It’s around noon on a Sunday. I’m 14 years old, sitting in my dad’s Chevrolet work truck, which (and I don’t mean to brag too much here) is equipped with some fancy modern technology that I’m currently using. An 8-track tape player. Don’t be jealous. The speakers are vibrating with the comedic genius of a couple of dope-smoking hippies. I’m laughing and having an awesome educational enlightening time when quite unexpectedly, a short and very angry woman appears at the passenger door. She stands (as best she can at 5 feet 2 inches) at the truck and proceeds to pound on the window. I pause the tape player and slowly…