June 22, 1958. Dig, hepcats: it’s me, five minutes after the fuzz told me my mother had been murdered.

My parents divorced in ’54. The old man liked women; Mom grooved booze and men. Married life–not really their gig. They both exuded an intense sex vibe. She was a voluptuous redhead. He had a schvanze a yard long. I grew up weird.

I spend weekdays with my mother, weekends with my father. Friday, June 20, and Saturday, June 21–standard divorced father-disenfranchised son business. The old man and I had a blast: two double features, numerous cheeseburgers, boxing on TV.