[ # This submission, part 1 and 2, were uploaded Friday May 20th shortly before FurAffinity went into read-only mode for two days. Like many who uploaded submissions that day, I don't know how many people saw this or may have wanted to leave a comment but were unable. I don't expect hundreds of people to view these types of submissions or to give comments, but I rarely if ever get a chance to upload two submissions together, and it was disheartening that the enjoyment of the experience was put on hold... so to speak. What made it worse is that I had uploaded part one a week earlier and lost it due to the terror attack on F.A.
Many of you were in the same situation, re-submitting things without realizing we were in a narrow window of opportunity before the site went into read-only mode. I was worried something like that might happen, which is why I waited until the next day after the site came back up to re-submit this. I wish I had waited a little longer. Perhaps these submissions really are cursed. It's been one run of bad luck after another getting these to you. Maybe a blanket apology will lift it. Therefore, I shall offer one: I am so sorry for the error of my way and beg for mercy from all those I have gravely offended here.]


Above: A mysterious package arrives. But is it sealed with a royal curse? Let's find out.

Below: Part 1 of my two part bedtime story: “The Artist Formerly Known As…” Enjoy.

“The Artist Formerly Known as…”

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Electric word life. It means forever and that's a mighty long time. But I'm here to tell you there's something else: The after world; a world of never ending happiness. You can always see the sun, day or night. So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills- You know the one, Dr. Everything'll Be Alright… Instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby. 'Cause in this life things are much harder than in the after world. In this life you're on your own.

And if the elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy, punch a higher floor. If you don't like the world you're living in, take a look around you. At least you got friends. You see I called my old lady for a friendly word. She picked up the phone, dropped it on the floor. (Ah, ah) is all I heard!
Are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh, no let's go! Let's go crazy! Let's get nuts! Let's look for the purple banana 'til they put us in the truck, let's go! We're all excited. But we don't know why. Maybe it's 'cause we're all gonna die. And when we do (When we do)- what's it all for (What's it all for)? You better live now before the grim reaper come knocking on your door.

Tell me, are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh, no let's go! Let's go crazy! Let's get nuts. Look for the purple banana 'til they put us in the truck, let's go! C'mon baby. Let's get nuts. Yeah, crazy. Let's go crazy.

Are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh, no let's go! Go crazy! I said let's go crazy (Go crazy). Let's go, let's go. Go. Let's go. Dr. Everything'll be alright. Will make everything go wrong. Pills and thrills and daffodils will kill. Hang tough children. He's coming! He's coming! Coming! Take me away!"-Prince

I’m sure you recognize the song lyrics by His Purple Majesty, children. How prophetic, don’t you agree?

It appears that indeed the elevator did bring him down… and when his sycophants, parasites and hangers on pried open the doors of the elevator in Paisley Park, they found The Purple One… well… purple and unresponsive. Everything was not alright. Everything was wrong. They called the doctor. They came for him. They put him in the truck. Then they took him away. Damn pills.

In an effort to prove nothing is sacred, tonight we are going to discuss the Artist Currently Known as… well … Formerly Known as Prince. (Snicker). Prince Rogers Nelson, to be specific. I suppose… now that he is dead as a doornail, you could rightly refer to him by any of these names: Prince, Prince Rogers Nelson, or the Artist… Formerly Known as Prince. (Giggle). The past few weeks, everywhere I turn I see glowing references, epitaphs to His Purpleness. Tall tales of his musical genius. Legends of his diminutive frame, yet when he walked into a room, somehow he was eight feet tall. Everyone had a piece of him. A story about him. Even me. And they all called him “Prince”. Except me.

They say that death always occurs at the most inconvenient time. Prince was an exception. Why? If he had died, oh say twenty years ago, the headlines would have looked a little different. What do I mean? The headlines would not have said: “Prince dead at 57”. No. They would NOT have said that. They would have said: “Artist Formerly Known as Prince dead at 37”. Or… Here it comes… “ Ƭ̵̬̊ dead at 37”. (Snicker). Yes, in 1993 Prince changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol and kept this nonsense going for seven years until he changed it back in 2000. Fortunately for him, he refrained from overdosing during those years of foolishness. (I refer to it as his “lost weekend”). He went crazy. He went nuts. But at least he handled his drugs better than Michael Jackson did… well… slightly better. You young ones may not be quite old enough to remember the hell that Prince’s name change put the world through so long ago. So let’s discuss.

Back in the olden days, Prince was still putting out things called “records”. Unlike most artists, he wanted to put out more records than his music company would allow. They didn’t want him to go “crazy”. They had a point. Let’s face it, darlings, after “Purple Rain” his albums got more and more… nuts. He was sacrificing quality for quantity. Like some of you furry artists out there. He put out three crappy albums in one year. Did I say they were crappy? The music execs, trying in vain to assuage his huge ego, told him he would oversaturate the market. Prince would have none of that. He famously demanded total control over his work, including what to put out and when, no matter how crappy it was. This devolved into a highly public struggle for control. Yes, our Prince wanted his freedom from the tyranny of the Man! He wanted his emancipation. (My handful of devout readers might be sensing something familiar by now.)

In protest, Prince changed his name to “ Ƭ̵̬̊ “ and scurried about in every venue with the word “slave” scribbled across his face. Yes, this really happened- and it went on until his contract with said music company ended. Some of us were amused by the spectacle. Some of us were not amused. One of those in the “not amused” category was none other than Oprah Winfrey. She got the Reclusive One to be a guest on her show, then she proceeded to do her level best to skewer his tight little ass to the wall. Oprah: “When your wife calls your secretary and asks for you- what name does she use? Who does she ask for?” Well of course we all knew it was “Prince”. But Ƭ̵̬̊ couldn’t say that and risk being exposed as the fraud that he was. So he hemmed and hawed as she pressed him for a real answer. He finally mumbled “She just asks for ‘The Artist’. Is ‘The Artist’ there?” I wasn’t buying it. Neither was Oprah. Satisfied that she wasn’t going to get anything more substantive out of him, they proceeded to move on to some silly chit-chat about that symbol and its meaning and crap like that. Then he sang a song or two, rounding out the hour.

For me it was the lowest of the low points of the so-called “symbol” years. Ironically all this happened just after the release of his underwhelming single: “My Name is Prince” in 1992. Kirsty Alley appeared in the video. I viewed it as the lowest point in her career. Until she appeared in a bikini on “Oprah” trying to convince us that she was thin. I wasn’t buying that, either. Eventually The Artist resigned with the music company- in order to regain control of his studio masters. And his name. Some people just need to control everything.

Why do I bring this up? It is timely, not because Prince is dead. No. That is just a fortunate happenstance. The reason is that, like Prince, I also find myself in a sticky wicket. A pickle. A jam with regard with the use of names. No, my name is not involved… although I have been called a few here on F.A. You see, like Prince, I am an artist. My art, my craft requires freedom of speech and control of my work. I don’t so much draw, I don’t so much write as I… give birth. But just as a baby springs from two parents, my art so often involves more than one parent. Let’s just say that I tend to like more than just my own name on the birth certificate that identifies my art. Hence, the names of other furries, well- known furries, show up on many of my submissions or journals. Sometimes it take a whole village of furries to raise my children. Such is my process.

But evil is afoot. There are those who would interfere with that inalienable right and come between me and my welfare checks. Higher furry powers that want to control me. Powers that wish I would drop dead and never mention them again. Powers that would enslave me; ones that I have struggled to free myself from. I can picture them gathered together in smoke-filled rooms deciding which of my creative works will be aborted from existence this week. Because they are control freaks trying to keep a furry brother down. How I wish I was one of them. Sigh. If only I could get in an elevator and punch a higher floor, like Prince. Perhaps we should follow his example. No, I don’t mean overdosing. Sheesh.

I mean, let’s all have a deep breath and focus on our higher power. Which higher power you ask? If you recognize the… symbol pictured above then you already know. Yes, darlings. Time to move on from The Artist Formally Known as Prince to The Artist Currently Known as Our Queen. Hold on. Did I just flip the style up on you like Missy? Snap! Yes, you thought it was over. So did I, darlings. Really, I did. But we are going there. We must go there. It’s coming. The baby is coming. Take me away!
Some of you may know of what or who I speak. And if you don’t, then turn in your furry card and get lost. To refresh the rest of you, I want to remind you of what an accommodating person I am. I am so accommodating, you wouldn’t believe it. If a furry comes to me and doesn’t want me talking about them or using their name or whatever, I’m cool. Even if the request comes from royalty. And I’m not talking of Queen Beyonce, Elizabeth II, Ru Paul, or even Queen Bee Lil’ Kim. But like Ƭ̵̬̊ , I’m not here to name names. No. Names are just so… passe. Symbolism- much like sin- is in. So let’s take another lesson from Prince and come up with a fitting symbol for Our Queen: 👑

Whenever you see 👑 then you will know. Now before you get your knickers in a twist, I’m not even dishing about 👑 today. Not directly. I will instead discuss the photo montage above. A calling card has been left on my doorstep, so to speak. Pictured is the address label of a hefty box. Did you ever wake up to find a severed horse head in your bed? (It occurs to me that some furries have.) For the sake of the story, let's assume that is a bad thing. Yes, I cringed with fear when I first laid eyes on this suspicious package and realized who it was from. Perhaps the grim reaper was knocking on my door. Was I the victim of a royal curse? The heady scent of azalea and magnolia was still lingering in the air, evoking the southern garden that surely bore witness to the crafting of this gift. A peace offering, you ask? Don’t be absurd. After the bomb squad was called, the box x-rayed and dusted for anthrax and fingerprints- I finally examined the contents. What was in the box, you ask? You can wait for the second submission.

P.S.
As for Prince, once he conceded his name, I never could get in the habit of calling him “Prince” again. I called him “The Artist”(Formerly Known as…)
Prince is dead; long live the Queen.

Love, -D.

(Yes, I know you have seen this. It was a casualty of Fur Affinity’s lost week. It is part one of two so I had to re-submit.)

[Lyrics=Prince Rogers Nelson]
[photography=Dreamwindow]
[Package and address label= 👑 Rukis.]