CHAPTER TWO

I spent my senior year trying to find that inspiration, and lose my virginity – with equal success. None. My biggest accomplishment that year was learning how to juggle from Diane.

I didn’t smoke pot again until I went off to Northwestern University the following year, where I quickly made up for my late start. Six months of steady consumption resulted in my first solid plan: I dropped out.

The war was almost over, and unless I got a ridiculously low number in the draft lottery, I had nothing to lose. A couple months later, I pulled the number 14. Leading to my second plan: I dropped back in.

Meanwhile, for what it’s worth, I was becoming a damn good juggler. I’d do it for hours in my dorm room, with the stereo blaring, working up intricate routines to the music. Cream. Zeppelin, Hendrix . . .
The Beatles

One Friday night in spring quarter, my stoner friends convinced me to go public, at the jam-packed Midnight Movies in the science auditorium.
Just before the main feature, I jumped on the lecture stage with a boom box and some tennis balls, and performed my rock’n roll juggling to a tape of the Blind Faith song “Do What You Like”

And they liked. The crowd went crazy. They thought it was cool. Then again, velvet blacklight posters were also cool at the time. But I’d never been cool before, and it felt . . . cool.

The next fall I transferred, to the University of Oregon, in Eugene. It was the early 70′s, so the 60′s had just gotten to Eugene. In my west coast juggling debut – at the town’s most happenin’ natural foods restaurant – I blew the biodegradable room away. Including the members of a legendary local rock band, Notary Sojac, who asked me if I’d be interested in opening some of their shows. And just like that, I was hanging with the band.

By the end of the school year, things were looking up. I’d gone from the Dean’s List, majoring in comparative literature, to six incompletes, majoring in joint rolling.

Then the band offered to let me stay at the band house for the summer. It didn’t take long to decide I wasn’t ever going back to college. With the draft history, why would I? At the band house I had free rent, free love . . . discount drugs.

But the biggest thing was . . .I was hanging out with artists. And they saw me as an artist too. Not the over-privileged robot I was trying so desperately to kill off. This was my new life.

The only problem was how do I tell my parents, especially my father. I was gonna have to make a trip home to pick up the rest of my stuff. Since I didn’t need a shitstorm waiting for me, I decided not to say anything until I got there.

Randy the guitar player offered to come with me, for moral support. “Solidarity, man!”

I wasn’t sure how bringing along a tie-dyed freak daddy with a huge white-boy afro was supposed to help things, but it was better than making the drive solo.

For the next four days I rehearsed my speech in the car. About how for the first time in my life I really believed in what I was doing, and how everyone agreed I had a gift for it, maybe even a chance to be one of the best. Which was why I’d decided to quit college. To become the world’s most famous juggler.

Randy bought it completely.

I decided my best strategy was to drop the bombshell as soon as we got there, while Dad was still happy to see me. Unfortunately he saw Randy first. So much for the element of surprise.

I told him I had something important to discuss, we went into his den, and I delivered my speech: About how I am not asking permission, I’m respectfully informing him, blah blah blah, quitting college … blah. blah … world’s most famous juggler.

My father fixed me with his best courtroom glare. And then, using Randy as Exhibit A, told me flatly that if I went ahead with this, I was going to ruin my entire life.

Which to me was like: “Great”, since ruining his version of my life was a key part of the plan.

Then he changed tactics, and went for the quick settlement: I could have one year’s trip around the world, all expenses paid … if I promised that at the end of that year I’d go back to school and finish getting my degree.

That’s a hell of an offer, especially considering that Doug had to try to kill himself just to get a stereo.
But I never got past his tone to look at the content. What to me was the biggest decision I’d ever made, was to him a minor nuisance. Not even worth discussing. I walked out.

To this day I’m not sure who screwed up worse – Dad for assuming I’d jump at the offer, or me for failing to even consider it. On the drive back, Randy pointed out that I’d missed one obvious opportunity: “take the trip, man … … and then, tell him to fuck off!”

But I was just so insulted. I don’t know what I expected: “Gee, son – that’s a terrific idea. A Professional Juggler! Why didn’t your mother and I come up with that years ago?”.

I’d like to believe there was nothing he could’ve said to change my mind. But that’s probably not true. If he’d just said “Name 10 famous jugglers”…
that might’ve done it. “Name 5. Hell, I’ll give you the summer in Europe for three”.