Clifton Baine™

When I was nine years old, I entertained the idea of becoming a trama surgeon and would practice by stitching raw chicken skin over tomatoes with a needle and thread. My childhood friend, Greg, and I would hit it with a baseball bat -- pitch it to each other. Flesh Ball. Did my mom know about this? Yes. Actually, it was her idea -- the sewing. Not Flesh Ball. That was Greg's. Idea man. I like people. Traffic. Lines. I don't mind waiting. My dad taught me patience. And my mom taught me English. Yes, she was my third grade teacher. Very strange. Talk about never having my own personal space. Yeah. I guess that's why I like pieces so much... putting things together. I felt scattered growing up. Hiding parts of myself in places where my mom wasn't. Even today, I collect pieces of me whenever the "coast is clear." A term Greg and I used often. Almost too much. Always a blast with him. From dressing up like superheroes and jumping off the roof -- to launching off home-made ramps on our BMX bikes. It was so crazy. Aside from a few bruises, cuts, and my sprained arm that I thought was broke, we never got seriously hurt. Which is probably why we never stopped. This high was never good enough. Bigger-faster-steeper. Good times, buddy. I miss being a little kid.