Yes, that’s true. His name was Kip Gentry and my parents, Bill and Nancy, picked him up in a blizzard before I was born somewhere between Nebraska and Wyoming in their Volkswagen van called Bilbo Baggins. 
Thankfully, I wasn’t named Kip because ‘kip’ means chicken in Dutch, and I don’t eat birds. Why don’t I eat birds? When I was 18 years old and working on the docks in Alaska, one of my jobs was to kill and then skin 69 chickens in one afternoon in a ship graveyard.
When I toured The Netherlands a lot, playing shows from Friesland to Brabant to the Randstad, I used to tell both of those stories on stage. One time, a man came up to me after a concert in Amsterdam and said that when I reached the end of the chicken story, he thought I was going to tell the audience that I had murdered someone.
It’s amazing to me that my story could lead from being the baby in this photo playing in the mud, to being accused of murder in Europe by a fan because I once was a young man catching chickens in a coop and then chopping their heads off with a hatchet on a stump outside Kenai, Alaska.
Now, I live in New Orleans, and I help people from all around the U.S. and the world tell their stories.
What’s your story? Get in touch.