TumbleDweeeb

   I’m Johnny Sixx, a rapper from Kentucky. At 42, I’m still not where I want to be. I was born in Louisville, where my mother was 22 and my sperm donor was 38. I miss you, pops—wherever you He’s still“out for cigarettes” after 42 years.
   At the age of 5, I moved to South Park View and started school. My teachers quickly recognized my talent for making up stories—a skill that would serve me well in my future music career.
   If only I’d stuck with writing stories instead of telling them. I wish my mom would’ve warned me about that distinction when I told her a Buzzard spoke to me in Donald Duck’s voice near Morton’s Bluff. But she didn’t—she believed it, like it was her faith. That’s when I learned that a convincing delivery was all you needed. Who needs facts when you have confidence?
   I got my start in music when I was 9 years old, setting up instruments and connecting mics on stage for a mariachi band. It was an easy job—I never heard them complain about anything, even when the feedback was horrible. Communication required being fluent in charades, since not one of them spoke English. They nicknamed me “Bobo,” which I assumed meant “Audio Prodigy” in Spanish. Found out years later it roughly translates to “the clumsy gringo who tangles all our cords.” My second music lesson: Sometimes not understanding feedback is a blessing.
   At 12, I began working with a bluegrass band. It wasn’t my cup of tea, but I stuck with those guys for two years for one reason only: they made some really good moonshine. My first music lesson: Sometimes payment in liquid form is better than cash, especially when you’re too young to appreciate either.
   By 15, I had graduated to “producer,” creating beats using a pawnshop keyboard, drum machine, and 4-track recorder. My first song was called “Biting Hooks“—a title that unintentionally described my entire career of borrowing other people’s ideas and still somehow missing the mark.
   By the time I was 21, I had already recorded 8⅓ albums. Yes, that’s right—eight AND A THIRD. The incomplete album happened when the tape ran out and I couldn’t afford new tapes. I decided to throw a record release party instead. I invited my two best friends, Bob and Tabitha. I had secretly liked Tabitha, but in classic Johnny Sixx timing, I only realized this about a year after she started dating Bob. They didn’t show up to my party for “some odd reason”—probably something trivial like their wedding or the birth of their first child. My attendance record of one set a pattern for my future shows.
   At 25, I thought I’d hit the big time when a local radio DJ played my song at 3 AM. I later found out he’d fallen asleep on the control board after a double shift. Still, I count it as my first “airplay” on my resume. That same year, I got my first and only groupie—turns out she thought I was the opening act for a much more famous local rapper and was just killing time until they came on. We’re still Facebook friends, though; she occasionally comments, “Keep trying!” on my music posts.
   I have 4,200 social media followers—mostly bots and distant relatives who feel obligated to follow me. My photos get a whopping 12 likes. Like that time I stood 20 feet from Jack O’Reilly and told everyone we were tight. People saw through that faster than my transparent excuses. Turns out a VIP pass doesn’t make you best friends with celebrities. Who knew?
   Five years ago, I promised a biography. Plot twist: you need to actually write books for them to hit bookshelves. Three years ago, I was “too busy” for my horror movie role. Translation: I had no camera, no crew, and no clue. (I may add that line into my poem book)
   I’ve released 14⅓ albums! Yes, I’m still working on that last third of album fifteen—a project I’ve not had time to complete yet. It’s been “almost finished” since 1997. The reviews for my completed works were unanimous: “Great album cover!” I turned off YouTube comments after the fifth person asked if my graphic designer could teach me about music too.
   I still perform with high hopes. My cousin has a photo of me “on stage” at Bernie’s bar. It could’ve passed for Madison Square Garden if not for the fact it shows the back of my head facing three empty chairs and a confused janitor.
   I talk about stocks like Warren Buffett while my Acorn app collects enough pennies to maybe buy a share of something someday. Meanwhile, I’m posting inspirational captions about “investing in land” under photos of property I found on Google Maps.
   The most likes I’ve ever gotten were on posts saying “Like if you think I’m talented!” Meanwhile, musicians who focused on steady real job careers in their 30’s are now in their late 40’s enjoying greater financial stability and opportunities than I have.
   So here I am at 42, Johnny Sixx, the almost-famous Kentucky rapper who’s finally seeing the light. Last week, I put in my first job application—at the local music store, where the manager promised he’d “consider” my resume after I stopped asking if they carried my albums. The interview is tomorrow, and I’ve already planned my outfit: my faded tour shirt from a show that never happened, but with a sensible tie over it. Baby steps.
   My cousin keeps telling me, “It’s never too late to start over,” and for once, I’m listening to someone other than the imaginary voices that told me I’d be the next Eminem. Maybe being a regular person with a steady paycheck isn’t selling out—maybe it’s just growing up. I might even get health insurance.
   Don’t worry, though; I’m keeping the stage name. Bobo the Assistant Manager has a certain ring to it. And who knows? Maybe I’ll finally finish that biography—”How to Go Upward: The Johnny “Bobo” Sixx Story”—once I learn how the spell check works on the store computer.
   This is my journey—not quite the “big time” I claimed, but at least I’ll have great stories for the break room. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that sometimes the best beats in life aren’t made in a studio, but in the rhythm of a life well-lived. Or at least, a life lived…interestingly.