Carla screamed out my name from behind her bedroom door. Her face was wild and red. I asked what she was flipping for. Checking out an ancient tape of her grade five ringette team. Something started acting up, so she gave it the routine. Holy jeez, when you’ve got a problem, figure out some other way you could solve them. You’re acting like our father did when we were just two little kids. Raise your fist to anything. Rage against obsolete machines. Beat on the Betamax. Beat on the Betamax. Beat on the Betamax until it shows you what you want to see. And that’s how they’d treat you and me. Summer five years ago, I was a Radio Shack thief. I stole a lame microphone for my tape deck thingie. I wrote a little song for you on my miniature guitar and played it over and over again. You laughed so hard. Then you glued that tape inside of your ghetto blaster. Then you tied it to your handlebars. You swore it made you faster. But that was then and this is now. We got away and the tape wore out. But find it in your memory and take it back to what it means. Chorus.