I remember well the day I was born. I popped out and there was Dr. Ware standing over me with a giant pair of scissors. I grabbed him by the necktie, called him a son of a bitch and told him to get his hands off me. I then bit off the umbilical cord, asked the nurse for a cigarette and walked out of the hospital. A week later my parents found me shooting craps and drinking malt liquor with a bunch of disreputable fellows on the corner of Broad and 7th Streets. They yanked me a way, clothed me, fed me and began the long, arduous journey of trying to cleanse me of my bad habits.
My mother was one of those stuffy types. She had gone to Goucher College and then Parsons School of Design in New York City. She was a learned woman of a handsome pedigree. As an 8 year old, she tried to introduce me to art, great literature, classical music and culture. However, I was too busy distilling moonshine and chewing tobacco to pay much attention to her. My biggest fear was she would talk Dad into sending me off to one of those fancy New England boarding schools. Mother and I had kind of a Widow Douglas/ Huck Finn relationship. I was wired for mischief and misbehaving. Skirt chasing, drinking and breaking things came natural to me. I was especially good at the latter.
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