“Gigolos get lonely too, huh,” I said to get his attention – which it did. I then told him about the one time I ever saw him perform. It was the Purple Rain tour in Daly City at the Cow Palace. I was visiting San Francisco for the first time and a friend, Adam Block, who was the music critic for the Advocate, had prime seats right next to the stage. I also told him his jump suit made his ass look hot. He lowered those eyelids of his, deciding if he should take that as a compliment or a threat. I wasn’t sure if he was going to hit me with his walking cane. He tapped me on my own butt instead. “You’re right” he said. And laughed – knowingly – a gigolo giggle, amusement gargled back down in his throat where those guttural notes could be grunted out amidst those airy high ones that could so shockingly take flight as he himself now has.

Siskel died five years later never making it past the 20th Century.

Adam Block died in 2008 of pulmonary disease as a result of AIDS.

Now Prince. Gone. In flight.

I didn’t post anything about this yesterday because it rightly was all about him. I posted a Mozart Requiem instead because Mozart was his favorite composer.

But all we have sometimes it seems are our memories – those we have and those we are in the process of making.