In the early '80s, recovering from my divorce, I moved from
Ketchum, Idaho, to Palo Alto, California, to live temporarily with
my sister Martin and her family, the other Martins, until I found
an apartment. My brother-in-law was and still is a pastor in the
Nazarene church. Also attending the church were two college mates
of mine and the Martins, Jan and Doug Burgesen and their two
children (the two kids, Stevie and Cindy, not Doug and Jan) who
could not pronounce "Uncle Ken." It came out "Koko Ken." Soon, very
soon, I was known to the whole church (even to my niece Jennifer
and my two nephews, Todd and Gabe) as Koko Ken, which gave me the
title of this book.
Because of a birth defect, spina bifida (the definition's in the
book), I wasn't expected to live past six weeks. As of this
writing, October 1, 2012, I'm six weeks shy of sixty-two years
old.
I've lived a very fortunate life. I've hiked up two volcanoes,
Lassen and Diamond Head. I've ten speeded down Mt. Haleakala. I
played Chopin's, King Faruk's, and Carnegie Hall's pianos.
Read my book. It's funny. It's sad. It's me. I'm almost a George
Plimpton.
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