The following is the TRUE STORY of my first shot at fame.

I say, "first" because, though I blew my chance, I am confident there will be more.

In fact, I am destined to have at least 7000 people, worldwide, know my name and know of my accomplishments.

Of that 7000, 1000 will think me worthless. The remaining 6000 will admire me and my work.

1500 of that 6000 will be able to recognize me upon seeing me in the streets.

But only 300 will admire me enough that they would muster up the courage to talk to me about said accomplishments.

120 of that 300 will have an unhealthy obsession with me.

And 2 of those 120 will entertain thoughts of actually stalking me, though neither of them will go through with it. But until then…

My first shot at fame came and went via LL Cool J's "world famous" DJ sidekick, Cut Creator.

LL, who once immortalized his DJ in the song, "Go! Cut Creator, Go!" put him on the back burner in recent years to pursue his movie and TV career. The duo still kept in touch, they do a bit of production work together: but LL doesn't use Cut Creator on tour anymore: LL himself still looks 30, while Cut Creator didn't age as well. I guess older looking, plumper guys don't jive well with the fickle hip-hop market place.

Cut Creator's search for post-LL work led him to our beloved Tampa and a marginal 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. Sunday night DJ gig at our semi-beloved WILD 98, commercial hip-hop radio station.

I accompanied our new Tampa neighbor, and his best-friend/hanger on, Tony, to Cut Creator's radio show, to do an interview for THE PAPER.

During the interview, between Cut Creator's rusty, half-assed turntable tricks, we had an extensive conversation about the YO!MTV RAPS glory days. He was impressed that the whitest kid he had ever met had such a grasp on black music. In particular, hip-hop's past, present and future.

Or, perhaps, since WILD 98 wasn't even promoting the fact that they'd hired him (and he really is a legend in hip-hop circles) maybe he was just impressed that I knew who he was. I knew everything about his career.

In 7th grade, at 13-years-old, I got into hip-hop instead of Punk Rock. Hip-hop changed me.

This was the 1980's, before hip-hop was cross cultural, before even your mother knew the chorus to the latest Jay-Z joint, before the white man said 'yo'. The other white kids called me a freak for liking hip-hop. One honky fuck even took a swing at me because of my Public Enemy jacket.

Perhaps my appearance belied my need to have something beaten out of me: as well as the jacket, I had a pair of tight jeans bearing the logo from Spike Lee's "Do the Right Thing," written in puffy paint, from the hip to the knee. I sometimes even wore one of those Africa medallions that all the MCs were wearing in the Self Destruction video: red, black and green representing the blood, the brothers and the land. Oh yes, it was horrific. Make no mistake.

But I was more of an experiment in inadvertent absurdism than a poseur. I did not adopt. I advertised. I did not betray my lily-white heritage.

Had I tried to mack, or lamp, or chill, or bug, that would have been whack. But I did not act hard (Jesus, that would have been a joke). I did not speak any differently. I was always myself: an awkward, zit-faced, pink/white boy. Never a wigger by any stretch.

The black kids didn't know what to think. But they were infinitely cooler about it than the white kids. They didn't often ask me to sit in at their lunch table, but they'd give me tapes to listen to.

One time, at a video store by the black ghetto, I had my bicycle stolen. One of the black kids heard me bitching about it at school, asked me to describe it, and went and got it back for me. The black kids had some vague respect for me and it was directly related to my awkward appreciation of hip-hop music.

I've always thought that if you are not self-conscious, if you let your intentions guide you, if you know where you're at and don't second guess yourself (or if you are just as oblivious as I was): there will be no mistaking. Your intentions will always shine through, for better or worse. While everyone I know has had race relation problems: the kind that arise from bitterness and misunderstanding, I have never had any altercations of that sort. Ever. Not one. Because, however awkwardly it translates, I have hip-hop in my heart.

Thus, Cut Creator called me at work a few times during the next few weeks after our interview, to talk about music. One time, he put me on hold and when he came back: "That was Chuck D. on the other line," he said, "I told him about you and he said if you ever want to interview him I can give you his number."

Other than Tony, and the women he'd been meeting at Tampa club gigs (for which he was paid very well), I had become one of his few friends in town.

During our conversations, it came up that I played music, that all my friends played music, that we were all fucking brilliant and innovative, well intended and DOWN. So, Cut Creator told me of an idea he had had for years: a live band: a rock/rap hybrid.

I know… I know…

But, while he was out-of-touch, he was real, he was sincere, and he was connected: "Yeah, man, we played at The Grammies a few years back," mused Cut Creator, "with a 12-piece band. And ever since then I've always wanted to play with a live group."

So, I rounded up a little band to back the Cut Creator.

The "band" had our first meeting at the Atomic Age Café on 7th Ave in Ybor.

I questioned what Cut Creator would think when he walked in and saw Aaron's fat, disgusting, unkempt sideburns and greasy hair. Or when he got a whiff of Damon's horrible, too-cool attitude.

The fourth party was my friend Henry, who is a brilliant well-spoken Asian guy. I had my money on him to guide us through this unlikely situation.

Cut Creator was two beers late for our meeting at the bar. I had been the one who set this all up. So I was the one feeling the pressure.

"So, where's your boy?" Damon sneered.

There's a cliché about hip-hop guys: they're always late. Hours late. This cliché, in all my interview situations, in all my experiences with friends involved in rap music, has been consistently reaffirmed. "I guess he's running on hip-hop time," I laughed nervously.

In my mind I'm thinking "Cut Creator is full of shit. He's blowing smoke up my ass like every dumb kid that ever slurred the phrase, 'Yeah, we should jam some time, start a band,' to me at 1 a.m. at an Ybor bar. Fuck.'

Another beer later, an hour and a half late, Cut Creator walks in, "Sorry I'm late man I was at the car dealership and I'm…"

"You're late, that sucks, you owe us each a beer, " I interrupted.

"Uh, O.K. what are you drinking?"

We all (except him and Henry) got drunk. Cut Creator told us crazy stories of touring, The Grammies, LL Cool J. So many good stories, it could have very easily been bullshit. But it was not. And we all got along famously despite Aaron's sideburns and Damon's horrible attitude.

Cut Creator explained his aspirations for a live band. Unlike us, his frame of reference was pretty limited: old school hip-hop and radio music. But as far as this innovative rap/rock hybrid idea of his: he dropped Limp Bizkit, we all groaned, "No, no, but more mellow, more nice," he retracted.

It wasn't as bad as it sounds: he just didn't have much to go on. He thought he'd invented the idea of a live hip-hop group. No one at the meeting really told him otherwise. We just decided to push him in the right direction when we actually got down to playing music.

"I have people who would definitely fund a tour, buy us some nice equipment," Cut Creator said with no bravado, "If we can pull it off, we have built-in support."

Our obtuse looking crew got up from the table, "I'm going to sit here and use the phone," Cut Creator said as the rest of us walked out the door. I turned around to respond and the distraction caused me to trip through the doorway, almost falling down. I shook it off drunkenly, "Yeah, I'll call you Monday." I promised.