If life is a ride, which it surely is, then mine has got to be the balls-out wildest roller coaster in the park. I don’t mind: I know any life is going to have its ups and downs. Only an idiot would buy a ticket to a roller coaster that didn’t have turns, climbs, loops and dives, and anyone who really wants his money’s worth is going to look for the highest, fastest ride he can find. For me, the same is true of life. And while I’ve never spent much time thinking about the past, there’s been so much written about me lately that is misleading, untrue or simply a lie that I thought it might be fun to take a look back and finally put this wild story down on paper (or pixels) as it actually happened.
I suppose I owe my life to the art of the pickup. If a certain young man hadn’t approached a certain young woman on a beach many years ago, I wouldn’t be telling this story at all. The young man was Raymond Francis, my father, and on a Long Island beach one summer, he approached a pretty blonde Austrian girl named Maria to ask,” Would you like to go out?” Thirty-eight years later, they are still married. My lesson from this story: If you see a pretty girl on the beach and want to talk to her, don’t hesitate! You never know where it’s going to lead. Over the years, I’ve approached thousands of pretty girls on beaches all over the world, and what it’s led me to is a lifetime of great memories and, unbelievably, a multimillion-dollar company.
I was born on April Fools’ Day in 1973 in Atlanta, Georgia. My parents had moved there from New York after my father left his career in advertising to run a business called Daddy Crisp Potato Chips. Dad was a tireless hard worker with a constant, even obsessive drive to succeed. As a result, he wasn’t around much during my childhood. By contrast, Mom was always home. She was loving, even doting, but she wasn’t much of a disciplinarian. I was generally left to my own devices as a child, and as restless little boy, I took full advantage of it. I was constantly looking for diversions. When I was very small, I thought one of my sister’s Barbie dolls was hot. I stole her and carried her around with me for weeks, calling her my girlfriend. But even as a young child, I suspected that she wasn’t anatomically correct, and I eventually had to end the relationship.
As early as first grade in Atlanta, I felt unchallenged and bored in school, until I met a little blonde girl who offered to play “Show Me Yours, and I’ll Show You Mine.” A teacher was shocked to find us in the middle of this innocent game. I was reprimanded and sent outside to think about what an awful little boy I was. I didn’t get it: What did I do wrong? The blonde girl was a willing, even eager participant. We didn’t touch each other and nobody got hurt. But the principal vigorously tried to convince me that being curious about girls’ bodies wasn’t just bad; it was a sin against all God’s creation. For me, there was a disconnect here. I didn’t get it. I didn’t invent girls’ bodies, God did, right? I always wonder what happened to that little blonde girl.
My first true crush came not long after. Miss Davis was a teacher’s assistant. I remember her as a tall, slender woman with great breasts, the face of an angel and the kind of eyes you can lose yourself in. What the hell am I talking about. I was 6. The point is, I was in love. For some reason, I decided that if I placed an upturned thumbtack on the seat of her chair, it would impress her favorably. I watched excitedly as Miss Davis took her seat. She screamed, jumped to her feet and scanned the room, demanding to know who the culprit was. I thrust my hand in the air. “Me! Me!” I grinned. I don’t know what I was expecting for my candor. A kiss? A ride home with a stop for ice cream? What I actually got was a few days of suspension and the principal’s smirking remark to my mother that “If all children were like Joe, then people wouldn’t have children.”