If you step into this world, oddly soothed by the sometimes drug-addled croonings of James Blunt, you can blame your mother. She was singing "You're Beautiful" this morning. Well, not exactly "You're Beautiful." It was "You're Cuticle." Your mom and I incessantly come up with silly portmanteaus of words. They're like a linguistic version of a musical mash-up. Deejays concoct things like the Gray Album, layering Jay-Z over the Beatles; or Michael Jackson's "Beat It" lyrics cutting into Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" guitar riffs.
Your mom made a mash-up of the words "cute" and "beautiful," then fit it right back into that same James Blunt song. Sorry about that. Some kids grow up with parents that expose them to '60s rock, old school hip hop, or classical music. You just might fall into an unlucky percentage that emerge from the womb with accelerated pop sensibilities. I'll do what I can, but I'm fairly certain that Kanye West isn't considered a backpacker rapper anymore, and Alt-Rock-Country, or whatever you might call the Raconteurs, won't be around forever. Michael Jackson died on June 25th. That's six weeks ago, half a lifetime for you. You'll probably hear your dad playing some of his songs now and again.
If beatboxing was a musical genre, then your dad might've made a small chunk of change as a producer. But otherwise, an embarrasing run in with a talent show during his sophomore year of high school ensured that your dad won't be touching any microphones anytime soon. The incident in question was fifteen years ago, but it was one of those life-defining moments that not-so-gently nudge you in a different direction.
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