So for most of my life I’ve been wearing the usual Chuck Taylor converse, Nikes, Jordans, Vans, some Adidas.

I’m looking for for a new type of sneaker. like right now at my school about 60% of the people there have these Vans:

http://www.journeys.com/catalog_detail.aspx?c=vendors&s=guys%2fVans&id=49349

I want some different so Im looking for some shoes like these:

http://www.damnilikethat.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/porsche-design-sports-sneak.jpg

those are the Porsche design from Adidas i couldn’t get them because i couldn’t find any in 9.5 size and that were black or white.

please suggest a shoe that is easy to get and that is not like everybody wears them. like yesterday i was looking at PF Flyers but i ran to the same problem that i had with Adidas. also no skating shoes please!

thank you

10 pts guaranteed

How could I lease a car, Porsche 911 Carrera S, from Porsche over a period of around 2 – 3 years, what is it called in the trade? what costs are incurred? and if known how much would it be for 2 years. Thanks for your help
you can lease the because a prestige rental car company leases Porsches from Porsche over that length of time

okay lets see whos not afraid to read this. most of you guys are wimps though. afraid of a good story huh? lol plz read!

Blood Feather
I remember…wind licking at our faces, the Californian sun shining intensely. I was just 10 years old… it was on this day my happy life came to an abrupt halt. My dad, Peter, suggested that we should go to the beach, together. My mother and I were playing in the sand, as she built a sandcastle we would sit and watch the water eat it away. We glanced down the beach; the sun seemed to be painting a picture for our eyes to feast on. “Dolphin! Dolphin!” We gazed up to see my little brother Charlie splashing in the waves. My mother managed a frown and raised an eyebrow. My mother ran over gracefully, but quickly, and snatched him up out of the water. Looking disappointed Charlie glanced over at dad. “What’s the matter?” He said lowering his sun glasses. “I saw a dolphin!” “It wasn’t a dolphin, Peter,” mother said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Honey,” he said getting up from his seat “why don’t you let him dream a little?” Father’s hair swirled about him madly, looking like a chocolate colored tumble weed. He strided over to Charles and put him easily back in the water. Charlie continued his pursuit toward a hermit crab, going farther out. “There see?” father said. And upon saying this he gazed up at Charles, his eyes shining. Then he noticed a shadow, moving about menacingly a few feet from Charles. Instinctively father dove into the water, picked Charles up, and hurled him toward the shore. The shadow sped vigorously toward father. And in less than a second something had him. The aqua water was suddenly a dark crimson where father was standing. Swimming in a panicky fashion, he tried to head to shore. My mother could do nothing but sit at the waters edge and watch in despair. “Hurry!” She yelled angrily at him. Father was weak from swimming, “He’s got me now,” he said exhaustedly still panicking. “No please don’t leave me!” mother shouted. Her eyes were brimming over with tears and she stared at him intensely, lovingly. Father’s face grew hard and reddened; as he looked at her he inhaled and punched the shark’s nose with all his strength. The shark sped away, there were others, but for now the coast was clear. His eyes grew tired and he fainted, head slamming against the water as he fell. Mother ran to him and dragged him on shore. The sand was now crimson as well; some coral must have scraped his back on the way in. My brother and I stared at our bloody mess of a Father, too young to understand. Knowing what mother would want of me, I convinced my brother to go shell hunting with me. Mother threw a thanking glance in my direction. I nodded my head and went on. I stopped at a nearby pile of shells, letting my brother sift through them. He seemed worried but didn’t speak. I looked back and an ambulance was parked on the sand. They put father on the stretcher and zoomed away. Mother gently picked up his sunglasses and placed them on her head. She stroked Charles’s bleach blonde hair and picked him up. She cradled him and I watched in amazement as he drifted to sleep. She looked up at me, her soft golden hair resting on her shoulders.
“Is father okay?” I asked in a low voice.
“I – I don’t know.” She said in a whisper, trying to fight tears.
Mother coolly walked to where our car was parked. A cute little yellow Pontiac, which reminded me of a big banana. She placed Charles in the backseat, looking at him thoughtfully. I stared out the window at palm trees flying past us. I stared blankly at the road and calmly asked where we were going.
“Home for now.”
“What about father?”
“The paramedic team said that the hospital would call when he’s ready to come home.” “I don’t want to visit; it may be too much on Charles.”
Mother focused her rear view mirror toward Charles. He sighed and was holding his arm in a strange position.
“Mother,” I said pausing to turn toward her “I think his arm is hurt.”
“No. He’s fine. He’s probably in the “sucking the thumb” position.”
This was a good excuse since he was only four. Her cell phone started ringing franticly, it startled my brother. Mother slowly lifted it up to answer.
“Hello?” she said shakily.
“Oh really, already?”
“Okay then we’ll be there shortly” she gulped after she answered the phone and said nothing about what they had told her.
Rain started pouring down on us as we drove steadily to the hospital making the mood even more depressing. A tall coral shaped white building appeared from the haze as we moved closer. We parked the car near the front. As the engine died mother warned us not to stare and not to be scared she tried to smile encouragingly but it didn’t work that well. I opened the door and stuck my foot out I realized the parking lot was flooded with at least ten inches of water. My legs were short and the water swallowed my foot and touched the top of my shorts. Mother scooped Charles up and we proceeded to the front door. We had no umbrella, and so as we stepped inside the huge sliding doors people stared. I looked up at mother. The rain hadn’t affected her height but her hair was a brunet color and seemed to be covered with hairspray, not flowing about anymore. She didn’t look at the people who stared, but gracefully walked to the elevator. I struggled to keep up. Mother punched in some buttons and up we went my, stomach descending farther down. Then the elevator stopped with a jerk and we stepped out. My stomach was protesting but I moved forward. The halls were long and had many doors on either side. Some pictures that looked like they belonged in a beach hotel lined the walls. Mother stopped and knocked on one of the doors peering into a high window. A nurse opened the door and beckoned us in. Father lay there, eyes closed, unmoving. A white blanket covered him to his waist. He looked fine. The nurse was telling mother about his surgery and how well he was doing. Then tears started rolling down her tan face and we left. In the car mother gained some of her strength again and sniffing she said,
“Father…may be a little different from now on,” she paused to stick the key in the ignition. From the back seat Charles squirmed and sat up.
“What do you mean?” he asked with sleepy eyes.
Mother sighed and preceded, “His leg. His leg is gone.”
The car was silent, and we drove home. I must have fallen asleep, I felt mother take me in her arms moving gingerly and sit me down on the bed. My eyes opened and I saw her sitting with me.
“Are you awake Grace?” she asked not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I said not actually sure of what I had said.
“Father won’t be home for a while.”
“Where is he? Is he okay?” I asked anxiously.
“Shhh!”
She quietly tucked me in again.

I woke to the sound of yelling. It was coming from mother and father’s room.
“This is all your fault!” she rambled on.
She must have been on the phone with dad.
“Charles… he could’ve been killed!” she sighed heavily and plopped down on the bed.
I was quite surprised Charles didn’t get up and poke his head out of his bedroom door. I got up and opened my door slowly, inch by inch. As it squealed in protest I squinted my eyes, hoping it wasn’t too loud. Once it was open I carefully walked down the hall. Our family pictures stared at me and my bare feet made sticky noises on our wooden floors as I passed them. A faint light coming from the door made a line going up the pale yellow wall. I peered through the crack of the door. Mother was sitting on the bed and some light was coming from the window. She was sobbing. I decided I would give her some time alone, so I went back to bed.
* * *
I woke up, what seemed like, seven years later. Those years rushed past me… only hazy nightmares I couldn’t see. I was now seventeen and had finally gotten a decent car to drive to school. It was a robin’s eggshell blue Volkswagen convertible. Dad moved to California and mom, Charles, and I moved to Chicago. I missed the sunny days of my past life, but in Chicago that couldn’t be helped. It was always cloudy there. Mom had driven us away immediately after the night at our house and into the clouds of Chicago Illinois. My new school was an old school, what was left of it anyways. It was just a big boring brick building. I doubted my looks would help me get any friends. I was tall, sort of, and blonde. My skin was tan, thanks to the sun, I was super skinny too. I looked like a living rail. My first day was horrid. People made fun of my arms, which were skinny too. I rolled my eyes at them when I heard them talking about me. My last class was band, people stared at me and when Coach Luke, the teacher, introduced me… it made things even worse. When I stood I almost fell, my knees collapsing under me. I luckily landed in my chair, sighing with relief when I landed. I didn’t pull my flute out and play, but instead read my book, Coach didn’t seem to notice… or mind. I got interested when coach left the room and the girls beside me began to talk.
“Oh my gosh did you see how hot he was!” the brunet said beaming.
“Whatever. You’re so obsessed with him, he’s new. Give him a break.” The strawberry blonde rolled her eyes and looked at the clock on the wall.
“Have you noticed what a cute couple they make?” the brunet ignored the other’s comment.
I heard someone giggling at the back of the room. I laid my book on the ground and turned to see who it was. A muscular boy was hugging this girl. I stared at him; my heart skipped beats and fell to the bottom of nowhere. He was tall and pale, his lips reminded me of the crimson color of a rose. His skin along with his lips looked like the same texture of a flowers petal, soft, delicate, and fragile. The girl was a medium height and had dirty blonde hair that was very long. She too, was pale. He paused hugging her a minute to glance up, his eyes met mine, and he looked intently at me scanning me all over. He looked away, though, as soon as he got the chance. They looked at the door with a concerned expression and quickly but gracefully found their seats. Their movements blew my mind. I was sure if a deer was in the room it wouldn’t have noticed their movement. He was beaming straight ahead, at nothing in particular, and his perfect white smile seemed to bore a hole through me. I looked away so I wouldn’t go blind by his radiance. The brunet nudged me in the shoulder.
“He’s looking at you.” She said through her teeth.
I was petrified; sure his smile would bore through me this time. Coach walked through the door and looked down at his wrist watch.
“Five, four, three two…” he counted down.
The loud bell coming from a speaker on the wall startled me and I jumped. I could hear him laughing at me. I ignored it.
“Bye! See you tomorrow!” Coach boomed across the room. Coach was buff, I was sure he must’ve been a football player. I turned around to look for him but he and the girl were gone, in fact, every one was gone. How long had I been just sitting there listening to his silk like husky laughter flow over me? I hopped up and headed to the parking lot. My mind went blank as I thought of him. I found myself sitting there staring out the windshield of my convertible. I put the key in the ignition and the purr of the diesel motor awakened me. The sky was cloudy and set numbers of grey shadows onto the front of our house. Our house was only a one story, which was convenient enough. It was Californian style with a terracotta roof and tan stucco textured paint. There were some small palm trees in the flower bed. It didn’t remind me of California, only because it was too cloudy. I parked my bug in our curved driveway and stepped out. Mom, who of course wasn’t home yet, was busied with the chore of picking Charles up from school. I walked inside, sat my keys on the table, and picked up a snack. I turned on the TV and nearly tripped over the coffee table when I saw the commercial, my snack went flying of course. It was an advertisement for pools, but that didn’t matter, it was the fact the guy who was modeling for it looked exactly like him. My heart skipped beats, but then I thought of that girl he was hugging.
“If he already has a girlfriend why was he staring at me?” I thought aloud. “Oh well, who needs a stupid boyfriend anyway.”
I was still obsessed with him, no matter how hard I tried to resist… I failed. There was just something about him. I heard some bumping noises and looked over to see mother and Charles walking in the door. I was sprawled out all over the floor, an obvious scene for an accident. She gathered the evidence I might be hurt and rushed over to help.
“What happened?” she sounded shocked.
“Ummm… I tripped.” I fibbed quickly, leaving out the part about the commercial, it sounded convincing enough.
“Well honey, you are seventeen, I expected I could leave you at home alone.” her tone was expecting, disappointed.
“No really I.” I was interrupted when Charles broke in.
“You should be more careful. I’ve seen a drunk person with better balance.” He said mockingly.
I ignored him and got some ice for my leg. I must have landed half on the coffee table half on the carpet. It was nearly ten when I caught myself, again, staring into space… on my bed this time. I clicked off my lamp and tried to sleep. I felt utterly stupid; I just couldn’t resist thinking about him. I tried to remind myself he had a girlfriend, but I couldn’t shake him off. On my way to school the next morning I didn’t seem to think about him much, not until a black car that reminded me of his Porsche Cayman passed by. I smacked my forehead and nearly ran off the road. The car behind me blew their horn. I did finally arrive at school, a little on the irritated side. I didn’t see his Porsche in the parking lot though, and so I hung my head and moped my way to my first class. School passed and he wasn’t there, I found myself thinking of and looking for him.
“How did school go today?” Mom asked when I got home later than usual.
“Okay.” My mouth said but my mind said not okay.
I went to bed with an empty stomach shoving my brother aside as I went. I wasn’t hungry, for food at least, but I was hungry, for him. In the morning I found myself engulfing three pop tarts. On the way to school I veered off the road again, and as the other day, the car behind me honked. I was going crazy. I needed socialization… but with whom could I talk with. No one. I’d left all my friends behind in California. For the first few days, I only needed the memory of him. But today my socialization level was low, and my brain urged me to talk to someone, anyone. Say something. In my English class I exploded to the girl next to me. Mr.Birk shushed me and I, in answer, shushed him. Not a good idea. I was given a note to take to the principle, Mr.Birks pointed to the door and I proceeded, glaring at him as I shut the door.
“Grace Whitman to the principal for defiance.” The note said in red ink that infuriated me.
I ripped it up instantly and threw it into the large garbage can next to the wall. As I headed to the bathroom I scowled at the boy that watched me rip the note up. I grumbled as I opened the door of the bathroom and proceeded to the next stall. I flipped the lid down and sat, balled up, on the toilet. I contented my mind with reading the graffiti on the walls. The most common verse written on the wall was Philip is mine or I love Philip. The bell rang and I willingly left to go to band.
“Stupid, ugly, bald, English teacher.” I thought of Mr.Birks face when I said this to myself.
The look of defeat filled the wrinkles on his aged face. I smiled victoriously to this thought and headed to band.
“Don’t forget to take your instruments home and practice for the auditions tomorrow.” Coach Luke said as the bell rang.
I grabbed an audition paper and my flute as I headed for the door. When I got home I pulled out my flute, to distract my mind from him, and practiced. I wasn’t half bad, I wasn’t sure if I’d win the responsibility of the solo or not, not like I wanted it any way, but I was sure I wouldn’t get embarrassed either. When mom and Charles walked through the door I put my flute away automatically. Aware that Charles would want to play it and break it. He did rush over but I turned to put it away before he could speak. I did eat supper tonight, reminded of the horrible hunger that pained me this morning. We ate in silence and after dinner I went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. So I cut my computer on and closed my door. I was thinking of him again. I got on Google and typed in myspace. I got on the site and reviewed all the pictures until I failed in my search and fell asleep in my chair. When I woke in the morning my neck hurt. I ignored it and looked over at the clock.
“Oh!” I realized I was late and rushed out the door.
I ran back in seconds later to grab my flute and paper.
I pushed the petal to the floor today; I didn’t even have time to veer off the road today, much less time to think of him. I rushed to math, my first class, and as I set foot in the door the bell rang. I hopped into my seat and shortly after a large stately figure appeared before me. It stretched out its hand to tap on my desk and I looked up, gulping. Mrs. Heather, the slim blond sweet faced teacher, waited in front of me. She slipped a tardy pass to me. I dropped my head as I felt the other student’s eyes watching me, and slunk to the office. When I felt that Mrs. Heather had looked away I walked instinctively to the bathroom, again. She wouldn’t know. The other pupils wouldn’t either. Why should I care? Well, whatever. All other classes zoomed past leaving band as the last memorable survivor. I thought of him again, staring off into space.
“Next… Ahem…next! Mrs. Whitman?” coach Luke boomed.
I looked up sleepily. I stepped forward to play. I wasn’t scared, only because I didn’t know these students. As I sat in the isolated awaiting seat I looked around the room, and then I froze. He stood out from them all. I stopped breathing as his eyes investigating me. I started noticing my hands turning from red to blue. I breathed again when I heard his girlfriend laugh, assuring me time hadn’t stopped. I was trembling. Coach made a signal with his hands, pushing me on. I played. My breath was shuddering like a leaf about to fall. When I finished all the students were staring at me unbelievingly.
“You…Congratulations Grace. I believe you earned the solo.” Coach said in a whisper.
Everyone’s eyes widened and then, they all smiled and applauded. I blushed faintly pink and then a dark red when he stood. Time stopped again. But then time continued. As he, like the others, applauded. I inhaled, grateful for a break, then ran to put my flute away when the bell rang. When I turned around I nearly screamed. There he stood, towering over me. He put his hand over my mouth, and again I inhaled sighing afterwards. What felt like an hour later he put his hand away, stepping back.
“You…You were incredible.” He said with widened hazelnut colored eyes.
“Oh…” I couldn’t continue for a moment, paralyzed by his eyes and face, “Really I didn’t mean too be good. I was actually scared.” I said modestly.
“Scared? Of what?” he asked, his breath giving me chills.
“Oh nothing really.” I said tearing myself from his thoughtful gaze.
“Hmmm. Okay.” He said frowning, shattering the perfection of his face.
He turned and winked, beaming at me on his way out. I just stood there, on the verge of fainting. I should’ve chased him. But I was too weak.
“That was great, Grace.” Coach said, walking over to pat my shoulder. I walked cheerfully to my car.
“I made a friend today, a nameless friend.” I thought shakily on the way home. I couldn’t stop smiling, and mom and Charles noticed.
“School good today huh?” Mom asked at dinner, smiling.
“Uh…yeah I made my first friend.” I said, fumbling on the word friend.
“Good.” She said.
Charles rolled his eyes. I rolled mine back and hauled off to bed. I fell asleep and woke up smiling.
“Stupid boy.” I thought, laughing at my remark.
I went to the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror. I didn’t usually put on make up. I had natural beauty mom called it. I hated popular people. They just had to put it on. What ever. When I arrived at school he was in all my classes. Why didn’t I see him yesterday? I shrugged off the thought and went to my next class, Science. The tall, black wiry haired teacher, Mr. James nearly put me to sleep with his lectures. He was staring from the lab table across from mine at me. No one sat next to me on the vacant stool. I imagined him sitting next to me and felt better, completed. I was just too timid to ask him his name. Time flew by when I wasn’t looking at him anyway. On my way home I smiled as I thought of him again. Then frowned to know he was my only friend and I didn’t know his name. When I got home I watched TV sitting impatiently as I waited for that commercial to come on. It never did. Mom didn’t come home the usual time tonight. She was occupied with a meeting that she took Charles to. I laughed to think of how bored Charles would get. Torturing my brother was hilarious, especially if I wasn’t doing it. An hour later when the commercial still hadn’t come on, I wrote a note and put it on the counter. Grabbing a piece of pizza from the fridge on the way.
“Dear mom,” the note read, “Gone bike riding. Be home soon, love Grace.”
I marched out the door grabbing my keys of the table. I pulled my bike out from under the shed and rode down our street a ways. I took a small dirt path that led to nowhere and thought of him on my way. I pedaled on and on not sure where I turned or went, just kept going and going. I wasn’t sure how far I’d gone when I reached a small stream. I looked at it for a minute, then turned and went home. Mother looked worried and confused when I walked in. But I just marched to my room and went to bed.

would like to convert 83 944 to carbs .any web sites or info.

I came home yesterday to find a package from Porsche. Inside was a chrome 500mb USB drive. A gift from Porsche. Did anyone else receive this without knowing it was coming. Nice surprise but strange never the less.

Was looking at a Porsche 924, looks in great condition and at a cheap price. This would be my first car however I have saved up some money to buy a car I like and pay insurance.

After buying though how much money would you say would be needed for upkeep of the car?

And would you yourself buy one?

This is really an honest question I have fallen in love with the car by looks but then again don’t judge a book by its cover, my Dad wants me to stay away from it would anyone suggest different?

some time in the next year im planning on getting a new sports car. Im 18, so its kinda crucial to me. the problem is that they are about the same price, its just the porsche is more of a “class” car and the lotus is a pure sporty car just for plain speed and performance. they also have the dilemmas of the warranty, insurance, convenience, resale value, and so on. also im concerned if the elise will change its body(im not a giant fan of the hood). can someone please give me some pointers?(from what i hear people say, they’d rather have me get the cayman, but its just common here in california)

i understand its a porsche, but the name carrera actually sounds pretty. its kind of like sarah and kara and clara, just different and fun. the last name begins with a j. so what about carrera j.?

i found one for sale, and its a really good deal. but it says it needs that bit of work, so i am just looking for a general idea for how much that might cost (installation too)

John Nelson turns sixty-nine today, and all the semiretired piano man wants for his birthday is to shoot some pool with his firstborn son. “He’s real handy with a cue,” says Prince, laughing, as he threads his old white T-bird through his old black neighborhood toward his old man’s house. “He’s so cool. The old man knows what time it is.” Hard time is how life has traditionally been clocked in North Minneapolis; this is the place ‘Time’ forgot twelve years ago when the magazine’s cover trumpeted “The Good Life in Minnesota,” alongside a picture of Governor Wendell Anderson holding up a walleye. Though tame and middle-class by Watts and Roxbury standards, the North Side offers some of the few mean streets in town. The old sights bring out more Babbitt than Badass is Prince as he leads a leisurely tour down the main streets of his inner-city Gopher Prairie. He cruises slowly, respectfully: stopping completely at red lights, flicking on his turn signal even when no one’s at an intersection. Gone is the wary Kung Fu Grasshopper voice with which Prince whispers when meeting strangers or accepting Academy Awards. Cruising peacefully with the window down, he’s proof in a paisley jump suit that you can always go home again, especially if you never really left town. Tooling through the neighborhood, Prince speaks matter-of-factly of why he toyed with early interviewers about his father and mother, their divorce and his adolescent wanderings between the homes of his parents, friends and relatives. “I used to tease a lot of journalists early on,” he says, “because I wanted them to concentrate on the music and not so much on me coming from a broken home. I really didn’t think that was important. What was important was what came out of my system that particular day. I don’t live in the past. I don’t play my old records for that reason. I make a statement, then move on to the next.” The early facts, for the neo-Freudians: John Nelson, leader of the Prince Rogers jazz trio, knew Mattie Shaw from North Side community dances. A singer sixteen years John’s junior, Mattie bore traces of Billie Holiday in her pipes and more than a trace of Indian and Caucasian in her blood. She joined the Prince Rogers trio, sang for a few years around town, married John Nelson and dropped out of the group. She nicknamed her husband after the band; the son who came in 1958 got the nickname on his birth certificate. At home and on the street, the kid was “Skipper.” Mattie and John broke up ten years later, and Prince began his domestic shuttle. “That’s where my mom lives,” he says nonchalantly, nodding toward a neatly trimmed house and lawn. “My parents live very close by each other, but they don’t talk. My mom’s the wild side of me; she’s like that all the time. My dad’s real serene; it takes the music to get him going. My father and me, we’re one and the same.” A wry laugh. “He’s a little sick, just like I am.” “That was the church I went to growing up,” says Prince. “I wonder who’s getting married.” A fat little kid waves, and Prince waves back. “Just all kinds of things here,” he goes on, turning right. “There was a school right there, John Hay. That’s where I went to elementary school,” he says, pointing out a field of black tar sprouting a handful of bent metal basketball rims. “And that’s where my cousin lives. I used to play there every day when I was twelve, on these streets, football up and down this block. That’s his father out there on the lawn.” These lawns are where Prince the adolescent would also amuse his friends with expert Prince is fiddling with the tape deck inside the T-Bird. On low volume comes his unreleased “Old Friends 4 Sale,” an arrow-to-the-heart rock ballad about trust and loss. Unlike “Positively 4th Street” — which Bob Dylan reputedly named after a nearby Minneapolis block — the lyrics are sad, not bitter. “I don’t know too much about Dylan,” says Prince, “but I respect him a lot. ‘All Along the Watchtower’ is my favorite of his. I heard it first from Jimi Hendrix.” He turns onto Plymouth, the North Side’s main strip. When Martin Luther King got shot, it was Plymouth Avenue that burned. “We used to go to that McDonald’s there,” he says. “I didn’t have any money, so I’d just stand outside there and smell stuff. Poverty makes people angry, brings out their worst side. I was very bitter when I was young. I was insecure and I’d attack anybody. I couldn’t keep a girlfriend for two weeks. We’d argue about anything.” Across the street from McDonald’s, Prince spies a smaller landmark. He points to a vacant corner phone booth and remembers a teenage fight with a strict and unforgiving father. “That’s where I called my dad and begged him to take me back after he kicked me out,” he begins softly. “He said no, so I called my sister and asked her to ask him. So she did, and afterward told me that all I had to do was call him back, tell him I was sorry, and he’s take me back. So I did, and he still said no. I sat crying at that phone booth for two hours. That’s the last time I cried.In the years between that phone-booth breakdown and today’s pool game came forgiveness. Says Prince, “Once I made it, got my first record contract, got my name on a piece of paper and a little money in my pocket, I was able to forgive. Once I was eating every day, I became a much nicer person.” But it took many more years for the son to understand what a jazzman father needed to survive. Prince figured it out when he moved into his purple house. “I can be upstairs at the piano, and Rande [his cook] can come in,” he says. “Her footsteps will be in a different time, and it’s real weird when you hear something that’s a totally different rhythm than what you’re playing. A lot of times that’s mistaken for conceit or not having a heart. But it’s not. And my dad’s the same way, and that’s why it was hard for him to live with anybody. I didn’t realize that until recently. When he was working or thinking, he had a private pulse going constantly inside him. I don’t know, your bloodstream beats differently.” Prince pulls the T-Bird into an alley behind a street of neat frame houses, stops behind a wooden one-car garage and rolls down the window. Relaxing against a tree is a man who looks like Cab Calloway. Dressed in a crisp white suit, collar and tie, a trim and smiling John Nelson adjusts his best cuff links and waves. “Happy birthday,” says the son. “Thanks,” says the father, laughing. Nelson says he’s not even allowing himself a piece of cake on his birthday. “No, not this year,” he says with a shake of the head. Pointing at his son, Nelson continues, “I’m trying to take off ten pounds I put on while visiting him in Los Angeles. He eats like I want to eat, but exercises, which I certainly don’t.” Father then asks son if maybe he should drive himself to the pool game so he won’t have to be hauled all the way back afterward. Prince says okay, and Nelson, chuckling, says to the stranger, “Hey, let me show you what I got for my birthday two years ago.” He goes over to the garage and gives a tug on the door handle. is a An “That. “We used parts of my past and present to make the story pop more, but it was a story. My dad wouldn’t have nothing to do with guns. He never swore, still doesn’t, and never drinks.” Prince looks in his rearview mirror at the car tailing him. “He don’t look sixty-nine, do he? He’s so cool. He’s got girlfriends, lots of ‘em.” Prince drives alongside two black kids walking their bikes. “Hey, Prince,” says one casually. “Hey,” says the driver with a nod, “how you doing?” Passing by old neighbors watering their lawns and shooting hoops, the North Side’s favorite son talks about his hometown. “I wouldn’t move, just cuz I like it here so much. I can go out and not get jumped on. It feels good not to be hassled when I dance, which I do a lot. It’s not a think of everybody saying, ‘Whoa, who’s out with who here?’ while photographers flash their bulbs in your face.” Nearing the turnoff that leads from Minneapolis to suburban Eden Prairie, Prince flips in another tape and peeks in the rearview mirror. John Nelson is still right behind. “It’s real hard for my father to show emotion,” says Prince, heading onto the highway. “He never says, ‘I love you,’ and when we hug or something, we bang our heads together like in some Charlie Chaplin movie. But a while ago, he was telling me how I always had to be careful. My father told me, ‘If anything happens to you, I’m gone.’ All I thought at first was that it was a real nice thing to say. But then I thought about it for a while and realized something. That was my father’s way of saying ‘I love you.’” A few minutes later, Prince and his father pull in front of the Warehouse, a concrete barn in an Eden Prairie industrial park. Inside, the Family, a rock-funk band that Prince has been working with, is pounding out new songs and dance routines. The group is as tight as ace drummer Jellybean Johnson’s pants. At the end of one hot number, Family members fall on their backs, twitching like fried eggs. Prince and his father enter to hellos from the still-gyrating band. Prince goes over to a pool table by the soundboard, racks the balls and shimmies to the beat of the Family’s next song. Taking everything in, John Nelson gives a professional nod to the band, his son’s rack job and his own just-chalked cue. He hitches his shoulders, takes aim and breaks like Minnesota Fats. A few minutes later, the band is still playing and the father is still shooting. Prince, son to this father and father to this band, is smiling. THE NIGHT BEFORE, in the Warehouse, Prince is about to break his three-year public silence. Wearing a jump suit, powder-blue boots and a little crucifix on a chain, he dances with the Family for a little while, plays guitar for a minute, sings lead for a second, then noodles four-handed keyboard with Susannah Melvoin, Wendy’s identical-twin sister. Seeing me at the door, Prince comes over. “Hi,” he whispers, offering a hand, “want something to eat or drink?” On the table in front of the band are piles of fruit and a couple bags of Doritos. Six different kinds of tea sit on a shelf by the wall. No drugs, no booze, no coffee. Prince plays another lick or two and watches for a few more minutes, then waves goodbye to the band and heads for his car outside the concrete barn. “I’m not used to this,” mumbles Prince, staring straight ahead through the windshield of his parked car. “I really thought I’d never do interviews again.” we drive for twenty minutes, talking about Minnesota’s skies, air and cops. Gradually, his voice comes up, bringing with it inflections, hand gestures and laughs. faced icons of Yahweh or Lucifer. “We’re here,” Monroe to talk to. Indeed, if a real-estate agent led a tour through Prince’s house, one would guess that the resident was, at most, a hip suburban surgeon who likes deep-pile carpeting. “Hi,” says Rande, from the kitchen, “you got a couple of messages.” Prince thanks her and offers up some homemade chocolate-chip cookies. He takes a drink from a water cooler emblazoned with a Minnesota North Stars sticker and continues the.”This place,” he says, “is not a prison. And the only things it’s a shrine to are Jesus, love and peace.” Off the kitchen is a living room that holds nothing your aunt wouldn’t have in her house. On the mantel are framed pictures of family and friends, including one of John Nelson playing a guitar. There’s a color TV and VCR, a long coffee table supporting a dish of jellybeans, and a small silver unicorn by the mantel. Atop the large mahogany piano sits an oversize white Bible. The only unusual thing in either of the two guest bedrooms is a two-foot statue of a smiling yellow gnome covered by a swarm of butterflies. One of the monarchs is flying out of a heart-shaped hole in the gnome’s chest. “A friend gave that to me, and I put it in the living room,” says Prince. “But some people said it scared them, so I took it out and put it in here.” Downstairs from the living room is a narrow little workroom with recording equipment and a table holding several notebooks. “Here’s where I recorded all of 1999,” says Prince, “all right in this room.” On a low table in the corner are three Grammys. “Wendy,” says Prince, “has got the Academy Award.” The work space leads into the master bedroom. It’s nice. And…normal. No torture devices or questionable appliances, not even a cigarette butt, beer tab or tea bag in sight. A four-poster bed above plush white carpeting, some framed pictures, one of Marilyn Monroe. A small lounging area off the bedroom provides a stereo, a lake-shore view and a comfortable place to stretch out on the floor and talk. And talk he did — his first interview in three years. A few hours later, Prince is kneeling in front of the VCR, showing his “Raspberry Beret” video. He explains why he started the clip with a prolonged clearing of the throat. “I just did it to be sick, to do something no one else would do.” He pauses and contemplates. “I turned on MTV to see the premiere of ‘Raspberry Beret’ and Mark Goodman was talking to the guy who discovered the backward message on ‘Darling Nikki.’ They were trying to figure out what the cough meant too, and it was sort of funny.” He pauses again. “But I’m not getting down on him for trying. I like that. I’ve always had little hidden messages, and I always will.” He then plugs in a videocassette of “4 the Tears in Your Eyes,” which he’s just sent to the Live Aid folks for the big show. “I hope they like it,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. change clothes.” He comes back a couple minutes later wearing another paisley jump suit, “the only kind of clothes I own.” And the boots? “People say I’m wearing heels because I’m short,” he says, laughing. “I wear heels because the women like ‘em.” A FEW MINUTES LATER, driving toward the First Avenue club, Prince is talking about the fate of the most famous landmark in Minneapolis. “Before Purple Rain,” he says, “all the kids who came to First Avenue knew us, and it was just like a big, fun fashion show. The kids would dress for themselves and just try to took really cool. Once you got your thing right, you’d stop looking at someone else. You’d be yourself, and you’d feel comfortable.” As we pull up in front of First Avenue, a Saturday-night crowd is milling around outside, combing their hair, smoking cigarettes, holding hands. They stare with more interest than awe as Prince gets out of the car. “You want to go to the [VIP] booth?” asks the bouncer. “Naah,” says Prince. “I feel like dancing.” A few feet off the packed dance floor stands the Family, taking a night off from rehearsing. Prince joins the band and laughs, kisses, soul shakes. Prince and three of Family members wade through a floor of Teddy-and-Eleanor-Mondale-brand funkettes and start moving. Many of the kids Prince passes either don’t see him or pretend they don’t care. Most of the rest turn their heads slightly to see the man go by, then simply continue their own motions. An hour later, he’s on the road again, roaring out of downtown. Just as he’s asked if there’s anything in the world that he wants but doesn’t have, two blondes driving daddy’s Porsche speed past. “I don’t,” Prince says with a giggle, “have them.” He catches up to the girls, rolls down the window and throws a ping-pong ball that was on the floor at them. They turn their heads to see what kind of geek is heaving ping-pong balls at them on the highway at two in the morning. When they see who it is, mouths drop, hands wave, the horn blares. Prince rolls up his window, smiles silently and speeds by.