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My story is no different than anyone else's, really. Oh, sure, I've tightroped across the English Channel, but I used a pole for balance—and I was dreaming. All in all, compared to most, my personal history has no unusual twists or turns, no incidents of international intrigue—unless you count sneaking on board the Mir space station and screwing up the onboard computer.

When I look back, which is often, I see a past fraught with banality and ordinariness, a personal history so lacking in significance or excitement—well, wait, there was that one time, in October of 1962, at the height of the Cuban missile crisis, when I received a phone call from the President of the United States—John F. Kennedy—asking my advice regarding our response to the Soviets should they refuse to remove their missiles from Cuba. I was nervous, I'd never met Kennedy, never talked to him before, but I realized the serious nature of the situation and the extra weight my expertise might carry because of it. "Mr. President," I began, cautiously, and then I heard giggling on the other end—it was my friend Dennis Abbott (he had the Vaughn Meader "First Family" album) from across the street! He tricked me again!

I currently reside in a place I like to call Honolulu, Hawaii, although I've never been to the actual Honolulu, Hawaii, which I like to call Louisville, Kentucky.

To sum up, it's been a good life, if dull, my one regret being that, when given a chance to buy the Hope diamond for a dollar fifty, I balked. Years later it cost me a hundred dollars!

Oh, and I shook hands with the great Soupy Sales.

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