This one is going to be all about me and my grief, so if you care to avoid boredom, scroll away now…

Over 33 years ago the final episode of M*A*S*H aired. It was entitled “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen”. In the episode the writers took the opportunity to show how the experience in Korea affected each of the main characters.

One of the characters played by conductor David Stiers is a doctor that has a deep love of music. So much so that he befriends a group of Chinese POW musicians. He attempts to teach them Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet. In spite of the fact they possessed no genuine orchestral instruments, and dealt with a significant language barrier, he tirelessly toiled away, pushing and molding the musicians for just the right output.

Later in the episode, the POWs are transferred out of camp. Stiers’ character (Charles Winchester) later learns that the group was killed while in transport. Upon hearing this news a distraught Dr. Winchester returns to his billet, pulls the Clarinet Quintet from his record collection, places it on his phonograph, and starts listening in the hopes he can find at least a temporary refuge from the rather grim reality he is forced to face. Probably not even 15 seconds into the piece, he pulls the needle, pulls the vinyl, and smashes it. The music that was once used as comfort, now represents tragedy.

That’s about where I am.

Have I smashed vinyl? No. Will I? No, but when I went shoe shopping yesterday, I left one of the stores frustrated because I really didn’t want to hear the music they were playing. A small piece of me is missing, and may not return. “Daryl, the music is still here. What’s the problem?” I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he was supposed to play here a few days ago. Maybe it’s because MSNBC and the absolutely clueless Toure’ Neblett are trying to hijack his legacy by selling to its dozen or so viewers how politically active he was (a tremendously huge pile of shit). Perhaps it’s because pieces of Art Official Age were growing on me. Maybe it’s because he died alone and didn’t necessarily deserve to.

These half-assed tributes aren’t helping either. You would never know that he released five movies. Ok…yes yes yes, I grant that Cherry Moon and Graffiti Bridge weren’t “strong”, but there are two others that didn’t suck, because they were centered around his strength, music. On the white radio side, the news for them is that he did just a little more than Purple Rain, and that Raspberry Beret song. On the black side, he did just a little more than Adore and Diamonds and Pearls. Both sides are missing the point, and the boat.

Gregory’s death is hitting me harder too, because there is/was no other progeny. Prince knew the joy of creating music like no other human being, but he never knew the joy having a family, watching his child take first steps, form first words, or sing first notes. He wanted these experiences. I know he did.

So yeah, I’m a bit of a mess, but only a bit. My heart is heavier, but I’m not paralyzed. My life is different, but I’m not some tormented, teenage, zombie. I’m angry and sad, and I will be for a while. Who isn’t?

No, I won’t close with lyrics. That’s stupid. If Prince wants anything from me, he wants me to write my own lyrics, paint my own picture, live my life.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go mow the lawn.