PSEUDEPIGRAPHIC COMMENTS FROM GIANTS OF AMERICAN CULTURE - WHAT THEYRE SAYING ABOUT CONFESSIONS OF A GOOD KID
The story of a horse and the boy who loves him what? Theres no horse? How about a dog? No dog? Crap! Well its probably pretty good anyway - MacArthur hated it! - Dwight D. Eisenhower
A splendid chronicle of the idiocy of infancy and the folly of youth. - Ambrose Bierce
Look out, Dreiser - this book, carefully designed and smoothly written, with no puerile clichs in it and no maudlin moralizing, makes An American Tragedy look like an American tragedy - H. L. Mencken
The book stops here just kidding. - Harry S. Truman
Reminds me of my boyhood, although I was much more talented and I never had a pet lizard. - Mickey Rooney
It was great, although I am troubled by the fact that he never had a dog. Every boy needs a dog. Hell, I was around at the time. I could have intervened. It haunts me - along with the fact that I named names for that bastard McCarthy - the two major regrets of my life. - Lassie
READ IT FOR YOURSELF AND SEE WHAT THE EXCITEMENT IS ALL ABOUT!
This is a memoir, but names have been changed in some cases. To anyone who might find fault with the accuracy of my narrative, I offer an apology, as well as encouragement to write an alternate version. I will be the first to buy a copy!
Thank you to Joan, Sheryl, Thurlene, Mike, Brian and Sherri. All contents copyright 2018 by William Fogg Cover illustration and BHC logo by William Fogg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for articles or reviews.
ISBN 978-1-54394-946-9
eISBN 978-1-5439536-9-5
Part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.
-Mark Twain, Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Of course its true! Its all true! - Alan Hale in Adventures of Don Juan
Contents
In the Beginning
When I was a baby, I swallowed a cigarette butt. My parents called the doctor, and were told to have me drink warm salt water to induce vomiting. They anticipated a struggle, but I surprised them by ingesting the water without resistance. I further surprised them by refusing to vomit. They called the doctor again, this time being told not to worry, that things would take care of themselves. They then had to endure several hours of anxiety and frustration, waiting and wondering if their brand new child had sustained any damage. They were relieved when it was finally evident that I was unscathed, but also resentful that I had put them through such an ordeal.
My mom told me this story when I was a teenager, making the point that, although sometimes amusing, my behavior was often difficult. I told her that I understood, but felt that it might equally illustrate the quality of medical service available in Hermosa Beach circa 1953. This just seemed to reinforce her position. Of course I had not understood what I was doing when I ate the butt, nor was I willfully refusing to disgorge it. It was a perfectly innocent act, and at the time it was probably understood as such. But, innocent or not, it seemed to be an indication of things to come.
I was raised in Southern California, and spent my first two plus years in Hermosa Beach, which was one of many coastal small towns of the era. Most of my memories of that time are innocuous fragments - sitting at a small kitchen table with a red and white checkered table cloth, in front of a window with Venetian blinds, contemplating a bowl of Campbells alphabet soup, or playing with other kids my age on an overcast day, in the sand box at the nearby preschool. I had a friend named Stevie who was slightly older, and we would sometimes be allowed to mess with wagons and tricycles on the sidewalk just outside my front yard. He was a very grubby kid, complete with untied shoelaces, uneven cuffs, partially tucked t-shirts, uncombed hair, and stains of all kinds, including, but not limited to, mud, grass, and grape juice. Despite his rather unprepossessing appearance, he was a good companion for me. We got along well and kept ourselves occupied without too much parental supervision.
Although these early years were apparently enjoyable ones for our family, there were a few events which, along with the cigarette butt incident, gave my parents pause. I recall riding my little tricycle inside the Hermosa Beach duplex, stopping to vomit over the handlebars onto the hardwood floor, and then continuing my journey through the puddle undismayed. My mom was very dismayed, but handled it well. She was also annoyed when Stevie and I took the orange halves she had given to us as healthy snacks, and used them to polish the front door. It was a hot day, and we created a sticky mess involving flies and slightly discolored wood, but no major repairs were required.
When I was about two and a half years old, we started taking trips to Long Beach to watch our new house being built, and on one of those visits I was allowed to ride the bulldozer while the pool was being excavated. It was all very exciting. When we actually moved into the Long Beach house in 1956, everything seemed fresh and clean. There were more vacant lots than homes, and the asphalt streets were smooth and traffic free. Our area was an upper middle class development called Park Estates, and it was only one of many areas of the city that were experiencing rapid expansion. Long Beach was a wonderful place to grow up at that time. It was a large city characterized by post-war suburban housing and business developments, as well as a new state college and one of the first major shopping malls.
We celebrated my third birthday at the new house, on the patio by the built-in pool, with all of my friends from the Peter Pan Nursery School. It was a wonderful party, and I received a lot of cool presents. I was enjoying a glorious childhood, and appeared to be an exemplary young citizen most of the time, but there were still little incidents that contradicted that image and tried the patience of my parents. My mother, who had been quite tolerant of my earlier transgressions, was not such a good sport when I put our cat into the washing machine. Fortunately, I couldnt turn it on, at least not before I was caught in the act. When I deliberately rode my hybrid tricycle- tractor into the pool at the new house, I was spanked. The punishment seemed appropriate at the time, and a small price to pay for the thrill of pedaling full blast over the edge and into the water.
In 1957, my parents decided to take a trip to Las Vegas. I dont remember the trip itself, but my impression at the time was one of a few glittering hotels amidst a lot of rundown, tacky businesses. There was a little racetrack concession on one of the main streets where customers could pay to drive Micro-midget race cars. These were miniature race cars, and they could move at a good clip. I really wanted to drive one, and my dad consulted the man at the admission gate, but at four years old I probably did not look like a good prospect. However, a compromise was reached. One of the track employees was to stand on the racer at the back while I drove, in order to insure my safety. He must have had his feet on a bumper or platform of some kind, but I cant recall how he was positioned. I didnt care - I just wanted to drive.
As soon as everything was set, the car was started, and I was cautioned to be careful because it was not a toy. Of course - that was why I was so excited. So, although I listened attentively, and solemnly promised to go slow, as soon as the guy behind me tapped my shoulder and said, OK, I floored it. He immediately lost his grip and fell off. I could feel the warm air as it riffled my hair and made my eyes water. My hands felt good on the steering wheel, and the accelerator under my foot was very responsive. It was all quite intoxicating, and I ripped around the track several times before I became aware of the frantically signaling adults on the sidelines.
