When I was a little boy my life at home was…

…well, lets just say, less-than-pleasing.  My house seemed filled to the brim with turmoil.  We lived in Chicago, in a north-suburban trailer park; Lot 64. So, as you can assume, we didn’t often have much, in the way of money.  My father was a high school dropout turned steelworker; my mother a dental assistant turned homemaker.  My father was gainfully employed most of the time, but the nature of his work meant that he regularly switched shifts and was laid off during slow times.  This meant that consistency and/or routine were not commonplace and, as a incredibly intelligent and rambunctious young boy, adjustments were difficult for me.  Things were not as bad as they could’ve been, and my father made good money when he was working so we were better off than many others in our neighborhood, but we still often went without.   We weren’t starving, and my sister and I had toys and books, but we also shared a bedroom.  Close quarters and thin walls meant that privacy was almost never possible, and that also meant that any argument or commotion could be easily heard from any room.  So, when my parents, “talked,” about money, or my father’s drinking, or whatever else, my only means of escape was the babysitter.  In my childhood home, “the babysitter,” was a 1981 model, RCA, console television; with a 32-inch-screen and cordless remote that was the  approximate size and weight of a small brick.  Any time life got to be too much I would light up that beautiful glowing box, sit a couple feet away (remote in hand), and let its images carry me far away.  After awhile, reality became merely another channel…