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In This Issue

• How to Hold on to Your Honey
• Gerald Jackson is Simply Fabulous
• Kid Gets 'F' for 'Fat' on Report Card
• Letters to the Editor(s)
• Glam Faux Pas on College Walk
• Cap'n Crunch = Pervert
• Frugal Gourmet goes Glam; Glitter is Cheap
• Screw the Superbowl! The World is Next!
• 50 Mindblowing Tips for Pleasing your She-male
• Necessary Knowledge for Proper Tape-Mixing
• Gone Society Whorin'
• There is No Message
• GLAM! Makeovers by the Fed Fashionista
• Whoroscopes for the Broken-Hearted
• Disturbing Lack of Glam on Campus
• Newsbriefs
• Prince reveals all, pulls pants back up

The Glam movement began in England with T. Rex and David Bowie in the 1960's as a fairy offshoot of the Mod movement. However, the look, life and music were perfected in 1980's Minneapolis. Prince Rodgers Nelson - who, in true pop icon fashion goes only by his first name - wears high heeled boots and makeup, and achieves an androgynous sex symbol status potent enough to send Bowie packing for his Star Trek Mammy, Iman. The Fed recently sent me to catch up with the cryptically sexy songwriter at his lavender colored recording studio Paisley Park. After some perfunctory virgin Banana Daiquiris (no alcohol due to his recent conversion to a Jehovah's Witness) and mutual masturbation, we got down to business.

Fed: So you've totally lost your shit, huh?

P: Yeah, I don't think I can get excited anymore. When you've been in and out of as many lubricated holes as I have, you just can't get excited about sex anymore. I mean it was to the point where I was fucking geriatric amputee Bushmen, just to try something else. That's where most of my creative energy's gone these past few years, figuring out what I haven't fucked yet.

Fed: Indeed. Your last two records, Rave and The Rainbow Children, were pretty fucking stupid, man.

P: I'm sorry about that. Its not like the old days when I could just say, ‘I'd like to fuck some chick in a Raspberry Beret' and have to be kicking her out by the afternoon. Even with the Internet, it's impossible to find something for me to have sex with.

Fed: I feel for you, man. But they want me to ask you about the old days. How did you invent your look? How did it go over with the kids in the seventies? Did it get you anal?

P: Well, I guess it started with my Pops. He used to keep me in the closest for days on end, so I'd turn pale. Then he'd dress me up like a white girl with pedal pushers and saddle shoes. So that's how I learned to dress myself. By the time I hit puberty, the game was all about sperm. It was like the seventies version of Botox. We used to rub it anywhere.

Fed: Okay, sounds like a lot of fun. When you busted out with "For You" and "Dirty Mind," were you trying to shock us with the trench coat and bikini briefs or was that just what you'd put on that morning?

P: When you get as much play as I do you can't be fucking around with pants zippers and all that shit. I mean, who has time for three-piece suits when you're penciled in for six vaginas, three rectums and a couple of rim jobs every day. Really, I just couldn't be bothered with pants at the time. That's why I formed the Revolution. Writing, producing and playing all the instruments was cutting into my salad tossing days.

Fed: By 1999 your reputation was firmly established and you began working with various female artists (Shelia E, Sheena Easton, the Bangles, that chick from Graffiti Bridge), helping them achieve commercial success, which ultimately left them as soon as you found a new piece of action to entertain yourself with. Who was the best, and do you have any regrets regarding your numerous protégés?

P: Tevin Campbell was both the sweetest and the most talented of them all. It's a God damn shame what I did to that boy. After being in and out of those smelly British bitches for so long, Tevin was like a breath of fresh air. When we put together Round and Round for him it was just that. He was playing all coy with me until he turned fourteen. I was like, "You got to give it up to keep going." When he finally did, he'd developed some body hair, and being in the middle of one of my phases I just vomited all over his pubescent crotch. After that I sent him to Quincy and I think he got lost on the way. Do you know what happened to that boy?

Fed: He sings in a church choir now, desperately repenting. But no one cares about that. You owned the Glam Slam clubs, until they failed miserably because it was the nineties and Glam was considered passé. Also didn't you have to pay off some triads for the mail order children that didn't work out? I mean it's all there in the Black Album. Although my favorite of your bootlegs has to be Crystal Ball. ‘Extralovable' was the bomb. "Excuse me, but I'm going to have to rape you." That was my fucking line in the nineties! What was I asking you about? Fuck it, let me try on those pants.

After we exchanged pants, Prince showed me his new work. It was called the Twelve Variations on a theme. Only later did I discover that theme was "Ream Meat." My assignment ended with me waking up in the St. Paul snow with my eyebrows nicely plucked and Egyptian symbols hennaed on my ass. If he didn't insist on living in the Midwest, I'd consider hanging out some more just to steal more of his clothes. Or maybe I could get him to come down off Mt. Retarded and make some of the brilliant music that served me so well as I developed. I'd do anything for another "Sign of the Times." Hell, at this point I'd take "Diamonds and Pearls."