Two events shaped my entire life.

     The first was the circumstance of my birth. Prince Rogers Nelson and I were born in the same Minneapolis hospital three days apart. Soon after, the hospital changed brands of baby formula. Call it coincidence, but I believe the hospital administration knew that something in the sauce predisposed we little innocent babies to a life of rebellion and debauchery. But I can’t prove it.

     The second life-shaping event started even more innocuously as a trip to my grandparents’ during the summer after third grade. Bored with the heat and old people, my sister and I took refuge in the next door neighbors’ basement, where we and the two neighbor girls fiddled with an RCA record player that we probably weren’t supposed to be fiddling with. I figured out how to turn it on and the older neighbor girl came up with a 45 and laid it on the platter.

     With the plop of the needle that basement—and my life—were transformed. Paul’s and John’s voices soared from that four-inch speak and enveloped me with “she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.” The vibrato in the high falsetto “ooh” right before the chorus pulsed around the room and sent all three girls into an altered emotional state that can only be described as a frenzy. They were dancing and squealing and giggling and jumping and squealing some more, and I knew right then two irrefutable truths: One, I was so not a girl, and Two, I needed some of that magic that made girls act like that.

     And so I have spent much of the rest of my life proving Truth One and seeking Truth Two. The Pie is an important thoroughly enjoyable part of that journey. Where else would I get the chance to shake my head when I sing the “oohs”?

     Baby formula and Beatles. I wonder how Mr. Nelson’s doing.