My parents met in Greece, with the help of a translation dictionary. My mom, Vassilikki, was Miss Greece in 1957 and my dad, David, who was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, and therefore didn’t speak a word of Greek, met her while he was an army sergeant stationed in Athens. They met at my grandmother’s house when her sister was having a christening for one of her kids. A friend of my mom’s sister asked if she could bring an American guy along so that he could see how the Greeks celebrated their christenings. My dad was winking at my mom all night long and even told her right then and there that he wanted to marry her. She thought he was crazy and kept wondering when the American was going home. He never really did. The next day he showed up with a ring and that was it—my mom ditched her boyfriend, and decided to marry my dad and leave Greece. First though, my dad had to have a long chat with my mom’s brothers. He passed that test, and when her family talked it over to decide if the marriage was the best thing to do, they figured that my mom would have a better life in America than she could in Greece. My mom didn’t even speak English, so when they weren’t pointing at words on a page, my parents communicated by drawing pictures for each other. It’s hard enough to make a relationship work when you speak the language. What they had was love.

After my parents got married, they lived in Athens. Exactly one month after I was born, my dad was relocated to Thailand briefly before we left for America and moved to Covina, California. During his time in the army, my dad was in both World War II and the Korean War. My mom gave me all of his medals after he died. He was a Mason too. To all the Masons out there, don’t worry, he wouldn’t tell me a thing about it. He’d go to the meetings and I’d ask him all the time what being a Mason meant and what Masons did at those meetings, but he wouldn’t tell me a fucking thing. So the secret is safe.

My sister, Athena, was born in 1964, two years after I was, and when we were very young, my parents would take us to visit my mother’s family in Greece during the summer. Later, when we were a little bit older, when I was about ten and she was about eight, they would send us over there as if it were summer camp. It was much better than lakes and log cabins. Let me tell you, spending those summers in Greece was the most amazing experience a kid could hope for. The roofs in Greece are flat and in the summer everyone sleeps outside on them because it is so hot. Even though my relatives lived in Athens, which is a huge city by any standards, it was so dark there that you could see thousands of stars. Back then, in the early seventies, Athens had no streetlights to block the night sky and I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. I’d lie there every night taking it in until I fell asleep because the night sky sure as hell didn’t look like that in Covina. I would look forward to going to bed—and what kid ever looks forward to that? Every night was like going on a camping trip. Each member of the family—my sister, cousins, my aunt and uncle—would be tucked away on their cots, under the sky.

I was just as happy when morning came. The sun would wake me up slowly as it lit up the sky and so would the aroma of fresh bread floating up from the bakery down the street. When everyone was out of bed, my grandma would give me some money and send me out to buy these delicious little loaves of bread for our breakfast. That was my job and, unlike most kids and their chores, I was all about it.

Those summers taught me early on that the world is a big place. I loved being somewhere so completely different from home. I loved walking to the bakery and tripping out on all the old men sitting at sidewalk cafés, sipping their muddy Greek coffees while they played dominoes and cards. Even then I recognized that life there was way more laid back than at home. Those summers on my own also forced me to grow up quickly. Our mother taught us the language back home, but without her there to help me, I had to figure it out on my own because no one spoke any English.

But it wasn’t all idyllic. The second summer we were there my sister and I made serious friends with this cute little rabbit they had at my uncle’s house. We had a spider monkey named Nitnoy for a pet at home that my dad brought home for us one day. He was rad, he’d jump all over the chandeliers and wear diapers. But a rabbit—this was a whole different story. We loved that little fuzzy white guy and spent every day with him for nearly a month. Then one day my uncle reached into the cage, grabbed the rabbit by its back legs, and karate-chopped it in the neck. I fucking freaked. I had no idea why he did it, so I asked my sister if it was because he didn’t want it anymore. We just started crying and ran away to hide in a closet. We didn’t come out until dinnertime, which was a big mistake because there was the rabbit, all stretched out and cooked, lying on a platter on the table. My sister and I watched as the adults dug into it like nothing was wrong while we tried not to start crying again.

I wasn’t scared of my uncle after that and I didn’t hate him or anything, I just thought, “Wow, he killed the rabbit, just like that.” He didn’t even think twice about it being a pet to us. It was really simple: It was time to eat, so wham! And that was that.

My uncle spoke maybe a word or two of English and had this big furniture factory in Athens. He’d take me to work with him and let me varnish furniture or send me out to buy Cokes for everyone. I cleaned up the shop, and he’d let me fuck around with the wood and tools if I wanted to. The only job I’ve ever had aside from playing music is painting houses, and I got my first taste of it in that factory. By the way, I can still paint a room like a pro—and fucking quick too. I painted a friend’s house as a housewarming gift this year and rocked it—trim, molding, everything. No drips, no mess. I’ve still got skills, please believe.