Born and raised in … well, to be perfectly honest, much of Garner Davis’ life – at least prior to last Thursday – remains a mystery to him, primarily due to a series of unfortunate, but oft-repeated, blows to the back of his head.  Nor did the funny looking cigarette he recently shared (with that nice lady in Amsterdam) prove overly helpful in separating his few concrete recollections from the hazier, and highly suspect, images which frequent him.  Sure, it’s theoretically possible wolves adopted Garner, after the escaped convict who birthed him abandoned his frail, tiny body in a remote Montana wilderness.  However, equally likely (if not more), his mother is a coupon-clipping housewife from Long Island, who continues to telephone him on a weekly basis.

Whatever his past, Garner remains firmly grounded in the present, enjoying life at an undisclosed southern locale – undisclosed, as in: he’s temporarily misplaced the I.D. tag (the one listing his name, address and telephone number) on which he ordinarily relies to find his way home.  About all he can state with certainty is, he does not live in the yellow house on 32 Main Street, or so the angry woman with the shotgun said (when she found him napping on her couch the other day).  No matter though.  While Garner may be clueless about his address, he certainly knows where his heart lies: with his beloved wife and children (whose names, numbers, and ages unfortunately elude him at the moment).

Garner would love to tell the world more about his past, and his accomplishments.  And he plans to do exactly that … just as soon as someone, who knows him, fills him in on his past, or his accomplishments.