My mother has this story that she likes to tell where I’m three years-old and I’m sitting on the front porch of our house in sub-urban Baltimore with suitcase waiting for a cab to come down the street and whisk me away to the airport. When the neighbor asked where I was going, my response was a simple, one word place. “Califorja”, which roughly translated from three years-old me to mean “California”. I’m unsure why I was heading there, but I can only surmise that I wanted to be in Hollywood and that I had seen so many movies where you catch cabs when they come down the street and that was what I was doing. Needless to say, I didn’t make it the airport that day. Apparently I became angry with the neighbor when he asked if I needed a ride. I don’t try to pretend I understand the workings of a three years-old me.