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on Page 3:
So it's Saturday, June 21, 1969, here at the corner of nowhere and nowhen, the first day of summer and the first day of summer vacation and less than a week until I turn fifteen. “Hair” by the Cowsills is playing on WOKY, the Mighty 92, on the bulky brown transistor radio I keep up here in the treehouse. Being almost fifteen, I'm almost too old for a treehouse, but I'm kind of calling, it a clubhouse now, or even a redoubt, which is a word I learned for hideout or lair. I know words. I like learning them. Plus geography, geology, biology, psychology. I've always been a pretty good student, not because I'm trying to earn Brownie points, but just because I dig it. Though more andmore these days I can't help feeling like I'm learning the wrong stuff, the stuff that doesn't matter. Where's the stuff that does?
So lair. I'm in my lair. Listening to "Hair," "Hair" in my lair. But keeping the volumn down though, because Dad's down there mowing the lawn and Dad doesn't like rockand roll, though how the Cowsills rock and roll I don't know. I ean, they're not exactly radical, are they? They even wear the same clothes, and in my opinion, no one can really rock and roll if they wear the same clothes, not since the Beatles cut it out.
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