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Impossible Dream?

My father, Richard Slepin, was a bit of a madman. Born in 1923 into an affluent Jewish family fraught with secrets and emotional drama, the resultant blurred boundaries influenced every part of his life. His chaotic childhood and unbridled brilliance yielded a kind-hearted, scattered, undisciplined, misdirected adult. He had a genius IQ, a kind and generous heart, a wildly funny, intelligent, and deeply thoughtful sense of humor, and a crippling lack of self-confidence. Of the approximately 6 years of my childhood spent in the same household as him, I witnessed and absorbed many of his ways. He loved music. Mostly classical, show-tunes and opera, all of which played on his turntable on reg

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