand in the pit, even showed that he was a bit teary. I have to wonder why this show would do that to him, given his expertise and longetivity on stage. Was it the unique, historic nature of the night? Something else? Hard to tell.

And it is those flourishes, glances and declarations that are part of what makes a Prince show so remarkable. He is in total control of the environment, to calling out lighting cues in a 7000 seat house every minute ("gimme the house lights!"), to his crazy ability to create a rhythmic beat to "Hollywood Swinging" for 10 minutes with every part of the theater singing along, following his every order and purple promise of funky orgiastic glee. When he brings up the same geeky white guy to do a blistering rap of "Play that Funky Music" for at least the third time that I've seen (and no less than the 5th I've heard about), it's clear that Prince's showmanship is so brilliant that he can knock it out in his sleep. It's distressingly simple to feel jaded about the gifts he's shared, but you have to stand back and appreciate how terribly, amazingly hard it is to make it seem so easy. And he makes it seem so easy.

Which is what made the routine feel so fresh, as he managed to give "Purple Rain" a new feel and tone, and his rendition of "Let's Go Crazy" was easily the best I've personally seen live from him. Yet, he saved some of the best for last, using his encore to play "The Bird" and "Jungle Love". This wasn't, in itself, a shock, because I heard those same songs live last month, but the fact that he encores with them is so ridiculously silly that there's a perverse glamour to it. And watching 7000 people do the Bird is pretty sweet. Seguing into "The Glamorous Life" seemed to be just another playful embrace of his love of all things Minneapolis and the mid-80s, but when Sheila E snuck up behind him, him pretending to be surprised, to take over the vocals, what seemed like a fun stunt turned into a funk classic. She looked regal into her late-40s, then joined Cora on the drums for a jaw-dropping dual drum solo on one kit that left you breathless, while the one of the greatest rhythm guitarists in the world plays along with his sly smirk.

So even when he leaves you wanting in the originality department, he leaves you gasping with the sheer show of virtuosity. 

What remained missing was the one I wanted to see the concert with. Sure, it was a blast watching my friend V, still a practical Prince virgin, soaking it up (he had no such criticisms of the show, as I privately had), but it's a special experience that I hoped to have with L. And believe that I'll have sometime soon in the future... 

Revelations can be good

Today was a significant day for important relationships in my life. I have started seeing a wonderful, amazing, continually captivating woman, and we find ourselves reaching levels of connection and intimacy that I couldn't have forseen. Amongst other things, that brings up the Zach issue, as that's obviously a factor in whether or not we find a connection with each other: is she a person that I could envision around my son? Is my role as a father something that she can contend with? This isn't to remotely say that anyone is picking out doilies and china patterns, but these are the natural and necessary questions that come up in this kind of adult-world dynamic. Because if those things aren't even conceivable, what are you doing with each other?

Needless to say, I have absolutely no concerns on the first point, and she has been astonishingly wonderful on the second - sensitive, thoughtful and engaged. The speed and uncommon intensity of the bond we're building led to a somewhat inadvertant meeting with Zach, which brings up the next, natural question: when does my ex learn that I'm dating someone? The initial plan was to loop her in first, but, alas. Due to the ex's oft-mentioned struggles, I have a perhaps undue sensitivity when it comes to adding to that. I can only presume she doesn't want to hear about me being happy, etc. This doesn't make her a bad person; it's completely natural and I'd probably be the same. No, at a certain point in time, I can guarantee that I'd have been the same. Loneliness and unhappiness breeds resentment.

But now the issue was coming to a head, and when do I deal with that? I aimed for what I thought to be an appropriate sense of timing, but as with so many things, making plans can be pointless; the situation resolved itself at a time - and in a manner - that was not of my choosing. As I largely expected, my ex figured it out on her own due to the amount of time she spends dropping in on the condo, though certain ill-placed evidence made it hugely obvious. Yet, she brought up the situation in a completely unexpected and seemingly arbitrary fashion, absolutely launching into me for a perceived sense of selfishness, along with a rather ridiculous claim that she is, in some way, "taking care" of me. This couldn't be anything further from the truth, and just demonstrates just how differently we view the world and our relation to each other. It was surprisingly ugly, and had nothing (on the surface) to do with me dating someone. When it finally came up, she brushed it off with a "good for you. I'm happy you have someone" blanket statement. I think this is just her taking the high road, and I credit her for that, but the whole thing was just so strange that it was impossible to know what to make of it. 

But more importantly, it was out in the open, and that felt great. And the special person this is all about appeared to appreciate it as well.

What this led to, however, was a larger discussion about how the ex and I philosophically view dating new people and the introduction of those potential people into Zach's life. This led to the revelation that the ex actually dated someone late last year for a couple months. If I had learned that back then, during what was one of the hardest periods for me, I would've likely not handled it well. Yet, as it was shared now, there was something so distant and vague about it that I, frankly, couldn't care less. Good for her, I suppose; it didn't hurt in the way that I expected it would, and had been emotionally preparing myself for most of the last year. In fact, it didn't hurt at all. It was strange hearing of the contrived scenario where this guy met my son, and there's a natural relief that he's not still around, as there may not be a more sensitive issue for a devoted parent than the (mostly unfound) fear of being emotionally replaced. In fact, that's a scenario I saw play out in my own childhood, as my step-siblings shunned their own father and latched onto mine. But still, it's the rhythms of life, and I felt surprisingly fine with all of it. It probably helped knowing it still wasn't going on.

Also, my person is someone that I think would be a wonderful influence to Zach, and who I am eager to get to know him better. They actually have a similar, mad (mean that in the good way) energy that is utterly endearing and captivating. I think they could become good - even great - friends.

Later, the ex and I had an even more in-depth discussion where it proved that we're both gaining some valuable distance and perspective from our marriage. She even made the comment, parroting a friend, that "everyone should have a first marriage". That's perhaps a bit too smug, but there's a truth to it. We were so young; we didn't even know who we were, much less who the other person was. And, clearly, we couldn't handle it. We didn't know what we wanted out of ourselves much less another person, and so it went so very, very wrong. We're both sorry for the choices we made, and how we let them happen, but at the same time, I think we recognize that it was perhaps meant to happen that way. We weren't perfect for each other, but we did help build the people that we became. She told me that I helped her become the person she is, which can't be anything other than a compliment, and I feel the same way about her. Though I also think she inadvertantly helped unearth things about myself that I don't appreciate; this is not her fault, however. 

We also talked a lot about her family, and the poisonous gossip and aligning that people will try to engage in about us, and how I, in particular, won't play that game. I've expended a lot of energy and effort trying to have a solid relationship with my ex, and I intend for that to continue. We even commented that maybe we could even be those kinds of ex's that are sometime again real friends. And that may be a good thing. Certainly we couldn't possibly want each other, in any way, shape or form, but we do care about and respect each other. So, ironically, what was a situation that I somewhat dreaded, actually put things on a much more elevated, honest level, and that's a good thing.

Most importantly, it gives me an even greater level of confidence and comfort in this new relationship, if that's even remotely possible. Which it honestly doesn't seem to be. Going through these discussions and revelations were, ultimately, about what's best for my son, and how two ex's relate to each other, but there was also a strong pull to address some of this because I want the most honest, fair platform for a new relationship that is developing a meaning for me that I didn't expect. I needed to address it for me, but I wanted to address it for her. 

Words are too small

It's been 8 months since I started writing down the experiences of the past year. Though there are sporadic readers from places as far flung and random as Utah, China or even Africa, this was never meant to be something that anyone other than myself was meant to read. A place to put down some of my most intimate, darkest thoughts as a way of both purging and understanding them. It's been immensely valuable too, both as means of coping, but also as a sort of marker. A gravestone of sorts, marking the before and after moments of my life. 

My life doesn't seem remotely the same as it was a year ago. There are throughlines, of course. My son, the company I work for, certain friendships, etc. Yet, I am not the same that I was a year ago. It's possible that fundamentally people don't change. However, maybe what changes are the fundamental aspects of our nature that we elevate or suppress based on our experiences, our interactions, or fears, our hopes. Maybe it's all deep down inside us, but we selectively choose what comes out, and what doesn't. And then, at a certain point, we seem to lose control over those choices; our bodies, our minds, our experiences start to make the decisions for us, and this becomes who we "are". But there are other sides of us still hidden there deep in the weeds.

I feel those parts of myself emerging again, that I may have suppressed along the way. Hope, belief, optimism, beauty, connectedness, peace. These are things that I always saw as fundamental parts of me, but somewhere along the way got pushed aside. I'm not blaming anyone for that, and ultimately, I'm responsible for letting that happen. I let the stress of life overtake those things that I was, and wanted to be. 

And now I find myself shown things in myself that I may have never even known were there, or if they were, they were long forgotten. But those are things that feel so utterly natural, or right, or... perfect, that it makes you realize that we all have Mozart in us, even if we're battling his and Salieri's demons along the way. 

And those things are emerging - and being brought out - in the most beautiful ways, that I don't feel like I've changed or that I'm a different person. I am becoming the person I originally saw myself as, and feeling myself connected in a way that I never saw coming, and may have never thought possible. I feel that certain words, like peace, or calm, make sense to me in a way they never did before. Peace is a really, truly beautiful word.

These are ramblings that likely make little sense. Sometimes words are too small to capture the feeling. 

A Gift of Grace Wrapped in Barbed Wire

Today is Saint Patrick's Day. March 17th. A festive holiday that exists for no other reason than to get blisteringly drunk. Gotta love a holiday like that. I'm part-Irish too, so I can respect the urge. For me, however, St. Patty's day has always had another connotation. 

It's the day my mother died. 

29 years ago today, my mentally ill, intensely nurturing, highly intellectual, especially troubled mother died of an apparently inadvertent drug overdose. Might have been intentional, perhaps not. It depends on your perspective, mostly. I was 6 1/2. 

Men in dark suits collected me from my second grade class. Took me to my neighbor's house, where I waited in the basement for reasons unknown to me. Also unknown to me was the fact that my father was on a business trip, getting the news just before a plane flight (god, how complicated that must have been in the long-before cell phone days?), and they actually had a plane reverse taxi back to the gate so he could return home. 

One of my mother's brothers, who I don't remember at all, told my older brother and I the news (my dad never forgave this uncle for robbing him of this right and responsibility). As I waited in the basement for my father, for what seemed like (and probably) was hours, I remember telling a little baby - or maybe it was a doll - what had just happened to my mother. I probably didn't understand it, but explaining these events to someone even littler than me gave me a certain empowerment that was otherwise completely missing. 

Later that night, father and sons were back home. I'll never forget how trashed the house was. Garbages overturned, house nearly dark, the bed askew. She was found by a neighbor in the bedroom, perhaps on the floor. I had slept at the neighbor's the night before, because my mom didn't "feel well". I remember her crouched on the floor, naked I think, with bruises on her. Where did they come from, I wondered. This is my last visual memory of my mother. Self-inflicted, I am now sure. For years, I presumed that our trashed house was caused by the police investigation. But what if it was her? Did she rocket through the house in a manic rage, throwing over furniture and garbage cans? Did she die in pain? I'll never know, but I can't imagine it was any worse than the pain her life had become, trapped in her past, her delirium and her mental illness.

I saw a lot of emotion in my house growing up. Mostly anger. As a child, you are protective of your mother, and I naturally always thought my dad was in the wrong. He would be locked out of the house, pounding on the door, my mother screaming through the wood. Surely, he must have hurt her badly, right? Right? I recall my mother telling me one night that she was forcing him to sleep in his car because he was evil. It wasn't until at least 15 years later that I realized he was trying to manage the situation, to keep her stable, and to keep my brother and I safe. She once pulled a belt around her neck, threatening to hang herself. In her mania she had also threatened our lives. After I was born, she wrote on the wall that she wanted to kill me. How terrifying it must have been for him, fearing for his sons. Especially with all the traveling he did.

That night was the first time I ever remember seeing my father cry. I know he loved her, but I'm sure he was also crying because he failed to save her. He birthed great, wracking sobs while perched on the edge of the couch, with Dave and I not knowing what to do. I think we hugged him. Or he hugged us. While I don't necessarily remember my father as a cuddly kind of dad, he was a caring, supportive father, and so it's more likely that he pulled us into his embrace. We cried together.

But in the years after her death, those tears were relatively infrequent, and I felt a kind of numbness over what happened. For years, I privately chastised myself for my lack of deep, intense grief over my mother's death. Did this make me a bad person? Cold? Unfeeling? I am relatively quick to emotion in most other cases, and really a romantic at heart despite it all, so this would be inaccurate on the whole.

But when it comes to my mother, it wasn't until last spring that I found out why I developed this way. After her death, my father remarried, I got additional siblings, and though our house was one of the constant movement that only four kids only 5 years apart can create, there was under it all a sense of stability and calm. The chaos of my mother was replaced by the firm, competent hand of my stepmother, who wasn't cuddly either, but was what kids often think a mom is supposed to be: devoted, diligent,a great cook, the taskmaster and judge. Stern but always available, and no matter how frayed she became, she never did things like lock dad out of the house or threaten to hang herself. 

No matter how you look at it, that was better.

I didn't understand it then, and only now do, but I latched onto that stability and wanted to do everything possible to maintain it. I became the good student, the "good" kid. This was relatively easy as a middle child with a complete fuck-up stepbrother, an eldest "golden child" that stepmother put a giant target on (probably because Dave so easily achieved everything my stepbrother couldn't, or didn't want to), and a little sister who was everything that little sisters are supposed to be - self-absorbed, a bit spoiled, charming by half, and a little hellion underneath. 

It was easy to float under the radar. I had a series of private rebellions throughout high school, but I was apparently clever enough to keep most under wraps, and during those earlier years, I was the self-contained, independent, self-reliant, untroubled kid who didn't ask for much and didn't expect much. Just having a sense of calm and security was probably enough for me, that I didn't want to bother anyone with my own adolescent insecurities and fears. My parents were always there for me when I needed them, but I don't recall ever needing them. Or admitting that I actually did. 

I learned to control my own world, because if someone else controlled it, it may spin out of control. Deep down, I learned to fear uncertainty and constant change. This became ingrained in me, and something I'm learning to - and desperately want to - roll back, layer by layer, piece by piece. To find a middle ground that's more flexible, more emotionally sustainable. I wish I knew that about myself years ago. 

I never held my mother's sickness against her. I don't say this to sound holier-than-thou, but rather, I always wanted to appreciate what she did give to me in our short time together - intelligence, creativity, an affinity for storytelling. And her death definitely helped build that self-reliance and independent streak that I don't think I would've found otherwise (her dying made me not want to rely on my stepmother if at all possible, because there was probably a subconscious fear that getting attached could mean losing another parent). 

But that said, I also need to own up to the fact that my mother's chaos also caused one of the least favorite parts of myself. My apprehension over change played a not insignificant role in the collapse of my marriage, because deep down, I just need to know that things are going to be okay. Mothers tell you that. And then I didn't have a mother. And for the brief time I did have a biological mother, I had one for whom nothing was ever okay. Having a wife for whom things were so rarely okay probably instigated reactions and emotions that I couldn't have possibly understood in the moment.

Rosemary gave me many gifts, but that's one I wish I could've politely declined. But no parent wants to pass their damages and issues to their children, and there's no way she could've known. In fact, part of me believes that she may have felt she needed to die in order to free Dave and I from her chaos. Which was, in its own way, a gift. A gift of grace wrapped in barbed wire. 

So St. Patty's day is a day of green beer to go with your eggs and ham. What the hell is it supposed to celebrate, anyway? Hell if I know. I have never felt any urge to blow the doors off this holiday. I'll leave that to other people. At the same time, I rarely feel morose on this anniversary, and most years have little reaction to it other than a private mental note ("Oh, yes, that happened today, didn't it?"). Though this year may be a little different. 

So 29 years later, wherever my mother is, I hope she has the peace she deserves. And if she's still hovering around, unsettled because of whatever damage she may have done to her sons, I would like her to know that, on the whole, we turned out pretty much fine.

Tired

There's tired that's just tiring, and there's a kind of tired that's invigorating and worth every second.

This is the latter.

Patton's smarter than me

"In fact, the only thing that can truly destroy a comedian – or any artist – is paying attention to benchmarks like “20” and “30” and “40”, or any new set of tens. Turning away from your age, and from the loss of life, is the deepest sort of fear and childishness. There’s nothing creepier than the new generation of twenty-somethings who act like giggly twelve year-olds. And there’s nothing sadder than someone over forty still acting like they’re home from college freshman year, trying to shock their parents over Thanksgiving dinner by declaring they’re an atheist."

-- Patton Oswalt

Patton Oswalt is my favorite comedian because he's the funniest guy who stands on a stage with a microphone. Hands down. But he's also one of my favorite personas because he's just... smart. Well-read, observant, tuned in and just. fucking. smart. 

Fuck you, Dane Cook, Carlos Mencia and all the other  mundane, generic scam artists who pass themselves off as comedians. You're neither funny, nor smart. 

See, there's just one story and everyone's the star...

See there's just one story
And everyone's the star
And it goes like this...

No one will ever love you
For everything you are 

And so you build up layers of deception
And you leave out things to alter the perceptions
Of the ones you love
Who would never love you back
If they knew all about you
Every solitary fact

-- Song for Caden, "Synecdoche, New York"

You think that people have it figured out. Everyone except for you. You're the only one who feels so horribly confused or lost. 

Except that's not remotely true. In fact, the more you get to know people - even the people you know really well - it becomes more clear that they are just as lost, confused and conflicted as you. I have some friends who are very dear to me, and I swear, spending time with them never ceases to put some of my own issues into perspective. These are people who are confident, secure, successful, incredibly smart. Generous, kind, wonderful people, who I adore. And, yet, they're total messes in so many ways. 

I'm not sure if that should make me MORE or LESS sad. There's a certain comfort in knowing that other people are just as fucked up as you are, each in their own, terribly unique, ways. But then there's also the question - why can't we all get our shit together?

No Parking: Special Event

I got a friend whose goal in life

Was to one day go down on Madonna
That's all he wanted, That was all

To one day go down on Madonna

And when my friend was thirty-four 

He got his wish in Rome one night
He got to go down on Madonna
In Rome one night in some hotel
And ever since he's been depressed
'Cause life is shit from here on in
And all our friends just shake their heads
And say too soon, too soon, too soon
He went down on Madonna too soon
Too young, too young, too soon, too soon

There are some events that are once in a lifetime deals. The above lyrics from Dan Bern's "Tiger Woods" is a playful tweaking of such an event, used to cast a light on how transitory, temporary great experiences can be. Who doesn't know the feeling of peaking too early? I had one of those last week, and no, it didn't involve going down on Madonna. I'm not sure WHO would really yearn for that anymore, but in Dan Bern's defense, the song's a good 15 years old. 

My once-in-a-lifetime event was getting to go to the Academy Awards, which was somehow more enjoyable an experience by virtue of no longer being part of Hollywood. If I would've done this 5 years ago, I would've held a private sadness at the thought that it wasn't ever going to be me in those front 20 rows. Rather, I was just a schmuck paying $10 for a beer while watching Sean Penn power by on his way to a umpteenth cigarette break. But since I stepped out of that world, I've been able to let go of so many of those obsessions and ambitions, and in all honesty, not feel bad about it beyond sometimes the aching thought of the years that I missed out on. So it was just fun to put on the wide-eyed fan cap and enjoy the big, broad absurdity of it all.

And it is patently absurd, although when you're actually there (past the spotlight glare of the red carpet with the shouting photographers, screaming fans and oceans of red), it's a strangely intimate affair. It's not a giant theater, and even though millions of people are watching the show, when you're in the room you're struck by the overwhelming sense of a high school theater production. Just with a really, really big prop budget. Granted, it's all very well orchestrated, but there's definitely a humanness to the preceedings when you're on the other side of the picture tube. 

There's a certain excitement, of course, to watching the show in the room itself. Our seats were solid though not spectacular. It was on the first level, so I could listen in on Richard Jenkins chatting with an old friend (he's more like an average joe than an actor, to be sure), but we were definitely in the back. Which gave a perfect perspective to walk out the doors as Seal and Heidi Klum walk in. Why were they there, incidentally? I wonder if he's in the academy from a nomination or something... 

The most enjoyable sequences were hanging out in the lobby bar, eavesdropping on conversations, watching Robin Wright Penn head in opposite directions of her soon-to-be-feted husband, seeing Viola Davis hanging out with friends to commiserate over her loss, and introducing myself to Peter Gabriel. I tried to rein in the adoring fan bit, and didn't want to lead with, "Dude, I love "Sledgehammer!". So I commented that his music just seems to get better with each year, and that I'd spent much of the last year listening obessively to "Father/Son". Which is true. He was polite, gracious, and eager to get back to talking to his girlfriend. But it felt good to introduce myself to at least one major name. A surreal moment was watching Brangelina stroll up to the bar, the crowd parting like the red sea, and then everyone in eyesight just not-so-subtly shifting to stare at them. Brad and Angelina acting like nothing was odd about any of this. Well, props to them.

Miley Cyrus. I don't understand why she's famous, but she's a relatively pretty girl in person. I suppose she'll mature and end up fairly attractive like the other Disney stars before her (et. al Britney, Hillary Duff, etc.). Women in general at the Oscars are fairly scary, with an overabundance of make-up, surgery, Botox and dresses that scarily blur the line between evening down and slut-whore. At least the famous people can pull off tacky without looking like skanks. Not so much with lots of the other women there.

The Governor's Ball was a delight, with free-flowing champagne and wine, and a spot near the door to watch the celebrities stroll past the paparazzi. Anne Hathaway trips on the stairs as someone steps on her train, and I gently move for her elbow (she didn't really need the help). She gives me one of those bemused looks of, "Ooh, that was almost a bad one". An amusing moment. She is pretty stunning in person. 

Others, not so much. Remember Bridget Fonda? Well, not many people do, and it might because she looks like total ass (married to Danny Elfman, who was nominated). Kevin Kline bumps me heading into the ball. I love that guy, and damn, he's actually really tall. Phoebe Cates still looks great, and was wearing red, by the way, which is a color that boys of a certain age will perpetually associate with her. Anthony Hopkins, dragging along a woman my age; you fucking cliche goofball. And what's with the fucking earring? What, you think you're Harrison Ford or something? Christopher Walken, not looking so good. The chick from "Slumdog", gorgeous in person, and still not making me believe her character.

We shared a table with Michael Shannon, who was nominated for Best Supporting Actor. A nice enough guy, though he definitely had the full on, "I'm an actor" thing going on. His theater actor wife was very nice, and more concerned about getting back to their 8 month old baby than sticking around the party, which is a humanizing experience. Shannon was sweet to bring both his mother and step-mother, who was a nice lady from Chicago, though perhaps overly irritated by her son being beat by an iconic performance by a beloved dead-guy. Uh, I hate to break it to you, Ma'am, but for four men, it was an "honor to be nominated" kind of night. The food was decadent though unspectacular, but P. (my patron for the night) and I had our eyes on the clock, because the Oscars were only part 1 of an epic night.

It's well-known by those who know me that I'm a little bit of a Prince freak. A white boy from Wisconsin who danced in his basement to "When Doves Cry" when he was 8, has been through the ups and downs of fandom with our most mercurial of musical superstars. But seeing him live - especially when up close - is as close to musical nirvana as anyone will ever get. Trust me on that. And Prince announced a post-Oscar aftershow, just blocks from the awards. Damned if I was going to miss that. 

Moreover, I had introduced my friend V. to Prince's live music on our trip to Twentynine Palms. He's since been obsessed with seeing him live, and he was so determined to pull it off, that he stood on the curb for 6 hours to get us tickets. One of the sweetest things I've ever seen out of a friend, even though V. never seems to believe he's as good of a friend as he really is. Another friend got cold feet at the last minute, not willing to stand on line, but V. stood for half a day on a dirty Hollywood street with a bunch of strangers to see a musician that he had barely given any thought of prior to a month ago. P and I roll up at about 11:30, concerned about the ealier text messages that there are no tickets being sold - it's just a door charge - but the friendly Prince fans let us into line (we were only 10 people back), even though they'd been there all day. 

In pure Prince fashion (meaning, heavily disorganized and running late), we don't go inside until 12:30, and stand just at the left hand corner of the stage. Perfect. And in even more typical Prince fashion, he doesn't stroll onto stage until 1:15, and then proceeds to... tear it up. It was cover night in Prince's house, and we were treated to three Stones tunes, a blistering version of "Come Together" that would make Paul McCartney blink real hard, and a fun version of the Cars "Let's Go". I mean, the Cars??? Prince only played 5 of his own songs, and definitely seemed more into playing the Time's "Jungle Love" and "The Bird", which had the entire audience bouncing up and down, doing a 25 year old dance. Amazing. I think he's just kind of bored with his own catalogue, and as much as that pisses off the old-school, obsessive fans, I say it's all good. C'mon, wouldn't you get tired of your own music after 32 years too? Cut the man some slack, and he puts on the most amazing, captivating live show around.

V. couldn't get enough from P's exit, throwing his guitar on the ground and yelling, "Don't mess with me! I got too many hits!". It's a well-worn line for Prince fans, almost a nervous tic of his of sorts, but to V., he had clearly just seen the coolest guy on earth stroll off stage right, even though he left us without the second encore. But it was past 4 in the morning, and an amazing day needed to come to an end, even if none of us wanted it to. 

And when my friend was thirty-four 

He got his wish in Rome one night
He got to go down on Madonna
In Rome one night in some hotel
And ever since he's been depressed
'Cause life is shit from here on in

Here's hoping the song is wrong.