People ask me, "Spoonman, are you born in this country?"

No, I am not born in this country. Spoonman first come to this country in big alien surfer invasion of 1968. Spoonman's first day in New York, America was spent in student protest. Second day was spent in L.S.D. experience. Third day was spent in arms of dark Mayan woman. On fourth day, Spoonman walk up 6th Avenue, and say this is my country, for better or for worse. America is unique land, that is still defining itself. If Spoonman can be at home here, then there is room for everyone.

But like most of us, my ancestors are from someplace else. I am close to last and most highly visible survivor of ancient culture that springs from Ural Mountains, on border between Europe and Asia. We speak Finno-Tartar; special dialect, a cross between Egyptian, Sanskrit, and Portuguese. Very difficult. Today language is still spoken by progressive saxophone players, but others will find it difficult, no doubt, to understand.

On fifth day in America, I watch TV for the first time, I Love Lucy. There is no going back now, I say, no going back to candlelit village of my youth. On sixth day, I have vanilla malted milk shake. I am fast becoming American man. On seventh day, I watch Willie Mays play baseball, and decide baseball is better game than goatskull. On eighth day, I help old lady carry groceries home, after which she beats me at pool and floods my brain with powerful light. On ninth day, I watch two idiots argue about two sips of beer. Wisdom is no prerequisite for life. On tenth day, I watch a child practice violin. We are all amateurs I think. On eleventh day, I visit Ribs and Bibs Bar B-Q, now I have favorite food. On twelfth day, I sing harmony in park with new found friends. America is now my home. ...>