Lex

Of all the tasks i dread, the most dreaded is writing a bio. It stumps me; it frustrates me; and they never come out feeling right. (And then there’s my issue with wordiness.) In any case, this is what i settled on: (a word document with proper italicizing is attached for ease of posting to the site, it’s the same text)

According to the baby book, Lex was born at a time when Richard Nixon was president and streaking was popular. Though he was cruelly deprived of white sugar, white flour, and chocolate during his early years, he was treated to extended trips in VW microbuses. He relates the most triumphal moment of his early years as being the time he snuck upstairs a few minutes early for The Muppet Show and saw the end of Different Strokes. He considers the low point knowing that the babysitter’s older children painted his face like every member of Kiss. He prefers not to discuss the lederhosen.

By elementary school Lex knew all the words to “Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag” and had the impression that his great-grandfather had died on the cross. The latter is an issue he still struggles with daily. He learned the value of hard work by being a child laborer in his grandmother’s wooden puzzle empire, though he was not sent to the book factory until his fourteenth year. Lex, unlike many of his peers, didn’t have ADD; it was just that school was too easy. He claims to have been blessed (he’s insistent on the use of this word, see above) with a string of good teachers who cared.

He eventually earned a degree in Comparative Religion and Whichever Classes Looked Like the Books Would be Worth Reading. He considers the traveling and living abroad he managed to do at least as edifying as his formal education; he points out that one is unlikely to be exposed to a babushka fist-fight over an hard-boiled egg on campus, and he seems to actually believe that he learned something from witnessing such things.

He was once accused of living his life like a collection of short stories rather than a novel, to which he replies, “Short stories are better anyhow and a good author doesn’t need 700 pages to make a point.” True or not, that’s his rationalization and he’s sticking to it.

It appears that he has finally settled down amongst the Huron Mountains and The Lake. He dreams of purchasing an out-of-the-way piece of land and retiring to the life of a misanthropic hermit. “Salinger,” he says, “didn’t go far enough…he forgot the booby traps.”

The words of wisdom he calls on most frequently come from his grandfather and grandmother respectively. “Who ever told you that life was fair?” And, “If you follow the herd you’re bound to step in a lot of manure.”