“Why you are never coming with us to our boat in Antibes?” Giancarlo, my father’s Italian business partner, asks me through his thick accent as he furrows his brow. “You are not liking to be with us?”

It’s a dark boreal evening in January, 1977, and I’m in Paris for my junior year of college, living in a palatial duplex in the chic Montparnasse neighborhood with Giancarlo and Patricia, his American wife. When I arrived in September, they invited me to crash in their chambre de bonne—maid’s quarters. When I went to look for my own place, not wanting to be the homme who came to dîner, they were offended, and insisted I stay with them.

Sky Mall! The perfect magazine for those of us who forgot to pack a book, or have to put our Kindle or iPad away because the EMF generated by such devices will cause the universe to divide by 0 thus bringing an end to existence as we know it, but not before the plane we’re

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Some people are raised by foster parents. Or wolves. Annie was raised by snow. At least, that’s what she seems to believe.

SIDE A
1. Hard rockin’ statement of intent
2. Slightly less rockin’ followup
3. Style/tempo shift to inform fans/critics that you aren’t a one-trick pony
4. Get back on your one-trick pony
5. Mid-tempo ballad/mini-epic (depending on available space)

Another Christmas has come and gone, and, much like everyone in my life who I thought loved me, has left me, leaving me an even more bitter and cynical man than I was the year before. There are certain things I’ll just never understand about the whole Christmas phenomenon; I get the history of it,

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