“You work for the radio station?” he asked again.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Lewis. I’m Dr. Dave Maxwell. What can I help you with?” Little Richard walked past us, and he,  too, looked frail and worn down. The Killer glared at him as he passed. The Innovator didn’t seem to notice. Jerry Lee turned his gaze back at me, his eyes smaller now, his face taut with rage.

“Can you do me a favor, boy?”

“Of course.” 

“Don’t let that niggah touch my pianah.” He and his two men went on their way.

I can’t think of more than three or four time when my parents embarrassed me. Of those, none were major infractions. The embarrassment was fleeting at best. I’m sure I’ll embarrass my son at some point. My goal is to not do anything that he’ll be ashamed of. You know, the way Sarah Huckabee Sanders’ kids will likely be ashamed of their mother. At least, I hope they will be. If they’re not then she’ll have done a great job of raising sociopaths.