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2001-05-22 :: 1:31 p.m.
Here's the latest. During WW2 while Greece was occupied by the Germans and nobody was allowed to go outside at night because the Germans would kill anyone upon sight, my Grandmother (my father's father) would venture to the leather factory by their house after hours, rummage through the dumpsters, take as many scraps of leather she could, and go home to use her sewing machine to make wallets out of the scraps. The wallets she would sell on the street so that she could feed my dad and his brother and sister. They lived in a one room apartment, with a mud floor. Theodore, my dad's brother, would climb on top of the closet to study so he could have some privacy. Anna, my dad's sister, would sleep in one of the drawers, until she got too big, and then she had to share the one bed with everyone else. One bed. Five people. It was about five or six years later that my father got recruited to play basketball for Greece's national team. And then came the insame amounts of money and fame and ladies. They went to his head. He bought his parents and his brother and his sister their own homes with brand new furniture and their own cars. For my dad, money meant happiness. It's really no wonder, then, that he became a severe gambler after he married my mom. Classic case of "too much, too soon, too young." It's so fucked up to know that my mother met him because he was famous. She would not have asked him out otherwise. I'm a lovechild. Oh God. Ha ha. This is so depressing. I need more therapy. And french fries.
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