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I have been asked to write a two hundred fifty word autobiography for inclusion in our Bend writers group’s soon-to-be finalized book Clockwork Purple. As usual, I have nothing to say but will say something anyway. The World Population Clock hit seven and a half billion today.


I asked my garden gnome Samumpsycle, “What should I say about my life?” He implied, with his always inscrutable smile, “That’s your problem, but never lie!” Hmm …

I’m nearly eighty-two percent of the way through my hoped-for century of years, and I’ve lived a quiet uneventful life of always seeking to find low-stress ways to relate to the world. To avoid stress and expense during college years I hitchhiked across the US several times and before graduating had crossed Joe McCarthy’s hit list. I chose a quiet career as a pilot in the US Air Force, but they disagreed with my decision as a B-47 pilot not to drop H-bombs on people and they, with some warning statements about ten years in prison, showed me the road and I found Berkeley. I lived there quietly for fifty years, always avoiding the riot police truncheons by inches and slipping their grasp as I exited third story windows. Governor Ronald Reagan aimed a teargas-laden helicopter at me but I quietly walked a hundred feet away from the spot where his gas hit. I helped found the Berkeley Barb with Max Scherr and sold the first bundle of Barbs off the press on the 2400 block of Telegraph Avenue. At ten cents a copy it was a hard sell for an unknown radical paper. Most people find me boring, a few the most interesting man in the world. I’m working on buffing my boring with these short stories.

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