Growing up with my parents was like going off to war every day,’cept I didn’t have a rifle, and I didn’t get a military issue green helmet. The fighting the bitching, the moaning, the agita, was all one could take. Maybe, I could have run away and joined the circus, or moved to Tompkins Square Park and taken up with the squatters; but somehow I doubt that could have worked, because I don’t have spiky hair, and I can’t swallow swords and juggle fire. I did try and juggle it though, best as I could; and it burned many times over, again and again.
The setting couldn’t have been more pristine, think white picket fences, three cars in the garage, and streets paved with gold. The manicured lawns were clean enough to eat off of, and the crime wasn’t exactly that of East L.A.