Rich was raised in a mud hut next to the river Hnuffnrczyk in what was once the Eastern European province of Kyrzerkestan. His father was a competitive sheep shearer and his mother, a CIA agent who's specialty was disguising herself as various forms of plant life, and who would often spring unexpectedly from the local fauna where Rich was tending the soon to be shorn sheep.      His family participated in sheep shearing contests all over Eastern Europe. It was while on these trips abroad that Rich acquired and developed his love for music, and in particular, for banging on things. While his mother and father fought over which of them would bring Rich into the "family business", Rich had set his sights higher than sheep shearing athletics or clandestine tree simulation. It was while his father was competing in The Slovenian Senior Sheep Shearing, Shepherding, and Slaughtering Shindig that he came face to knee with Muadada Kensinki Abob, a local legend in the art of sheep drumming. He spent every waking moment watching Abob as he would gather a small flock around him, and begin rhythmically paddling, spanking, whacking, thwacking, smacking, slapping, thwipping, milking (sheep drumming was thirsty work), banging, clanging, and grooming them like so many white woolly bongos.       From this time on, Rich's time spent alongside the river tending the stylistically shorn sheep was much more pleasant. He would rock among the flock, practicing two stroke rolls on rams and paradiddle the ewes. The number of sheep involved started fairly small, but during his progressive rock phase, he often could be found slapping 15 or more, with double ewes.       One day, however, while laying down a particularly heavy funk groove on a basic set of his favorites, his mother revealed herself. She had been watching him in horror, disguised as Larch. She was appalled at what he was doing with the sheep. "No son of mine is going to be out here banging sheep" she said with disgust. Rich tried to argue his case, but his mother would hear none of it. When they got home, and his father was informed of his sheep paradiddling exploits, he was given a choice. Stop drumming, or leave home. He chose to leave.       He worked his way across the ocean on a livestock freighter, entertaining the crew by drumming on the cargo of cows, pigs, and chickens on board. But it just wasn't the same. Nothing gave exactly the whack of real sheepskin. When he got to America, he was amazed to discover that you could buy actual drums thought sounded almost like sheep when hit, but never walked away, didn't pee or poo, and didn't leave his hands smelling like lamb ka-bobs. He spent the small amount of cash he had earned from the freighters crew, bought a set, joined the Valves and now only remembers the old days with the sheep when Mike forgets to wash his shirts for a few days.