I LEAPT from my bed to join the hunt. I thought we were looking for dead presidents – you know, the kind of dead presidents whose faces appear on large denominations of dollar bills.“They’re not the Dead Presidents,” my 16-year-old nephew informed me. “The Dead Presidents are a totally different thing. We’re looking for the Dead Kennedys.”Dang. No wonder the annoyance factor was running so high that morning. The minivan was packed and running in the driveway. My brother’s family couldn’t get under . . .
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