I first heard Marky Marky and the Funky Bunch in Chicago's famed Gramaphone record store, one of whose employees had inexplicably once scissored me like we were lesbians, which was a sexual maneuver for men that never seemed to be effective for anything except transmitting rectal warts, perhaps.
I loved the song. It was stupid-good, and good-stupid.
The singer was my type, was everyone's type. So I bought a bunch of pictures of him whenever I could.
When I moved to NYC, he was releasing a book that he had dedicated to his penis (which was a coincidence, as I was dedicated to his penis as well), so I showed up to a booksigning he was having in Greenwich Village. Surprise! It was all gay men.
The rule was we could only have our books signed, but I brought a stack of sexy magazine tearsheets. When I got up to him, I spread them out quickly as his guards jumped to remove them. He waved them off and signed them without even looking, including this image of his ass being bared by his brother. The picture had everything: Muscles! Ass! Incest-adjacent inappropriateness!
And now it had Marky Mark's funky signature.
I wish he wasn't such a douchebag, because he really does have a nice ass.