OK, this seems important. I put the 14 year-old theory to the test. I checked the year. I saw the list of tunes. I was, sadly, unimpressed. But then I realized that I was looking at the year I turned 14, and not really the year I was 14. See, I’m a December birthday*. (Yes, you forgot. And I felt like complete shit. Let’s change the subject.)

So, I checked the year when all but a few days of my 14th year was spent — and there it was as plain as day. Foreigner’s Juke Box Hero.

Yeah, take that, Trump. I fucking love Foreigner. (And my favorite Zeppelin tune is Immigrant Song.)

When I felt the match of the song and my unconscious (and, oddly, part of my perineum), I felt empowered. I felt a wave of truth had crashed down like Mavericks on my head, and though I was overwhelmed, I was also stoked (and I don’t surf). It felt like, at last, I had, well, just one guitar, slung way down low. It was as a one way ticket, only one way to go.

So I started rockin’. Ain’t never gonna stop.

(I think the age of 14 is also critical in part because it’s when masturbation goes from being a hobby to a life’s work. Also, fourteen was the year I inhaled my first hit. I’ll never forget that year or 2011 when I finally exhaled.)

* Having a birthday in December also meant having your parents give you one present and say it was both for Hanukkah and your birthday. It left me feeling like I was in a town without a name, in a heavy downpour.

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I write NextDraft, a quick and entertaining look at the day’s most fascinating news.

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