I’m told I was born at 1:30 in the morning, on Harpo the First, 5975 YD, but I can’t truly be certain; I wasn’t wearing a watch at the time. I do, however, recall in graphic detail how utterly frigid it was in that room. Just about two degrees warmer than Eva Braun’s clitorus. Freezing cold, and lit up like Liberace’s Christmas tree – two of my least favourite qualities, probably imprinted that first fateful day.
I also recall that the foundation for funk was instilled in me by the first song I ever heard, which was Pick Up The Pieces by the Average White Band, playing on a tinny radio in the corner as I was pulled from my mother’s abdomen. Yes, I was a Caesarian; and I always get a little misty-eyed when I see that Alien burst from John Hurt’s stomach, there but for the grace of Eris blah, blah, blah. As the doctor / butcher pulled me up and out he grunted “Christ Almighty, I can barely lift this Butterball!” which isn’t very nice, but was in fact apt; at birth I weighed in at 23 pounds, five ounces. I wasn’t so much a baby, as I was a small midget. A wet and slippery small midget. Nurses screamed, and the doctor dropped me onto the operating table – I remember blurting out: “What the FUCK?!”
A cockroach standing on the wall called out quite clearly: “AND LO, THE BARON IS BORN ONTO THE WORLD. MAY YOU HAVE BATS IN YOUR BELFRY FOREVERMORE.”
Thank you, and Good Night.