When we were going to meet our idols

We were living in a small house in the suburbs of a small town in Sweden. The house itself, a yellow brick town house in a suburb full of fancy 60’s style villas, was located in a neighborhood popularly known as “Nybygget”, the new houses. During the fourteen years we remained in the house, this neighborhood would remain “Nybygget”. The locals would refer to Nybygget with a slight irritation over the audacity of the multinational contractor, so violently ruining the small town landscape with identical houses on top of our suburbian hill, as far as the eye could see. For my family our small house in the middle of all this monotony was a grand delight, with a wooden staircase leading up to the second floor and a small garden. The staircase, to our infinite joy, was absolutely perfect for sliding down, causing all our pants to rip at some point or another. I don’t know if my mother ever understood why all our bottom garments were always wearing thin on precisely the same place.
Although the summers would stretch from July to August, a smaller infinity in the eyes of a child, it seemed like we never ran out of things to do. There were always mysteries to be solved (what WAS the neighbors teenaged son doing in the garden? And who were all those girls sunbathing in bikinis that always seemed to be with him?) places we could go to on our bikes, games to be played. If worse came to worse, we could always dress up in our bathing suits with fancy-tights and hop along the best we could to my mother’s Low Impact Aerobics tape, purchased earlier that summer in another attempt to slim up in face of the bikini season. We never seemed to grow tired of hearing Jane Fonda telling us to put our “heal out” at the end of every exercise and we would put of heart and soul in the prospect of “gaining figure” to our scrawny nine-year old bodies.
It was in the middle of this eventful summer, rather hot and dry as far as Swedish summers go, that my best friend and I decided we were going to enter a talent show on television, where the first prize was to meet your idol. The show consisted on kids mimicking their idol on national television and the best act would ultimately win. Looking back at the program itself I remember that the lucky winner so happened to always have a Swedish b-list celebrity as their idol who was happy to drop by the show (for a decent amount of cash and another fifteen minutes of stardom). But again, this distinction was not made in our expectant nine year-old eyes.
Our idols that week were a teenaged rapper duo named Kris Kross. We were partly amazed that these boys had reached stardom at such an early age, and partly I think we had a crush on said duo. Immediately we put our plan into action, stealing a pair of baggy jeans from our elder siblings and learning to button them backwards (as our idols so happened to wear them). When we had our image all figured out and completed, we proceeded to plan the most important part, the actual act itself. I remember there being a small quarrel about who was going to be who, as we so happened to like the same boy, and very much wanted to be that boy. I am not sure how we ultimately came to the decision that I was to be the shorter boy (it might have been for the fact that I at that time was very short) and my best friend was to be the slightly taller boy (the object of our affection). The song was already a given, seeing as this act furthermore became to be a one-hit-wonder and all we had to do was to wait for it to be played on the radio so we could record it with our little pink portable tape recorders (our little nine-year old budgets were not sufficient to afford the wealth that was needed to buy an LP-single).
Eventually, we finally succeeded in recording an acceptable version of our song. This was easier said than done, as we would always grow bored of waiting after a while and go to the kitchen to fix us a snack, thus always missing the first seconds of the song that OF COURSE would always play when we were away. Our first crude lesson in practice of Murphy’s law.
We had little toy microphones, stolen from my best friends’ keyboard, that we would sing into while working hard to pursue our dreams. My friend would stay so late that it would turn dark without us noticing. As we were both afraid of the dark, this would lead to her spending the night at my house for days in a row, before we finally went to her house to practice. The same procedure would be repeated there, with me staying at her house. We would tune in every week to watch the program, but to our great distress they would never display the number you should call in case you wanted to participate (mind you, this is before the time of the internet, when all information on where to call would be live and at the spot).
In the end, in the light of the fruitlessness of the endeavor, we completely forgot about our initial enthusiasm for this project, ultimately abandoning it for other prospects on the horizon. The jeans were put back in our sibling’s closets, the little toy microphones stored away. The posters on the walls were replaced with new idols (in my friends case, although she would have short interests in other idols, she would never abandon her one true idol and love, Michael Jackson) and pretty soon the whole episode was forgotten.
I don’t think that I, since my childhood, have embarked on a project with the same joy and excitement, the same tenacity and expectation as I did when I was nine. As I sit here, writing these words I cannot help but think that life experience and my transformation from a bright-eyes child to a cynic adult may have contributed to this. When you are nine, the sky is the limit.