My Exciting Memoir
Chapter 1: I Am Born
Thursday, Apr. 26, 2007 at 7:55am
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.
No, hold on, wait a minute. That's the beginning of David Copperfield. Actually, I was born on a Sunday. I don't remember much about it, people say I was not a handsome baby, although it's possible I had about as much hair then as I do now. Beyond that, nothing. I was a few weeks early, I know. My parents were visiting friends in New York City, so I was born there about two weeks before my actual due date. Ever since then, I've liked to be early to events. Perhaps that's why. More about my business career, which I remember a little bit more of, later.
I'd better say right up front that the majority of my "memories" from this very early time period appear to be based on snapshots saved by my mother. There's a little red bike tipped over on its side on the front lawn of a small house in Columbus, Ohio. There's the time when my brother was born and I was left to sit on the steps of the hospital, where I ate an entire bag of Cheese Doodles, and then threw them up.
Pretty soon, I was ready to go to school. By the way, I'm sorry I'm not able to fill in any more of the critical years between 0 and 4. If there's anybody out there who knew me then, perhaps you've got something I don't, although I doubt it.
Anyhow, on the first day of pre-school, I reportedly walked directly away from my mother without looking back. I enjoyed the day, and then I went home. The next morning, my mother woke me for the next day of school. Apparently, I looked very surprised and said to her, "Is there more school?" Except I seem to have had a speech problem at that point, so it came out, "Is dere more cool?" I am told this was perceived to be cute.
Let's see. What else. Oh yes. Bob.
Bob was a blue parakeet. I can't remember where we lived when we had Bob. I do remember that we would open his cage and Bob would fly around the house, landing on things and chirping. He would sit on my shoulder and eat butter from my mouth. I know it sounds revolting, but this being a truthful memoir I am bound to tell it like it is. Perhaps this is one of those segments that will be excerpted in a national magazine when this is published as a book. That would be nice. I'm always trying to monetize my content, with varying degrees of success. Anyway, to cut to the chase, one day somebody left a window open -- maybe it was me, I don't know, whoever did it, it was inadvertent, I can tell you that -- and Bob flew out the window and never came back. I remember going outside and wandering about, yelling, "Bob! Bob!" I think I was about three feet tall then, and rather chubby, wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans with enormous cuffs and a cowboy belt. It's possible I was wearing that. Or it could be from the picture of Randy Newman on the cover of the album Land of Dreams, I'm not sure. It's pretty easy to insert bogus content into a vacuum, as anybody programming a cable television network can certainly tell you.
Anyway, Bob was gone and I learned a valuable lesson. If you open the window, things very often fly away. I'm not certain how that applies to everyday life, but memoirs very often have hard-won lessons and this certainly was one of those, whatever it was.
Coming Next: Chapter Two, where I begin to recall some things about my parents and beat the crap out of my best friend.