January 30th, 2006

(no subject)

We were sitting at the bus stop on the corner of Geary and Fillmore waiting for our beloved 38 to bring us back in the direction of downtown, San Francisco. 'The Fillmore,' a well known music venue where, along with the Warfield, all the big artists come to sell out shows and rock the city, is conveniently located on the corner on which we were waiting, and I had noticed the scrolling sign at the top of the building advertising Nada Surf and some other bands I didn't care too much for. There's usually always something going on at the Fillmore venue, which until this day had only made waiting for the 38 more crowded and obnoxious.

But while we were waiting, a limo pulled up the curb directly in front of the bus stop's benches. There weren't many people waiting for the bus yet, and I see limos so many times in the city that I don't usually pay much attention to them as having someone important inside. After all, shit, I've taken rides in limos for five bucks and lucky timing, and they're usually just holding some annoying club girls on their way to a bar. At that moment, a man came up to us, and although he didn't appear like the normal spanging bum, I heard him say to us in a deep voice, "You guys wanna see a little treat?"

Now, this is a question one becomes used to hearing in a city like this, as well as used to saying No to. I was all ready for the guy, despite his professional appearance (some of these guys are sly characters), to pull some drugs out of his pocket and offer us a time of street-induced mayhem on drugs far from legal and even further from safe. But before I spoke my reflex "no," I noticed the door to the limo opening and shiny shoes and decorated legs gracing the pavement. My reflex shifted from "No, I don't want your strange drugs" to "Oh, a treat, like a band I really don't care about." Having seen Nada Surf advertised on the screen, I figured some faces would then emerge from the limo, walk by, and I'd have to ask someone around me, "Was that Nada Surf?" in order to fully receive my treat. But this man was no liar, and a treat he did indeed have in store for us, as the figure that came from the limo was most certainly not Nada Surf,

but Prince.

There was no one else around but me, Bob, the treat-giver, Prince, and his lady of choice, whoever she may have been. Within five feet of me stood the prince of pelvic action, assless pants, sparkles, squeals, and screams (second to the King, Michael Jackson, of course). It all happened so fast that I was still at the part where I said No to this guy on his drug deal, and as a result of not being able to get it out fast enough, my star-struck mouth hung open conveniently as Prince himself walked from the limo, to the sidewalk, and away, before I even had time to gather myself and say Hey or something to the ultimate treat.