I was born in the wagon of a travelling show. Um, yeah, I know that statement fairly—okay, exactly—resembles a certain song refrain from a certain timeless diva—Cher!—but, honest to God, I was born in a wagon, albeit a station wagon, and that travelling show was my mom’s standup act. Dad was driving her on the weekends during her last trimester, while Mom cussed for money. Me, well, I was just a fetus at the time, but I was told I showed great potential even then.
As to being born in the family car, which, by the way, became mine when I turned eighteen, dents and all—“all” being one hundred and thirty thousand miles and a temperamental radiator that hissed when the temperature outside got to anywhere near eighty—well, the story goes that my mom booked the gig just after I was conceived, f
