That time I went to a Prince concert instead of going to bed like a regular grownup

There were plenty of reasons for a responsible adult like me to skip this concert: It was a weeknight. We have kids. It was the same night as an important work event. I like going to bed at 9 p.m.

Sam and I tend to regret the adventures we don’t take more than the ones we do, and we’ve lived in Chanhassen for 6 years and never seen Prince. We enlisted a neighbor to watch the kids, and we bought tickets for the 11 p.m. show (so I could still attend the work meeting. I am responsible, after all.)

After an hour of waiting on a bus, in which I began to question my ability to stay alert through this endeavor, we were dropped off at Prince's home/studio/concert venue Paisley Park, aka the white buildings with purple lights that I drive past on my way to the gym. We were briefed and re-briefed on the Paisley Park Rules:

1. No cell phone use

Let there be music.

"And there will always be music."

When I was a teenager, and I knew everything, I liked to tell my parents all the things I'd do differently when I was an adult and it was my house. 90% of them were probably wrong (I'd treat my kids like adults! I'd never make them eat things they didn't like!) but I did live up to one of my promises. The first thing I do when I come home from work is turn on the radio or turn on a CD. I can't even back the car out of the garage without the stereo on.

I grew up in a quiet household. My dad turned on the TV to watch the evening news or Crossfire, but mostly it was quiet. My parents and I read books and magazines. I did homework or wrote stories or worked on puzzles. We talked, when there were things to say. 

Can you play me a memory?

Today, Evie played in her first piano recital. She and a handful of other young musicians visited a local senior center and played for the residents. Evie was the youngest performer there, and I was so proud of her.

Watching her perform brought back memories. It reminded me why I was so insistent that she start piano lessons, and why I'm so grateful that she is enjoying herself.

Thoughts from the 699

As a resident of an outer suburb who works downtown, I should probably complain about my commute. I can't. I spend my commute surfing the Web on my phone, listening to my iPod, and drifting in and out of sleep. It's all good, because I ride the bus. All in all, I'm hard pressed to think of a better way to start my day.

I nestle into my seat next to the window, smush up the hood of my wool coat as a makeshift pillow, and lean into the window. The suburbs float past in a dreamy haze: Eden Prairie, Edina, St. Louis Park and Golden Valley. The sights weave in and out of focus: An apartment complex telling me I'd be home if I lived there, an office furniture store, bird-filled wetlands by the side of the highway, an endless stream of SUVs and Pontiac sedans lining up across the lanes.