I Became A Famous Rapper By Ordering Fast Food
The incredible story of my accidental fame and fortune at age 60
It’s fairly ridiculous to think that a 64-year-old man like me could have a career in hip-hop. But America does ridiculous exceptionally well. So here I am, a big rap star. On the social media radar. My story is bizarre.
It all began at Taco Bell.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I suppose it actually started in Jr. High when I discovered that I could rhyme with ease. It hit me like a breeze. While I was eating bologna and cheese.
My friend, Benny Jones, had just asked me, “Why did you pack a lunch?”
I replied, “Why do you watch The Brady Bunch?”
“Because Marsha’s foxy.”
“Well, your head is kinda boxy.”
“Eat my shorts.”
“I’d probably get warts.”
“That’s boge, dude.”
“So is cafeteria food.”
This went on for several minutes while Benny became increasingly irritated by my rhyming of everything he said. Eventually, he got up and moved to another table. I had to give him my Bachman-Turner Overdrive II 8-track before he would agree to be my friend again.
That conversation was my rhyming revelation.
My poetic affirmation.
The gestation of a future sensation.
That being the early 1970s, and me being raised in a blue-collar neighborhood in Michigan, not the inner city of New York, I didn’t consider a career in a musical style I was unaware of and still in its infancy. And no guy my age, in my neighborhood, was going to write poetry. So I didn’t give my rhyming proclivity much brain activity.
Until that fateful day at Taco Bell shortly after my 60th birthday.
Much to the chagrin of anyone I consider my friends (contracts still binding), I often bust out into rhyme at inappropriate places. This time it was at Taco Bell. But I was alone. It is not wise for humans over 40 to eat at Taco Bell, and I didn’t want any of my friends to witness the possible gastrointestinal aftermath of my poor decision-making. So I walked into Taco Bell alone with my shame.
As I stepped up to the counter and looked at the first-time employee trying to save up enough for a new Xbox, I busted out into rhyme.
“I just went to Chick-fil-A
“The prices made me weep
“I ain’t got deep pockets
“What you selling cheap?”
The kid said, “Uh. It’s all value-priced.”
In my estimation, that was the answer of a future manager. So I said, “Good answer, Tiny Dancer.”
Little did I know that world-famous rapper Deep Pockets was sitting in the dining room with his posse. Apparently, he overheard me. Deep Pockets got up, walked over to me, and said, “Yo, man, you made me laugh. Order whatever you want, I’m buying.”
“That’s gratifying and satisfying,” I said. “I’ve considered your offer, and you’ll find me complying.”
Deep Pockets looked at me weird. He put a $50 bill on the counter and told the kid taking my order to keep the change. Then he said, “Come sit with us when you get your food.”
“Anything else would be rude,” I replied.
I got my Crunch Wrap Deluxe, two soft chicken tacos, and a large Pepsi, then walked over to Deep Pockets’ table.
Now, I have to confess, I don’t listen to much rap, unless you consider Walk This Way by Aerosmith rap music, which I do. Listen to it. It is! Obviously, Run-DMC agrees, but I can’t take their version due to its ragged vocals by Steven Tyler. His voice was totally shot on that recording. It’s painful to listen to. So I don’t. But that is probably more information than you need or want. And I imagine you are probably wondering when I am going to get back to telling the story of how I became a famous rap star, not my personal observations about a rock (and rap) song from 1975 and the remake in 1986. And so now I will. Thank you for your patience.
Due to my ignorance of rap music, I didn’t have a clue who Deep Pockets was. I just figured anyone waving around fifty-dollar bills at Taco Bell really doesn’t belong there. So I was interested in hearing his story. Plus, he bought me lunch and complimented my rhyme. It seemed neighborly to join him. I am sure Mr. Rogers would have approved.
I walked over to Deep Pockets’ table.
“Have a seat,” Deep Pockets said as I approached.
“Thank you.”
“What’s your name, man?”
“Mark.”
“Mark, my name is Isaac. But everyone calls me Deep Pockets or just Deep.”
“Nice to meet you, Deep,” I replied.
“You know who I am?” Deep asked.
“Should I?”
Deep Pockets cracked a huge smile.
“Nope. No reason you should,” he replied. “You rhyme like that a lot?”
“Too much, if you ask my wife.”
Deep Pockets laughed.
“I like you, man.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Thanks.”
“Listen, I’m a rapper. A pretty famous one. You ever think about writing rap music?”
“Ah… No,” was all I could come up with.
“Well, you should. Rap is rhymes. And I know you can do those.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. And after this lunch, I will probably need to fart.”
“I’m serious. Here is my number.”
Deep handed me a business card. I was a little surprised. But I suppose I had no reason to be. Deep Pockets was the first famous rapper I had ever met, and for all I knew, all famous rappers had business cards. “Call me if you ever want to get together and put some rhymes to music.”
“Alright,” I replied.
“I gotta go. I got a gig tonight. Call me. I mean it.”
Deep Pockets and his posse got up and left. As I sat there eating my crunch wrap, I thought, I gotta get me a posse. Maybe with an Aussie. As long as they’re not too bossy.
After I finished my lunch, I went home. As I spent the next several hours in the bathroom, I pondered Deep Pockets’ offer.
“I’m going to do it,” I said.
My wife and I have this conversation system where one of us will speak a thought out loud with absolutely no context. It’s quite endearing.
“Do what?”
“Call Deep Pockets and write some rap songs.”
“You know Deep Pockets?”
“You know who Deep Pockets is?”
“I read social media.”
“Oh, yeah. I met him at Taco Bell. He invited me to get together and write some rap songs.”
“Doesn’t he live in New York City?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I doubt he lives around here.”
“I guess I’ll find out when I call.”
“Good idea.”
So I called Deep Pockets. It turns out he lives in New York. But he offered to fly me out so I could hang out in his studio. I accepted.
When I arrived at the airport, I was greeted by a limo driver with my name on a card. He escorted me to his limo, and I got in.
“Mr Starlin, I know this sounds weird, but you are going to have to put this bag over your head.”
“What? I know I’m old, but some people say I am not bad looking with the lights dimmed to almost dark.”
“It has nothing to do with your looks. It is a precaution. Mr. Pockets’ studio is in a secret location. It keeps fans and burglars away.”
“Doesn’t the limo attract attention?”
“We will be changing to a garbage truck as we get closer.”
“Cool. Alright.”
I put the sack over my head, sat back, relaxed, and enjoyed the ride. Once we got to the studio, I was hurried inside. I took my head covering off and saw Deep Pockets’ smiling face.
“Welcome to Right Pocket Studios. I am sorry about the blindfold,” Deep Pockets said.
“No problem. I felt like a spy. And I never rode in a garbage truck before. It was not as stinky as I thought.”
Deep Pockets laughed and showed me into the main room of the studio.
There were several musicians in the room. Deep Pockets introduced me to them, which was pointless, as I am horrible with names.
“We are going to get a groove going. You just start rapping whatever comes into your head. After a few lines, I will jump in with some rhymes. I will rap my lines in italics, so it will be easier for readers to tell who is doing what since this is writing and not audio.”
I was a little confused about the italics part, but I figured he’s the star. “Cool, I’ll rap mine in bold. And let’s both do them without quotation marks.”
The band started playing, and I let my body absorb the groove. Then I engaged my brain and my mouth, and this is what came out.
Some people call me Ebenezer
Others say I am a geezer
Or your nose needs a tweezer
But I don’t play people pleaser
I say, I am what I am
Then I throw a can of SPAM
When it hits them, I say, BAM
You better book a sonogram
Step aside, Sonny Crocket
For a Deep Pocket rocket
That’s my boy…
Deep Pockets stopped. The band stopped a few seconds later. He looked at me and said, “You need a name. A rapper name.”
“I got one.”
“What?”
“Ice MyKnee”
Deep Pockets laughed.
“You’re a trip. I love it.”
He told the band to start playing again. He continued his freestyle rap.
Step aside, Sonny Crocket
For a Deep Pocket rocket
That’s my boy, Ice MyKnee
He’s as solid as a tree
Check, he’s wearing sixty rings
And the wisdom that it brings
Yo, this ain’t no Spinal Tap
We inventin’ Geezer Rap
Legal obligations prevent me from sharing the rest of the song. But it is obvious to even the casual observer that Deep Pockets and I have serious skills.
I didn’t know it at the time, but they were recording the whole session. Deep Pockets told me he wanted to release the song as a single. I agreed. He had me sign a contract.
“I am going to take you on the road with me this summer. You are going to get famous,” Deep Pockets said.
“That works for me, Bumblebee,” I replied.
Deep Pockets released the song, and it exploded. They said it broke the internet, but I was still able to log on. My future looked bright.
Then Covid-19 hit. Our gigs got canceled. And Geezer Rap faded away.
My fame was as fleeting as my paycheck. No one buys music anymore. They just stream it. And you only get a thousandth of a penny per play for streaming. So I earned $50 for my smash hit. I lost out on all of that $40 t-shirt and $300 ticket sales income.
Well, at least I made more than I made on Substack last month. And I got to ride in a garbage truck!
Word.
Thanks for reading and responding. You make it fun.
Mark
-"I had to give him my Bachman-Turner Overdrive II 8-track before he would agree to be my friend again." Those guys came from Winnipeg, my home town.
-"you are going to have to put this bag over your head.” In the 1950s Russian dissident Igor Gouzenko escaped to Canada with many classified documents. He occasionally appeared on television but with his face disguised by a sort of bag that seemed to be made from a flour sack so that nobody would recognize him and cause him to be deported back.
This was fantastic, Mark! I LOL'd several times. And who would have thought a garbage truck could be a cool ride?