I grew up in northern Michigan in the 60’s. Resort world. Very white: wonderbread, white sand beaches, white pine trees, and too much snow. I came home to Technicolor San Francisco in 1975 with an artistic ego ten pounds over the legal limit.
It took me a month to realize you can’t buy liquor with food stamps, pop tarts and pepsi aren’t adult food, and sleeping in a friend’s garage next to a VW on blocks wasn’t cool. The boho life wasn’t for me.
Like all artistic/criminal types, I gravitated to the loosest, most lucrative world that wasn’t actually prosecutable—waiting tables. I spent the next coupla dozen years working hard and observing harder in the best restaurants in San Francisco. And painting, always painting.
Things I still know for sure…
I live and work just outside of San Francisco, California.
I like it because it is spring all year round.
I don’t have to cross any bridges to get to the city.
The people I know tend to work at art rather than talk about it.
I like baseball better than football.
The boho life still isn’t for me, but I like to watch.