“S. President, Apollo 14’s on the moon, and in the meantime there was this six-year-old Southern Californian suburban boy who was no more or less significant than you or you or you reading this. But then there’s the fact that during or around that year, I became fascinated one night with the pilot light in the hallway furnace in my family’s middle-class home and stuck the ends of a few Hot Wheels flexible orange plastic yard-long racing tracks over the tiny flame, had myself a torch-sized fire... a-goin’, and stuffed it under my bed to hide it when my folks rounded the corner. Burned my bed and half my room something fierce. Before the fire truck people came, my dad went after me with a toy car track that had my ass’ name on it, and after an escape outdoors I made my getaway down the lengthy driveway on my sleek 1969 Marx Big Wheel plastic trike. I didn’t get too far. It wasn’t because of my dad eventually catching up to me, although it inevitably really was, but what made me slow down was a vision of a full moon and the figure of a man cast in shadow, standing still and silent as if he was waiting for me to come to him. Never knew what that was about, and he disappeared into nowhere before Dad could descend in impending doom.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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