There were signs when I was 8 years old. In fact, somewhere in the depths of my father’s house, there are cassette tapes of evidence: I knew what I wanted to be when I was in elementary school.
After school, I would come home and record radio shows into my cheap RadioShack handheld tape recorder, elaborate productions in which I was both host and guests — and the guests were all insipid bimbos, based on girls I disliked at school. I hope these tapes remain well buried in an old closet.