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I was never a pure country kid. No, I was born into the mean streets of San Diego. The harsh sunny beaches with their infinitely surging waves of blue green water. The mountains of giant boulders and eye-scorching vistas. Worse even, the downtown scene. I mean, how bad off do you have to be to have an entire district named for its plight? No electricity, I guess, in the “Gaslamp District.” Terrible.
Either way, it was San Diego none the less. Around the time I turned five years old, we started to move around the county. I found myself living in places like the suburbs of Portland, in a logging town in Washington with no more than 40 homes altogether (famous for the world’s largest egg) and better yet, rural Oklahoma. I miss…
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