My friend Father Peter - of a weird little order that follows the life of St. Francis to an almost ridiculous extent - wrote something in a "church bulletin" that was so profound and revealing that it made me take out the box with my book "Growing Up Mental". Which I failed to submit in time to the publisher. I was probably depressed or something.
I took excerpts of my childhood and stripped them raw. They are tragic but you can't tell. And they all end with a joke. Because I was raised that way. Fucking Hungary, Syria, Ukraine...why couldn't my parents be Canadians? You know "throw me down the stairs my shoes". That shit. Here is the opening:
"Bobby Kennedy Was Shot in the ar!!"
This might be my first coherent memory. Watching cartoons on Saturday morning eating creamed corn out of the can when the news broke. I knew this was big because it was a Kennedy and he was all my parents talked about so if I was the one to tell them I would be the star!!! Here we go! I went crashing through the beads of my parents bedroom, made the announcement - probably aglow with the anticipation of attention: maybe they will boost me up on their shoulders! maybe they will take my picture! But they just pushed past me and cried in front of the television. Right through lunch and everything. They didn't even know I was there.
So I went to my room and jumped on my bed for the next 11 years.
I found inspiration just like when I heard the song "Menthol" by Jean Dawson? I started writing music like my life was on the line.
It probably is.
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