I was in Albany, Georgia. Seventh grade. My best friend was black. My second year in Albany, I quickly found out the only thing worse than a nigger was a nigger-lover. That was me. From above the Mason-Dixon line, I was the cause of everybody’s problems.
I got into a lot of fights. I didn’t start any of them.
I learned to love the blues from my best friend’s grandfather. He sat on the back porch and played an old guitar and an even older harmonica. I began learning the rudaments of rhythm and my first drum set would show up within a year.
And in 1981, I fell in love with Pat Benatar. I’ve never recovered.