I was born in 1988, in the same news cycle that band-aids ended up lower case. As I came into the world, Jimmy Cagney left it, the little dustmite, and my mother still tells me I’m his reincarnation.
My parents live steadily uphill from me, around a block and back again. Ever since I offhandedly said something to the effect, my dad unwaveringly believes that it’s legal and safe to drive drunk as long as you don’t turn on the car. No standards, but I do have a standard. Shift it into neutral and I’m fine, he says.
My little brother, twice my size when we’re both soaken wet like a bag of milk, says to no one that it’s fine to give money to politicians in exchange for influence. Not to mention children’s beauty pageants. And car horns in radio commercials. Patent trolls. He’s obviously right, but god, give it a rest, we’re trying to eat here.
My older sister taught me the wrong colours. A prank it was, node out, but who knows what she believes. No matter, I still ended up in the green. I mean, I learned the right ones by kindergarten and everything, but now you have a picture of my upbringing.
Now picture this kid, this kid who’s me, and all he wants is to record a variation of “It Wasn’t Me” as a farts-centric parody. He wrote it in an hour of inspiration with his pen and a pad, then set off to make it real and happening. This was before Garageband so to make his fruited plan he needed only a garage and a band. Only one place for both, and that’s sideways over the tracks to the millionaire orphan Ratty Rat’s house. Dying for a friend and bored as a downtown portnoy, Rat hired some guns, bought a sound equipment and was instrumental in this kid getting guitars and such.
Once everything was set up, mics and amps and the like, oh my, this little foozy fella realized he never didn’t know one measel of a t’ing about strummin’ dem chords in the nec’ssary mus’cal translation. So he goes over to Jay Jorsen’s place ‘cause this one’s a real a sonic whiz kid and could beyond a shadow give him the fingerlings he needed to get this gotten going for once. Now Jay’s not home, not even in the county ever since their pa did a little mischief and took them all to the country, but this kid don’t care, he gotta get this song over those airy waves. So he does what the protectors of the law calls a break-in enter, sneaks in thru a jar winduh and nabs the fingerlings Jay just left sittin’ on his side table next to his brand spankin’ tomogoochie. The kid leaves the tomo, got no time to be carin’ for anyding when this tune’s still only in his head and half on the paper and kinda in Shaggy’s studio but only the inspiration part, but gets back to Rat’s with the impl’ments just in time to bang out a banger, send it to Columbia House while they still had some pull, and get it straight to the chart tops.
I know this is all sounding a little too familiar, ain’t it? Some of it don’t add up, but other parts add up too good. This kid, already established as me but afraid to first person this part because of anxiety and whatnot, is ready to apologuise to you, Jay-Lo Jorsen Lopez, from the block and the country but no longer the county, for stealing your fingerlings even though he found out later they were only the backups and that’s what helped you you still get to the very top of the charts yourself, with your first hit even passing “It (the fart) Wasn’t Me” on your way there.