Three days after the D.C. Bicentennial celebration replete with a nationally televised fireworks display attended by President Ford (of which I have absolutely no recollection), I was to celebrate something far more significant to me. On July 7, 1976 (the 7th day of the 7th month), I was turning 7 years old with only a minor lingering regret that I hadn’t been born a year later so that I could have turned 7 on 7-7-77. All things considered, I guess I’ve still been pretty lucky.
It was around this time in my life, I suppose, during this period of great American patriotism that I began to notice subtle things about myself (and others began to notice in me) that were frankly a little out-of-step with the common sense of the times. A revolution, or should I say revulsion, was building inside of me, and oddly enough, it had to do with the contents of my Six Million Dollar Man Metal Lunch Box that I brought with me to 2nd grade everyday. It was with great trepidation and dread that I unlatched it each day along with the other children as we sat down for lunch together. What strange smell would be unleashed? What would be my humiliation today, I thought? What un-tradable delicacy, what useless 2nd-grade lunch currency, lurched in my Steve Austin lunch box?