I can’t remember when my fascination with the American presidents began. Growing up with a character like Richard Nixon on the national scene probably had something to do with it. But to borrow the title from a popular book from the era, it didn’t start with Nixon. Turns out, they’re ALL a bunch of characters! The great ones are awe inspiring, the mediocre ones provoke hilarity, the scoundrels counjure up a fearful sense of wonder, even the obscure ones achieve cult status, specifically because they are so obscure.
When I was a kid, my mom worked to help put my dad through school (and later raised my brother and I as a single parent), so eating out usually meant a trip to the “Food Bazaar” (one of America’s original food courts) or my brother’s personal favorite restaurant, McDonalds (wow — remember them?). But a restaurant meal with my grandparents was a rare occurance, since eating out with them meant strict decorum was observed. And since that rarely happened with us kids, well…that means it rarely happened.
Back during its heyday, The Dean Martin Show came on at my bed time. Every Thursday night, I’d lie in my room falling asleep to the sound of my stepfather’s lusty guffaws. On the rare nights I managed to stay up long enough to sneak a peak at the program, I wondered what all the fuss was about. And when the plastic chicks in matching costumes came out, that definitely signaled time for a potty break. I caught on to chicks soon afterwards, but wasn’t until a little later that I developed an appreciation for plastic (especially the 33.3 rpm kind).
I travelled all over the United States when I was in a touring band, but I never made it up to the Dakota Territory. Consequently, I never got to see the Black Hills, the Badlands or Mount Rushmore. This summer, my wife and I finally made the pilgrimage.
My first drum set was a couple of coffee cans hung on the back of a dining room chair. I rigged this setup when I was eight in order to play along with my heroes the Banana Splits. Always on the lookout for potential aptitude, my mother gifted me the next Christmas with a proper kiddie set, which my little brother promptly destroyed. It wasn’t until a decade later, and the advent of punk rock, that I fancied another go. My mom gifted accordingly, and as 1978 dawned, I pressed my pal Jack Knetzger into service.
After a particularly unbearable work week, I stormed home and told my spouse that we should quit our jobs, sell all of our possessions and move as far away from other people as we could afford. Her response was to take me shopping.