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I will try to start from my earlest memories and work up to my last memory. Please bear with me. My first memory of my childhood is etched in my mind. I was around 5 or 6, we lived in Slidell, La. It was the late 80’s. I don’t remember if it was ’87 or ’88. I recall it being summer and my mom had brought me to a family friends dentist office. I don’t know how they knew each other, but I knew him, and had seen him at our house many times. My parents and he would go out on some times with other friends. My first few visits I don’t recall much but simple checkups. But one occasion started out different. Now back then, parents didn’t go in the back with kids during dentist checkups. And this was no problem to many. As was with my mom. I remember I was alone when he came into the small room. I was taken by all the tools that were around me and just smiled as I always had. As he began to talk to me, he touched my thigh with one hand and held my head with his other hand. I was in a summer. Part of my teenage years had been spent here, in a dumpy house on Virginia Street. That’s where I’d taught myself to play the guitar, copying Jimmy Page and Jimi Hendrix licks until I could play them in my sleep. To my surprise, that house was still standing and looked about as derelict as I remembered it. On my way out of town, I sat in the van outside my old house for a few moments, thinking about that kid 30 years ago - dumping his backpack on his bed after school, and picking up his guitar, and playing until midnight. Jesus, I was such a miserable teenager. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe all teenagers are miserable.Ah well. Fuck Buffalo.On Interstate 71, I picked up my cell phone from the passenger seat and hummed a few melodies into Dictomate, an audio recording app. A couple lyrics came to my lips:And the forgetting would be easierIf what I was forgetting wasn’t youAbout as uninspiring as the rest of the crap I was writing these days. What’s that saying? Anything too dumb to be.
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