Larry Berger was raised by a degreed child psychologist and a mail-order tycoon in a suburban brat-factory north of Chicago. After being permanently expelled from his local high school, Larry and his family moved to the lovely white sand beaches of Sarasota, Florida.
There, after another year of school, at the age of fifteen, he ran away from home with two itinerant magazine salesmen, who promised him he could see the world, but took away his money, and abandoned him in a small Florida town. Too proud to go home, he worked for a week on the salad line of a local cafeteria, earned thirty-three dollars and hit the road, hitchhiking off to see the world by himself.
At seventeen, he enlisted in the Marine Corps and got a startling introduction to ugh, discipline, and real life in its infamous boot camp. After three years of world travel and an honorable discharge, Larry obtained a seminiferous education tending bar on the near-north-side of downtown Chicago.
Now, fifty years and seven children later (grandchildren: nine and counting), he is finally getting around to sharing some of what he learned growing up in the forties and the fifties and the sixties and the seventies and the eighties and the nineties and the anti-climactic millennial transition into the twenty-first century.
Retired to his one acre farm in West Virginia, he winds up the rubber bands of his unmanned word drones and sends them to obliterate the sensibilities of innocent readers.