Prince Isn’t Dead

Prince isn’t dead.

Did you see 2012? That amazingly mad CGI fest about the coming end of the world:

I remember watching it and thinking, alternately, ‘HAH, THEY JUST FLEW THROUGH A SKYSCRAPER!’ and ‘why is Cusack in this? I mean, Harrelson I get, he’s goofing off on doing this totally gonzo character. But Cusack?’ And then ‘HAH, LOOK AT ALL THOSE TINY CGI PEOPLE SCREAMING AND DYING!’

And then some waves would lumber over mountains like sleepy jam or a monk would breakdance or some other shit.

But anyway.

In the film, they build some arks to save the elite of the human race, by which I don’t mean the actual elite, I mean politicians, plutocrats and a sprinkling of craven intelligentsia.

See, this is what’s happening now.

Lemmy isn’t dead. Bowie isn’t dead. Prince isn’t dead. Keith Emerson isn’t dead. Glenn Frey isn’t dead.

No. They’re all part of a the Sekrit World Gubmint’s preservation party. There’s obviously some kind of major Extinction Level Event on the way and thus they’re whisking away people.

Now, obviously, they’re taking scientists and teachers and plumbers and other essential people too. But we don’t notice their passing as, being humans, we aren’t logical. We notice the deaths of people who have affected our lives more than, say, the 500+ migrants who drowned in the Mediterranean this week. It’s cos we’re little shits. Human lives are very un-equal in our reckoning, as much as that shouldn’t be true.

The people we’ve sung along with, the people who made us pogo on our beds when we were kids, the people who wrote the songs that were playing when we first had sex: those people are ripped away from us and leave a raw, bloody patch.

But it’s okay. Don’t cry. 

On a spaceship just beyond the asteroid belt, there’s one hell of a jam about to start.