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People ask me where I came from, how I got here. This I will tell you:


I was bored in the Little Apple on a fifth of St. Mark’s, somewhere between Checkpoint Charlie’s and a little house on the priory, where Mama invested in her starving art so Daddy could hang up his rock'n'roll shoes. He lost his hari om and soon as he joined the Army, leaving him bald but never without his cool. I sat on the sidelines like an insatiable lump till one day getting kicked in the head taught me I could read, and then I wouldn’t shut up about it. French Quarter, Comanche Pow-Pow, and Daddy's record collection all shaped my worldview. One day I came home with a guitar, and a flicker of light played four to the floor.  I performed solo for the neighborhood cats, who always came out. Southern culture on the skids wasn't my jam, so I made a California dream, took a left at Albuquerque, and ended up in Paris quand-même. (Mama had the last laugh.) Alone, unchained, chasing the sun for many moons, I decided a car was cheaper. But the world has changed since then, and so have I. While my guitar gently weeps, here I stand head in hand, not necessarily stoned but beautiful.

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