In 2010, I regret not rolling down Pine Street while wrapped in a sheet of bacon, with a boom box in my hand, cranking the Prince song "Controversy." That is the jam. The Juno, Prophet, ARP synthesizer lines rise and cut with pure, enlarged funk that gets down to the marrowed core of what it is to be sexual music. This was 1981 Prince, pre–Purple Rain. It's raw but bolder. He's got the strut, but it's less refined. His split had more spring off the floor, and his facial hair was less accurate. This was when he was into wearing thongs. Amadeus in a thong.

The sounds of this beautifully dirty monument of a song would pad me as I rolled down Pine, wrapped in bacon. I'd hit Bauhaus and maybe enjoy some sort of coffee beverage with vanilla powder on top. No one would say anything about the bacon because they would be engrossed in the holiness of the Prince song.

The roll would continue down Pine all the way to First and into Sodo. I would have rolled like a runaway log, hitting speeds of up to 12 miles an hour until I came to rest at the Starbucks corporate office, where I would rob $7.5 million from the safe in Howard Schultz's corner suite. Then I would have purchased a bungalow on the beach in Jamaica and built a go-cart track there. Golden suns would rise and set over the ocean from my view on the porch. Mahimahi would be cooked on a grill with garlic and lemon, and intoxicated friends would race go-carts.

I would own a mastiff named Eazy-E. There would be a large wooden barn with a human maze inside. Sometimes we would add farm animals to the maze and shut off the lights. I would purchase one of the decommissioned Goodyear blimps and put a tropical miniature golf course inside. The blimp would cruise low, at festive altitudes, and invited Jamaican pimp types would leisurely knock neon- colored golf balls around plaster dinosaurs, palm trees, and waterfalls. There would be a bubble machine. The music of Madlib and Boards of Canada would emanate out of hidden speakers throughout. The blimp would be called The Spirit of Eazy-E, and as it made turns, golfers would lean centrifugally, while their balls rolled off-target. But it's blimp golf, a sport of lavishness and relaxation; no one would care if their balls strayed. The sky is a Twinkie, so nibble at will.

The other thing I regret from 2010 is not saying, "Release the kraken!" in public a single time.