On a brisk June evening in 2000, I sat on the porch of the Country Inn in Chanhassen, Minnesota, taking a break from a series of concerts and parties hosted at the sound stage of Paisley Park by its gracious host, Prince. If memory serves me correctly it was day 4 of the event, and I was succumbing to lengthy time on my feet and over-stimulation, in need of a breather. I’m seated on a bench getting some air, decompressing and working on some story ideas in my spiral scratchpad. My focus was divided by mini-regrets thinking I’d miss something notable everyone would be lauding the next day. I figured that after a few hours of rest I’d head back to Paisley Park to catch the tail end of the evening show. Or maybe, I’d just call it a night since there were a couple more days of events to look forward to.

At that very moment a Plymouth Prowler decked out in purple rolls up to the Inn’s entrance, less than 20 feet away. It sits idle for what seems like forever but I’m sure it was about 30 seconds. My initial thought is “no way.”

Passenger side opens facing me, and a young, pretty woman steps out and closes the door. Pause. Driver side opens. Longer pause. And there he is. Prince escorts the young lady to the hotel entrance, they exchange a quick muffled dialogue, she enters the hotel and Prince heads back to the Prowler.

This utterly innocuous situation is broken for a brief moment when Prince realizes that he’s not alone out there as he finds me sitting across from the whole thing. Another pause.

“Partied out for the night?” I ask. I really had nothing else.

He smiles, nods and shrugs.

He gets in his Prowler and races off.