I was more consumed by the moment-to-moment reality of occupying a motor vehicle with Prince in the driver’s seat. His posture, for instance: upright. His turn signaling: impeccable. But wasn’t this exactly the sort of gee-whiz exoticizing that he’d inveighed against a few minutes ago? He’d told me he brushed his own teeth every morning. Why shouldn’t he have been an excellent driver? To believe that everything around him was glazed in surrealism was tantamount to believing in a kind of magic, too.
