Johnny Hwin

I grew up (ages 1-7) in the mall behind the reception counter of my mom's nail salon. She would parade me in front of her patrons until I was old enough to perform kid songs on my own for money to spend on arcade tokens. I can still remember the smell of nail polish and acetone.

In 6th grade, I had a color printer, a 56k modem, and more freedom from adult supervision than my children ever will. And as most curious, prepubescent 11 year old little boys would have done, I printed "special" full page fold out calendars for my friends to enjoy - at $10 a pop.

When I was in 8th grade, my buddy Ify and I didn't have enough money for the bus ride home, so we walked across the street to the local hospital to ask people for quarters. As we were waiting for patients to reemerge into the waiting room - few carried loose change or wallets for that matter under their pocket less hospital gowns, an oversight on our part - Ricki Lake suddenly came back from a commercial break on TV to announce the death of Chris Farley, my then childhood hero. Years later, I learned that he died of an overdose of cocaine and heroin. My love only deepened.

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