In the early ’80s, recovering from my divorce, I moved from Ketchum, Idaho, to Palo Alto, California, to live temporarily with my sister Martin and her family, the other Martins, until I found an apartment. My brother-in-law was and still is a pastor in the Nazarene church. Also attending the church were two college mates of mine and the Martins, Jan and Doug Burgesen and their two children (the two kids, Stevie and Cindy, not Doug and Jan) who could not pronounce “Uncle Ken.” It came out “Koko Ken.” Soon, very soon, I was known to the whole church (even to my niece Jennifer and my two nephews, Todd and Gabe) as Koko Ken, which gave me the title of this book.
Because of a birth defect, spina bifida (the definition’s in the book), I wasn’t expected to live past six weeks. As of this writing, October 1, 2012, I’m six weeks shy of sixty-two years old.
I’ve lived a very fortunate life. I’ve hiked up two volcanoes, Lassen and Diamond Head. I’ve ten speeded down Mt. Haleakala. I played Chopin’s, King Faruk’s, and Carnegie Hall’s pianos.
Read my book. It’s funny. It’s sad. It’s me. I’m almost a George Plimpton.
