My parents left me behind at Pacific Union College in January 1980 so that I could graduate in June with my eighth grade class at the church elementary school. I stayed with friends of the family and had a lot more room to do the normal things forbidden by my parents, such as listen to popular music.
I’d put my radio under the pillow at night and listen to KNBR and one of the first songs I enjoyed was Pilot of the Airwaves.
I wasn’t able to attach normally to people, so the radio was my closest friend. Its music elucidated everything I was feeling and its news informed the things I thought about.
During these months, I decided I would make my career in journalism where I could penetrate to the core of what was going on. It was a way I could force myself into being included. I’d be such a powerful writer that people would have to accept me or they’d get on my bad side and I’d slash them in my columns.
I thought I was going to be a big star in either the newspapers or the radio or TV and I would earn a hot wife.
I grew up a Seventh-Day Adventist. Dancing was strictly forbidden. I’d listen to popular music and feel a yearning to move but I didn’t know how. I was just filled with strong awkward drives I couldn’t express. I still don’t know how to dance. I really need to learn to dance to disco. I want some Studio 54 type experiences, without the coke.
