Pale-face kid, new in town.
A little bit ginger, bad teeth, whack hair.
No cousins, old sibs. No compass to cool.
The ’70s, both parents working.
No man’s land between haves and have nots.
No man’s land between Chevy and Buick.
No friends to give me a ride in either car.
Lonely.
Found Funk, Cosby, Carlin and Richard.
Learned laughter, timing, punch lines and bass lines.
Alone.
Math. Science. Contact sports.
Nothing for me.
Alphas in rut, chest-shoving assholes.
Loud, scared boys.
Stupid.
Mean.
Girls, always smarter, cunning, searching.
They hold me tight, keeping me in reserve.
Looking over my shoulder for better than me.
Meaner.
Then, Art.
Studio smells right.
Feels right.
Paint-spattered sinks and tables.
The only thing that really makes sense.
1 + 1 isn’t 2. Not if you don’t want it to.
Fuck formulas. No tests.
Does it look right?
Have you invested yourself?
Without fear?
Without reservation?
What is good is always what is pure.
What is good is what doesn’t add up.
Dad. Engineer. Time clock. Necktie.
“Lad, can you make a living at this?”
No reservation.
No fear.
“Yes.”
“Then, go, Boy. Go.”
