That was clever, allright, gnu. My Dad was such a workaholic that he wasn't around much to hear me play my guitar. He was busy trying to become the next Henry Ford or J.P. Morgan or Du Pont or something along that line...an objective he never managed to obtain, despite the most heroic efforts.

Meanwhile, I was intent on becoming an idealistic folksinger (a la Joan Baez, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Bob Dylan) and a radical socialist in support of revolutionary causes. We agreed on virtually nothing whatsoever...for the rest of our lives...and it was sheer bloody hell most of the way.