Story

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Manadoo and Company
Talent Agency

Dear Mrs. Manadoo--

I hope you enjoy this letter, and more than that, the story it tells. After reading it to myself several times, I do believe that it's an interesting story with several dramatic angles. I hope that the story speaks for itself, so I'll let you try to estimate for yourself how many degrees are in each angle, and whether or not they add up to 360.

--As an aside, have you seen the many-fingered cloud in Paris?--

I was adopted when I was a baby. All I know of my birth parents is that at least one of them was in New York state when I had my first breath of air, and that at least one of them is Jewish. New York state adoption records are perhaps a better kept secret than the president's penchant for dressing up as Batman and the presidential Batmobile sometimes seen whizzing around D.C. at midnight. I tried at one point several years ago to track them down, you'll find out why later, but quickly found it pointless to try to get access to the proper records. It was like trying to break into Fort Knox.

My family is nothing less than a sociologist's dream. You could write a thesis on my family and find yourself with a Ph.D. and contract for a six-part miniseries on Fox and a documentary on PBS.

My mother is a WASP, my father is Hindu from India. My siblings, two out of three of whom are also adopted are, from oldest to youngest: The oldest, my sister Fran, who is Italian and Catholic, my sister Susan, who is also a WASP, then myself, then my brother Jim, the only biological offspring my parents had. He was an unplanned, but pleasant surprise after adopting the three of us. He's a BIASH--a brown Indian Anglo-Saxon Hindu. We grew up in Peoria, Illinois.

Fran now lives in El Salvador with her husband; Susan lives in Kentucky and is an engineer; Jim is studying biochemistry at Johns-Hopkins. In his sophomore year he had an incident after forgetting to take his medication. He attached a telephone cord to four corners of a bedsheet, tied it to a chair, and, certain that he would float safely to the ground on this makeshift para-chaise, he exited his third story dorm room via the window. Miraculously, he's OK now, though he was out of school in the hospital for the rest of that year recuperating physically and psychologically. Ironically, drugs didn't make him think he could fly, rather the absence of drugs did.

Now you can go write your thesis if you want a career change.

Oh, and I'm Jewish, living in Israel, and though I'm presently working as a programmer, perhaps that won't be the case for long.

My songs have been played on the radio in Jerusalem, and I'm getting very good reviews on the Web. I'm hoping that this letter will serve as an introduction to a sort of musical revue.

So...have I sparked your interest? Aren't you aching to know...How I got from Peoria to Israel...how I became a musician...how I survived growing up...and just what do my songs sound like...?

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