A True Story

My mom tells me that June 29, 1951 was the happiest day of her life. I donít remember it. Iím sure it wasnít my favorite although it was my first. The Bay Area of California was a nice place to be a kid. Lots of sun and ice cream. Summers we went to Santa Cruz and heard Pat Boone on the radio and got plenty of sand in our little butt cracks. Moving to Kentucky in 1959 was emigrating to a foreign land with too many rules: you had to be a Christian, no shirts off in the summer, say ďYes MamĒ and ďNo MamĒ to the stern, drawling teachers with kleenexes stuck up their sleeves. At Unitarian Church we learned to fight the good fight and play ping pong and table hockey. In 1965 fate scooped me up again and dropped me down river to the land of the redder neck where I learned that white and rich was best and I didnít quite make the cut. I stayed there long enough to carve out a little niche to be torn away from again. This time a 180 to an expensive arts prep school in Michigan youíve probably heard of where I learned I was eighth best at what Iíd used to be first best at. By the time I graduated, something was happnin here and there and everywhere and I quickly started smoking lots of it. I got a reasonable facsimile of hip and poured out my soul to the soundhole and my knee at Midwestern Coffee Houses til getting back to the land was hipper. Since then Iíve moved there and back, quit looking for work, and refined the manly art of getting by.Two years ago I started chuckling. Thatís all folks.
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