Skiing with JT

Hey JT!

       Was it 10 years ago when our fraternity class all had dinner in Menlo Park?  I remember that night like it was yesterday.  I sat next to your old buddy Vern Taylor and we talked up a storm about everything from cabbages to kings (Nat King Cole reference...).  He was excited to tell me about a guy named Sam Harris who had written a book called "The End of Faith".  I had read the review in the New Yorker and I agreed with his position.  His big question:  "Why are our leaders taking advice from a carpenter who lived two thousand years ago?  Do we really believe the laws of physics were suspended back then allowing someone to walk on water?  Bring the dead back to life?  Multiply loaves and fishes?  To say nothing of his Dad turning reluctant wives into pillars of salt and speaking from a burning bush"  We both spent the night in what I like to call "heated agreement".

  You had shaved your head and said you loved rum and we had a wonderful hug at the end of the night amidst fellow DU's and spouses snapping pictures like mad.  None of which I ever got to see.  (C'est la vie).  I'm reminded of our fast friendship from freshman year, you with your contact lenses (remember when you had to go to the doctor after you slept with them on and he found one on the top of your eyeball?)  You were dating some girl and you set me up with her friend.  That was the glorious night I lost my virginity.  Pam...you never forget your first girl, do you?  It was her first time too.  We went at it off and on pretty much all night.  In the morning you came in to my dorm room and while Pam slept I told you what happened and my concerns about the possibility of pregnancy.  It turns out she wasn’t really sleeping.  I got into trouble for that little kiss and tell faux pas...  But we made up quickly enough.  We were both hot to trot some more.  

Other memories of you:

The trips in your Porsche with the eight-track player and you smoking your damn Marlboro’s.  I never told you this but I hated it when you lit up.  Then there was the time we rode cross country in the snow, most of the way, to your house in Littleton, Colorado at Christmas when we helped your dad build a fence in zero degree weather followed by the trip to Vail for my first ski adventure.  You drove us in that little Porsche with the rag top.  I was sure we were going to eat it on that winding little road with ice on the road and the wind blowing snow all around till we could hardly see.  At one point you said "Relax Stevens.  This is the easy part.  We still have to get over Loveland pass.  It's at about 12,000 feet."  Somehow, with me cringing and praying in the little cramped passenger seat, we made it to the family ski cabin.

       As a kid from Hawaii, I hadn't every experienced snow before that trip.  I ran around in the snow in my bare feet until Vern took me in hand and put me on the back of his skis to schuss me down the hill to take my lumps on the bunny trail.  I was terrified standing behind Vern.  One hand holding my skis and poles the other rapped tightly around Vern's waist.  Before the two of you took off to conquer the back bowls, you told me to stay on the bunny hill (50 cents!) and herring bone back up the hill after each run.  As you and Vern were skiing off you called out over your shoulder,  "You'll be fine Mike!  You're a surfer;  You'll figure it out!"

It was on my first run that I "figured out" that you turn from the back of the skis instead of the front like in surfing.  Unfortunately, I didn’t figure that out until I ran over some poor lady slowly snow plowing down the hill.

      Vern had outfitted me since we were the same size.  He loaned me an old parka and his old skis that were very long (216 centimeters...today 185 cm is long) and fast downhill racing skis.  I had some old leather boots my brother had bequeathed me.  Vern’s skis had long thong bindings which ski racers prefer so your bindings don’t release.  “Great!”  I’m thinking to myself,  “If I don’t die running into a tree I’ll probably break a leg because the bindings don’t release”.  By the third herring bone up the hill, I had to take my parka off I was so hot.  As I did so, a huge plume of steam rose from my chest.  What a fool!  Here I am thinking skiing is a cold weather sport...

I ease-dropped on an instructor who had a beginner’s class with him and followed his advice about the hip swaying, the pole planting and keeping your weight downhill.  It was counter-intuitive advice.  As a beginner, you’re fearful of what’s down below you and you naturally lean uphill to avoid falling downhill where you might slide into something or someone causing you both misery and humiliation.  By the end of the that first day I had advanced to beginner-intermediate “stem skier”.  Snow plow the turns then put skis together for the straight-aways.

Next you and Vern took me into the back bowls to experience powder skiing.  I remember what a heavenly feeling it was...right up to when I lost my balance and ended up a human snowball.  It took me about twenty minutes to dig myself out, brush myself off and head on down the hill.  I was in awe of you and Vern’s skiing.  Vern later told me how his family would import a European ski instructor to live with them in their “cabin” during the ski season. (actually a beautiful stone mini-mansion with five or six bedrooms.  We went to dinner there one night and we had to wear coats and ties.  They had a maid and a butler to serve us.  They looked like they could have been the upstairs help from "Downton Abbey", except they were black...).  When Vern would go out with the instructor he would give Vern a sock and he had to keep it wedged between his boots.  That’s how he learned to keep his skis together.  If he lost the sock he had to herring bone back up the hill to get it.

           Remember when you were dating Stevie Nicks senior year?  You brought her to a party we had at our house off campus; "Big Pink".  We all drank and smoked ourselves into a jolly state.  Someone put Crosby Still and Nash on the victrola and Stevie Nicks and I started singing the harmony parts.  At the end of the party, as she was walking out the front door with you, she turned to me and with a sly wink said; "Hey, Mike...you sing good!"

    

Anyway...Thanks Johnny T. for all the good memories.  Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres

A COUPLE OF SKI BUNNIES GETTING READY FOR SOME SERIOUS SCHUSSING... circa 1967 or so

La Cinque Terre

     I watched a movie this morning that was set in Italy.  My mind, as it usually does, drifted off to my time in Italy, 21 years ago.  My travel buddy, John Rosenberg and I were on a train from France heading towards La Cinque Terre, five little towns set between steep hilly promontories.  Our travel guru, Rick Steeves, highly recommended a stop there.  Previously, we had trained from Barcelona to Avignon.  It was a sunny day and we were warm and comfy, bathed in the sun pouring through our window.  When we got off in Avignon, I realized the insularity of the our sunny little train compartment obscured the fact that La Mistral was blowing.  As I disembarked, the icy wind chilled me to the bone and that night, in the charming little village of St. Andre des Alps high in the French Alps, Rosie and I came down with "La Grippa".

The next day as we were wandering around, coughing and sneezing, we came to a strange lake below the road we were on.  I say strange because the lake's color was grey and the surface was glassy.  Intrigued at this strange sight, I picked up a rock and through it down into the lake.  It bounced.  "Jesus, Rosie, the sucker is frozen solid!  Let's get in the car and head down to the Riviera.  It's bound to be warmer down there."  Rosie heartily concurred so, with John at the wheel, imagining that he was driving at the Le Mans Raceway, we headed down this treacherous, narrow, icy, winding one and half lane road cut into the side of an almost vertical cliff.  When I peered out my window, I could see a raging torrent far below me.  I shut my eyes and started praying to a God I'm not sure I even believed in.  They say there are no atheists in fox holes and I would add, nor on this road trip either...

A couple of days later we find ourselves decamping in the quaint little village of Vernazza.  The five villages nestled between steep hillsides are; Monterosso al Mare, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore.  Although still feeling kind of punk I cowboyed up for a hike up and over the big hill to the next town north.  I was an avid vegetable gardener in those days and as I labored up the rocky little trail I admired the quaint little "gardenettes" that had been carved out of the steep terrain.  There were lots of brassicas and fava bean plants growing as well as crimson clover and hairy purple vetch that had been planted as Winter cover crops.  The gate to one of the plots was old bed springs wired to a post in the ground.  As I got to the apex of my hike there was a little wooded area.  Coming towards me I heard two female voices speaking in English, with American accents.  "Hello, Hello!  Where are you ladies from?"  I asked.  "Were from a little town out in the Western part of the country called Berkeley." The red head replied.  "Oh, well I'm from a little town even further West called Mill Valley!"  I said, jovially.  After a short conversation we parted ways, they to continue their hike to our town and I to there's.  Ships passing in the night...

Considering my delicate condition, rather than walking,  I decided to take the little train back to Vernazza.   "Hey Mikey!  I met those two chicks you talked to up on the hill.  I invited them to join us for dinner tonite." said my traveling companion.  "Rosie, they're two women from Berkeley traveling together, they're probably ultra-feminist dikes and the last thing they want to do is have dinner with a couple of aging horn dogs.  They're probably big fans of Betty Friedan.  Wasn't it Friedan who said that all heterosexual intercourse is essentially rape?  If they do come tonite, they'll probably  drug our wine so after we fall down, stupefied, they can kick us with their Doc Martin femi-nazi boots.  Remember what Thelma and Louise did to the men they met in their travels..."

I admit I was in a sort of misogynist phase of my life and wasn't expecting any chance female type encounters on this trip.  But John was undaunted by my cautions and looked forward to a nice dinner, sitting across from two gals from Berkeley.  Imagine my surprise when out of the cold rainy night the two gals from Berkeley walked into the warm and cozy taverna where Rosie and I were sharing a bottle of vino.  "Molti cordiali saluti a voi!"  I said, after a quick look in my phrase book.  The two gals from Berkeley, Pam and Nicole couldn't have been more delightful and the next day we all took the train to Florence with a stop at the leaning tower of Pisa on the way.

I took a special liking to Nicole, the red head.  She was kind of feisty and had a wonderful earthy sense of humor.  We all had dinner together again in "Firenze" that night and enjoyed a post-dinner walk across the Ponte Vecchio, the oldest and most famous bridge over the river Arno.  It was also the only bridge on the Arno that was not destroyed by the Nazis in their retreat from the allied advance.  We said our goodbyes and they headed back to their fairly upscale hotel and we to our decidedly less opulent room in a little pensione next to the train station.  The girls could afford to splash out a bit as they were only traveling for two weeks.  Rosie and I were on a three month travel adventure that would include all the main countries of Europe (including Prague), Israel and Egypt.   Our budget only allowed for economy class accommodations as advised by Rick Steeves, our travel guru. (author of the "Through the Back Door" travel books).

 Back home that Fall,  I was thinking about that funny and charming red head I'd met in Italy and wondering how I could get ahold of her.  I remembered my travel diary and there it was.  Nicole Peelle of Mountain Travel, the adventure travel company.  I gave her a ring and started a romance, then friendship that lasts to this day.  Sneedy!  Thanks for all the great times we have had together.  I love going through my photo albums to marvel at all the places we've been together.

Cordiali saluti a tutti voi!  Mickey da Mayor

THIS IS NICOLE BEFORE I MET HER

              THIS IS NICOLE AFTER SHE GOT TO KNOW             ME...  Sorry for almost getting us stuck, Sneedy!

Maritorius Muriel

Happy New Year, Everybody!

I saw a wonderful movie the other day at my 6 AM movie theater:  "Muriel's Wedding", starring Toni Collette (the wife in "Little Miss Sunshine").  There's a word for a man who is besotted with and slavishly devoted to his wife.  Uxorious---a wonderful word.  I have a tenant who qualifies, unfortunately to a fault.  The opposite is so rare that this is what the "inter-tubes" had to say about it: 

There's no word in common use that can be used to describe a wife who is similarly fond of her husband. The only candidate is the invented word maritorious, from the Latin word for a husband, maritus. But it's extremely rare: the 20-volume historical Oxford English Dictionary has only two examples, one from 1607 and one from 1978. 

That says volumes about wives, eh?...  Well our gal Muriel desperately wants to be married so she can be gloriously maritorious.  She looks at pictures of wedding dresses all day while sequestered in her room listening to ABBA songs.  I thought to myself:  "Yea!  ABBA songs!"  The movie is great.  It's hard to imagine that this overweight ugly duckling turns into Toni Collette as an adult.  She must have had work done...  I looked forward to being aurally bathed in the magic music of ABBA.  Yes folks it's true...I'm an ABBAholic...  I also laugh at stupid jokes and cry at sappy movies.  Many's the time, when I was at the movies with Nicole, when a touching scene would come on,  I'd be quietly weeping while Nicole would be rolling her eyes and sticking her finger down her throat.  (Don't deny it, Sneedy...you know it's true...).

So I admit, my tastes are pretty catholic.  I pretty much like everybody and everything with the exceptions of bullies, liver, raisins (horrible thing to do to a grape...) and horseradish.  To me a snob is someone with excessively discriminating taste.  By extension, I guess the ultimate snob would be someone who hates everything and everybody.  Of the two types:  The one who loves ABBA songs, laughs at stupid jokes and cries at sappy movies; and the other who is so discriminating he/she is disdainful of most everything.  I ask you:  Who has the richer more emotionally rewarding life?  I'm just saying...

I'm reminded of when I lived at Tahoe and I was near the mid-mountain lodge at Squaw Valley.  I was watching all these incredibly chic skiers all decked out in their designer ski pants and their Bogner parkas schussing down the mountain with these bored expressions on their faces.  Then I ran into my old girlfriend Kate.  "Hi Kate!  What have you been up to?"  Well Kate had been supervising a bunch of developmentally challenged kids--mostly Down's syndrome and the like.  Then I saw an amazing sight coming down the bunny hill.  It was a conga line of kids on skis.  They were all on their butts with their skis splayed out in front of them sliding merrily along like some kind of big jolly centipede.  "Here they come now" says Kate.  As they slid up to where we were standing everyone of them was shrieking with joyful laughter.  Hmmm, who's having more fun skiing...these kids?  or the "chic" set?

For my money, ABBA's "Fernando" is one of the great pop songs of our generation.  Right up there with Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody".  I'm getting a lump in my throat just thinking about it...

For those rabid ABBA fans among you (I know you're out there) here are the lyrics.  You're all invited to sing along.  A one and a two and a...

(Love and kisses, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres)

Can you hear the drums Fernando?

I remember long ago another starry night like this
In the firelight Fernando
You were humming to yourself and softly strumming        your guitar  
I could hear the distant drums
And sounds of bugle calls were coming from afar

They were closer now Fernando
Every hour every minute seemed to last eternally
I was so afraid Fernando
We were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die
And I'm not ashamed to say
The roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry

There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando
They were shining there for you and me for liberty, Fernando
Though we never thought that we could lose, there's no regret
If I had to do the same again, I would my friend, Fernando
If I had to do the same again, I would my friend, Fernando

Now we're old and gray Fernando
Since many years I haven't seen a rifle in your hand
Can you hear the drums Fernando?
Do you still recall the faithful night we crossed the Rio Grande?
I can see it in your eyes
How proud you were to fight for freedom in this land

There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando
They were shining there for you and me for liberty, Fernando
Though we never thought that we could lose, there's no regret
If I had to do the same again, I would my friend, Fernando

There not writing 'em like that anymore...

Wonderful Things Can Happen When You're Dancing

     Christmas came and went and I suddenly realized that I hadn't seen one Christmas movie.  I had recently watched "There's No Business Like Show Business", and my NetFlix program had similar viewing suggestions for me.  White Christmas with "der Bingle" and the boys was first on the list.  Heck,  I thought to myself, it would be bad luck not to see at least one schmaltzy Christmas movie so I fired up "White Christmas" this morning.  I had enough of bad luck in 2013 and I didn't want to jinx 2014...
  

There's a really sweet dancing and singing number in there featuring Danny Kaye and Vera-Ellen.  "The best things in life can happen when your dancing.  Dancing, often leads to romancing".  As I'm sitting there smiling and humming along (quietly; it was 7 AM...) my mind, as it so often does these days..., started drifting back.  Back to a dancing experience of my own.

It was '84 and I was 35.  I was working in the tax department of a big leasing firm in SF's financial district.  I had just been told by an Orthopedic surgeon that my volleyball career and my jumping days were over as my knee's cartilages were thinner than a communion wafer...  "Can I still run, skip, play tennis?  I dunno even dance?"  I asked the doc.  He said all that stuff was probably okay as long as I avoided jumping.  Looking around for something to fill the void that the cessation of my volleyball career had created, I said to my supervisor and partying buddy, Peter (Fuzzy K.) Muzzy, "Hey Fuzzy!  I read where they're giving western swing dance lessons at the Taraval ballroom.  Wanna give it a whirl?  Huh?  Huh?  Do you good to trip the light fantastic with some babesters, for a change (Fuzzy was gay...)".

It turns out Petie was game so we danced our way on down to the Taraval Ballroom in the sunset district.  It was really a lot of fun to learn swing dancing.  I put on my best Italian lace-up shoes with leather soles and spent one night a week for eight weeks learning the various moves:   the five basic varieties: (1) Starter Step, (2) Side Pass, (3) Push Break / Sugar Push, (4) Whip. (5) The Anchor Step.  I was pretty coordinated for a tall, lanky (in those days) middle aged guy and I learned the steps pretty quickly.  Since all the guys and gals in the class were progressing at roughly the same rate, it made dancing with the ladies pretty easy.  "Now that you've learned the basic steps, before we go into some of the more complicated moves, we need to pay attention to our movement and posture."  Said our instructor.  "For you guys, in particular, stand up straight, chest back, and swing those hips!  That's why they call it "swing" dancing!"  So I straightened up my posture and started swinging my hips.
  

One night, between dances, I saw a couple of the gals looking, (shyly), at me and chuckling.  So I went over to see what was so funny.  "Hi Mike, me and the gals were just saying you're our favorite dance partner.  It's nice to be in the arms of such a big guy who can dance.  And we love the way you swing your hips.  In fact we call you "Swivel Hips" behind your back."  Well, "Swivel Hips" was just fine by me...

I had just met a woman I was interested in and she invited me over to her apartment in the city.  She told me that her favorite music was Sinatra's swing tunes, mostly from the fifties.  That night we listened to some of Frankie's classics from that period:  Come Fly with Me, My Way, Songs for Swinging Lovers.  I fell in love with the girl and with the music.  All that great swinging music and me a newly minted "swinging guy" swing dancer!  I borrowed all her Sinatra albums and made a couple cassette tapes of my favorite swing tunes.  I had a really great Blaupunkt cassette/radio in my (swinging...) BMW 320i car.  I would drive around singing harmony with "ole Blue Eyes".
  

One night my new squeeze and I were driving around the Embarcadero after dinner and drinks.  It was a beautiful full-moon night in the city.  I had the moon roof open and Sinatra on the cassette player.  Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea.  There are these wide wooden fishing piers that jut out from the Embarcadero boulevard into the bay.  It was a popular place for the local "hombres" to take their dates and see if they couldn't get them to watch the submarine races with them.  You could drive right onto the pier and park.  "Hey Jennie, I've got an idea.  Let's go park on that pier over there".  After we parked, I opened up both front doors, turned the music up and asked Jennie to dance with me.  While we were doing the side pass and the sugar push, we could hear the other folks commenting on this intrusion into what they felt like was their home turf.  These were young Hispanic couples from the Mission and they were sitting on the trunks of their "low riders" drinking and laughing.

The homeys were mostly laughing at us.  "Man, look at those gringos making fools of themselves".  The latinas didn't feel the same way and they stood up for us and our romantic gesture.  Soon some of the gals had their guys out there dancing with us.  It was a beautiful night and a great memory of dancing on the bay under the moon.  For as Danny Kaye sang:  Wonderful things can happen when you're dancing.

Love and kisses, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres

My Short-lived Musical Career

Hi Bob,

I loved your reminiscence.  I'm betting a lot of us guitar players have a similar story about their "first guitar".  Currently, in my living room I have a Schecter strato-caster type guitar hanging on my wall.  I got it back in the Mix magazine days.  The magazine's benefactor was a fellow named Rudi Hurwhich.  He had been the CEO of Dymo labels.  Remember that device that would make plastic labels?  You'd punch in the letters and numbers and the device would spit out (not really the right term) the label which had adhesive on the back and you could stick it on any hard surface.  His company got bought out by some large European conglomerate and he got a very handsome golden parachute for his forced retirement.  Rudi was a venture capitalist and he bet on our Mix Magazine by guaranteeing us a $ 150,000 line of credit.  It doesn't seem like much in these days of mega-million dollar investments, but to our struggling (at the time) magazine it meant a lot.  I was not a partner at Mix, I was the money and numbers guy (Treasurer/Controller).  Because I had prior business experience and could do the books and produce financial statements, Rudi wanted me on the signed guarantee.  I was only working there three days a week.  I had another, similar gig in the city and we were also trying to get the new Tres Virgos built.
  

If I was going to put my name on the promise to Rudi and be the official "CFO" I wanted to be compensated for it.  Penny and David and I came up with this scheme.  In lieu of additional pay (real money was a scarce commodity at The Mix, in those days) I was to be compensated thusly:  As the guy who was in charge of the accounts deceivable, I mean receivable, it was on of my duties to try and get the guys who owed us money to pay up.  At the time, we, as a business, did not always operate in the most professional manner.  In the magazine biz., when you sell an ad to a company, they're supposed to send you an "insertion order" which is a contract to pay the agreed upon amount (hopefully in thirty days) for the ad.  Ideally, that amount comes from a thing called a rate sheet which sets the price for the different kinds of ads.  The biggy is usually a double truck full color ad (two page spread); next comes a full page on down to a sixth of a page.  The recording studios could buy a square inch picture to go with their listing in our recording studio listing section.  These guys were supposed to send in their $ 50 in advance.  A few actually did.  The rest I had to call.

  We wanted certain big companies, like Sony and Ampex; Dolby Labs and Solid State Logic (the guys who made automated mixing boards that cost hundreds of thousands) to be in our book and we would often place ads without the signed insertion order.  Our big competition was a magazine called Recording Engineer/Producer.  They were IBM and we were Apple.  It was pretty easy to get an ad printed in our mag.  We could send our art director to the printer of the other magazine and pick up the artwork for the ad we wanted and take it to our printer to be included in our next issue.  With the big established guys things were done by the book.  Getting them to pay in a timely manner was another matter.  With the lesser outfits, getting them to pay at all was often a problem.  I soon realized how shaky our sales agreement was with them without a signed insertion order.
  

There's a particular problem with accounts receivable collections in the magazine business.  I'm trying to collect for a service that has already been provided.  Without the insertion order, the vendor can claim there's no proof that he ordered the ad.  The music equipment manufacturers and retailers were a particular problem because theirs is a very cut-throat business.  The retailers operate on very thin margins and if they can get "something for nothing" they would often jump at the chance.  This is where my deal with Mix came in.  In my attempts to cajole these guys to pay their advertising bills, I was authorized by Mix to cut deals:  Some Cash; some product.  The product would be mine to keep.  I would look over the sales catalogues of these deadbeats and figure out what I'd like to have for my own home studio.  Under this arrangement, I acquired two electric bases; two electric guitars; a bunch of signal processing gizmos; a digital drum machine; a gorgeous blond oak twin speaker 120 watt tube guitar amplifier with a Tom Schulz power soak; (that baby could wail...) and various other musical goodies.  And that, Bob; ole buddy, is where the electric guitar, hanging on the wall, came from.  (you did ask what guitars I have...)  I also have a great acoustic six string that used to be my twelve string that I played in my Steakhouse duo (Redeye!).  In Marin, my partner David and I played at the Refectory that used to be in the Bon Air Shopping Center and that's where you and Rob saw us play.  I also had a Martin D-28 six string.  I sold the Martin many years ago because the neck kept warping.  I took my twelve string and had a local luthier of some renown convert it to a six string.  I also have a classical guitar leaning against my fire screen but one of the winding machines is broken; rendering it unplayable.

In my mid fifties two things happened that curtailed my guitar playing.  First;  I had been playing for forty years and my enjoyment of this hobby was beginning to wane.  Second; I developed a condition called Dupuytrens Contracture where the pinky and ring finger start to draw in towards the palm of the hand.  It is a hereditary condition that mostly afflicts men over fifty whose ancestors hailed from the British Isles or the Scandinavian countries. (26% of Dutch men over fifty have Dupuytrens).  Mine started in my left hand and restricted my digital acrobatics on the fretboard.  I gradually gave up playing and the guitars are now just fixtures in the living room.  I still like to look at them to be reminded of my playing days.

 Playing my Guild twelve-string in '74 when I was playing professionally

Here's my Schecter strato-caster style electric.  With the right signal processing this baby could really sing.  It was tweaked by Rick Turner who used to be half of Alembic Guitars, the guys that made instruments for Jerry Garcia and the like.

You asked about my, so called, professional playing career.  I hooked up with this Hawaiian guy who was playing solo at various venues.  He had a very endearing voice and a competent style on his acoustic steel string (Martin D-35).  David's problem was that he was very shy and had trouble 'connecting' with audiences.  We started jamming together in the little house across the street that Debbie Hutchinson and I used to share before we moved here.  I would sing harmony, mostly, and play lead guitar.  I wanted to try my hand at playing for money, as I didn't have much at the time, and I could also cross it off my bucket list...  David wanted a playing partner up there on stage.  He saw my natural ease with people and my extrovert personality and thought I could be the guy who talks to the audience between songs.  "What me?  Up on stage?  Addressing a room full of strangers?  Sign me up!"  Thus began the modest and short-lived career of Redeye.  We named ourselves for the concoction consisting of tomato juice and beer.  We could drink during our three sets but straight beer made us burp, which didn't enhance our performances, so we cut it with tomato juice.  I had a lot of fun doing this.  On some nights we really clicked and the audience spent more time listening then chatting amongst themselves.  I was still young, slim and handsome in those days with a full head of surfer-blond hair.  I actually garnered some female fans.  ("Hi Mike.  Remember me?  I'm not wearing anything under my dress!"...)

We played at various venues around the bay area;  Corte Madera, Belmont down on the peninsula and one night a week in Livermore.  Dave was married with two kids and he had a house in Clovis, a suburb of Fresno.  On the four nights that we played, Dave would crash on the sofa here at Happy Acres.  After about eight months of this, Dave's wife put her foot down and demanded that we find a gig closer to home.  Thus, we finished our partnership playing at a steakhouse in Fresno, near the local college campus.  That was the summer of '75 and my little VW bug, of course, had no A/C.  Those trips to Clovis every weekend from Happy Acres to Dave's home became quite odious what with the valley heat.  Luckily I had a sunroof to help circulate air which was necessary as the heater was broken in the "full on" position.  My route took me past a large reservoir off the Pacheco Pass road.  It was about midway to my destination.  My habit was to park in a secluded spot, hidden from sight and go skinny dipping to cool off.  Luckily, I never got caught.  So one day I'm driving along, about to make the turn south on Hwy 99 and I started thinking about my future.  Before moving down to Marin, I had spent three years enjoying not being in school anymore.  I was mainly a ski bum and surf bum who supported himself tending bar at night.  Back in the early seventies that was a preferred life style and I thought:  "Hey, I'm a pretty jiggy dude, living a pretty cool life!"

So I'm thinking to myself; what exactly does the future portend?  The "next step up" in the music biz. looked like it might be a side lounge at a two-bit casino in Reno; wearing polka-dot stretch jump suits...  As Fagin said to Oliver:  "I think I better think it out again!"  We wound things down and finally had our final night after playing together three or four nights a week for almost a year.  I often think fondly of my "Redeye" days; standing up there on the stage (David always sat) wailing away on my amplified twelve string and singing:   "You fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like the mountains in Spring time, like a walk in the rain..."  Hey, that's what the steakhouse crowd was into back in 1975...  We did cooler stuff too.  I sometimes dream I'm playing the guitar.  I wake up with a wistful smile on my face.          

     L&K Mickey da Mayor

                            Senior year at Stanford, 1970

Beware, Male Clothes Shopping Solo

     My two lady friends were supposedly busy and normally I wouldn't go shopping without the critical eye of at least one of them.  So since I was on my own I decided to try clothes shopping, solo .  Matt said the best deals were to be found at Marshalls and Ross, Dress for Less.  So I headed up to the big Rowland plaza where the Target, Costco, and other large franchise places are.  I found the Marshalls store and went in.  As I looked around I couldn't help but notice that 85% of the floor space was for women.  I went over to the men's section and started looking for sports coats.  I finally found a small little four-way rack that had about 12 suits on it and one sports coat that looked it had formerly been on the rack at Goodwill. 

There was one other guy in the men's section and he had one of the suits in his hands.  He looked up at me with an "OMG-THERE'S-ANOTHER-GUY-SHOPPING-HERE-SOLO!"  look and we instantly bonded.  I mentioned how pathetic the offerings were for men and he heartily agreed.  He then says: "So what do you think of this suit?  Does it look OK?"  I told him to hold it up under his chin.  It was kind of a mustard/beige/tan color with a muted silver stripe.  It's not something I would look at twice but he (I never did get his name) had such a hopeful look on his face.  "Put on the jacket, let's see how it fits and how it falls on you.  What size is it.  Really?  46M?  I'm a 46L!"  So he puts on the jacket and it didn't look bad on him.  He was a kind of jolly looking sort--stocky, almost full head of blond hair, glasses--a friendly guy.  "It looks OK.  You should go for it.  Is it for work or play?"  

The only activity he mentioned that he might wear the suit for was church.  OK...church...a three piece mustard and silver suit.  I wondered what kind of church he went to but didn't ask.  I suspect there was a sweet little Becky Thatcher type in the third pew that he had his eye on.  Right next to the sad little kiosk of men's suits there was a slightly larger rack of dress shirts.  "Now I need a nice shirt to go with it.  What do you think of this one?"  He's still wearing the suit jacket and he's holding up a mustard/beige/tan colored shirt in front of him.  "That's a lot of stuff that looks kinda like Guilden's mustard, let's see if we can't find you something with a little contrast.  Since your suit definitely is warm colors we need a warm shirt with a little contrast."   Except for white, all the other plain colored shirts looked like they were meant for "made" guys going to the big mob moss meeting.  The patterned shirts were a little too busy with his silver stripes so we decided on the basic white.  I could see that he wasn't really satisfied.  (This Becky Thatcher type must really be a dish...)  "I need a 'shopper' to help me.  Kind of like that TV show "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy".  

We parted ways and I wandered to the front of the store where a white shirt with orange stripes caught my eye.  I tried it on and it fit so I went up to one of the clerks and stood behind the lady currently being serviced.  "Excuse me sir.  You have to stand in line."  She looked to her left and I see this line of about twenty people, all eying me with looks of mild disapproval.  "Oh, I'm so sorry.  I didn't realize.  I'm kind of a rookie at this.  I haven't shopped in awhile.  I'll go to the back of the line."  I shamefacedly took my proper place at the back of the line.  After a few minutes, when I saw how slow we were moving, I had a change of heart about the shirt.  I could imagine Nicole's reaction if I wore it with her.  "Uh-uh Sneedy I'm not going out with you in that shirt".  Since I didn't have proper female style guidance with me and the line was moving slowly I put the shirt back on the rack and left.  My neuropathic feet were getting a little sore, (should have worn my "Silver Sneaker Club sneaks).  so I got in the car and drove slowly (lots of shoppers with carts crossing the street) along the main road where all the major stores were.  I was planning to call it a day since I was getting hungry and I didn't wanted to be tempted by fast food outlets of which there are many at Rowland Plaza.  As I was heading for the exit road I suddenly see a Ross, Dress for Less store.  What the hell I came all this way.  Cowboy up with the feet.  What would the Silver Sneakers Club members say If I wimped out?  So I go in and find the cramped little alcove that's the men's section.  They didn't even have sports coats.  Somewhat disappointed, I perused what they did have which was mostly parka stuff.  Suddenly this beautiful brown leather bomber jacket caught my eye.  I have coveted this type of jacket for most of my adult life, but have never gotten up the nerve to buy one--mostly because of the cost.  I took it off the hanger and held it up.  "My goodness that's a manly jacket!"  I thought to myself.

I looked inside.  It had a quilted satin lining.  The label said "XXL.  Tommy Hilfiger".  I put it on.  It was big.  I am big.  It was a great match.  "Too bad I probably can't afford such a fine and manly leather bomber jacket--certainly not one made by Tommy Hilfiger!".  Somewhat forlornly, I took it off and looked at the price tag to see how outrageous the price was.  When I saw the price I experienced what could only be described as reverse sticker shock.  55 BUCKS!!!  I couldn't believe it.  I Looked closer at the label but it was in 6 point pica and I didn't have my reading glasses.  I smelled the jacket.  Yup, smells like leather!  The lady in front of my was, I sensed, an experienced shopper.  She turned around and addressed my little quandary.  "Let me see, I have my reading glasses on.  OK, the label says:      "SHELL FACE 100% POLYURETHANE  

SHELL BACK 100% VISCOSE

 BODY LINING, SLEEVE LINING

FILLER AND KNIT:  100% POLYESTER"

Ok, so it's not exactly pure leather.  I expressed my disappointment to the nice lady "Well, it sure looks like the real thing and it really looks good on you!"  She kind of eyed me up and down with what I thought looked like an appreciative look.  She urged me to buy it.  "At that price and the fact that everything is synthetic means it's probably waterproof.  Just don't dry-clean it.  All you have to do if you get something on it just wipe if off with a damp sponge, like you would with a plastic lawn chair or a kitchen counter.  After all, it's basically a plastic jacket.  But it really looks and (sniff, sniff) smells like real leather."

Well, that was enough for me.  Female approval.  If Sneedy or Bunny objects when we go on that Ferry boat ride, I'll just tell them, "Hey I got official approval from a savvy female shopper".  Bill says it's a little big on me and the bottom of the jacket isn't supposed to hang down below your ass like that.  Hmm.  Maybe I'll take it back.  Bill says I should go on Amazon.  Well, we'll see.  Anyway, that's enough scrivening for now.  I'm sorry about all this verbosity but I need the exercise for my duypuytrens contracted fingers.  If any of you ladies in the Cc: column have any comments based on the picture, let me have it.  I can take it.  After all... I am a member of the "Silver Sneakers Club"!

Love and disses, Mickey da Mayor

Play Misty for Me

I had lived here, at what later came to be known as Happy Acres, in peaceful cohabitation with my girlfriend Debbie for four years.  The romance had been slowly leaking out of our relationship for some time.  Looking back, I have to agree that I had not been "watering the garden" often enough; a phrase Debbie had read in a relationship book somewhere.  The phrase referred not just to sex, but all things intimate and romantical (sic).  One morning we were lying in bed when she suddenly blurted out that she had met someone at the cosmetology school she she was attending and wanted us to part.  After my obligatory cry at the prospect of goodbye, I gallantly agreed that it had probably been my "lack of watering" that caused her to drift into the arms of another man and I agreed to move out.  The one hard and fast agreement I wanted from her was that I would get to move back in when she decided to move on.
  

During my roughly year and a half exile, I lived in a boxy little apartment complex nearby with my volleyball protege, Bob.  Although we had fun during that time which included, among other things, my affair with Naomi Judd (I had to sneak that in...) and lots of sociable volleyball activities, life in an apartment complex was somewhat stifling.  I missed the knotty pine living room walls patina-ed in years of the wood smoke that came from the "Hagar-the-Horrible" fireplace.  I missed looking out the bay windows at the horse pasture below with horses and deer grazing peacefully.  So I was overjoyed when Diamond Deb (see blog...) informed me that her father and her grandfather had died within months of each other and she had "assumed some dough" as Frank Sinatra put it in "Guys and Dolls".  "Since I'm assuming responsibility for my floating crap game, is it not right that I should also assume some dough?"  Frankie was great in that roll; "good ole Nathan, Nathan, Nathan Detroit".

So sometime in late '79 or early '80 I joyfully moved back into my beloved Happy Acres.  Now the place was truly mine.  I would be paying the rent and the utilities.  I opened accounts with the phone company, PG&E, the power company and MMWD, the water company.  The last of the boarded horses from "the old days" had moved on and the horse pasture was starting to sprout weeds.  I arranged to rent the rest of the three plus acre homestead from Norm, my landlord.  I had plans to fix it up and bring horses in again.  We were already renting the old garage that I and two partners had turned into a funky little eight track recording studio.  (that's where I met Naomi Judd, at about that time---I had to sneak that in...).  I put a piece of new red shag  carpet in my old bedroom downstairs and painted the walls baby blue...  The knotty pine living room walls had been cleared of all decoration so I mixed up a solution of TSP (tri sodium phosphate--a cleaning product) and sponged down the walls.  I had to change out the water after several swipes as there was so much accumulated smoke that had "patina-ed"  the walls through the years that the rinse water looked like coca-cola...  When I finished, I marveled at how much the lighter the walls, and the living room in general looked.  Mine; all mine!
  

Now I could truly start my political career as the Mayor of Happy Acres.  Such a momentous event obviously calls for a house warming party.  I had recently, tearfully left my former employer of the last four years; Phoenix Leasing (more on that some other time...) and had many dear friends there.  My new employer was a nascent magazine about the professional recording studio industry and I had made new friends there too.  I also had my loyal cadre of Marin County volleyball gangsters who would be mandatory guests.  Then there was my recording studio buddies.  They were overjoyed to have me back on the premises since Diamond Deb had never really cottoned to the idea of these strange and rowdy musicians taking up the parking spaces and making raucous music till all hours of the night.  When Diamond Deb got wind of the planned proceedings she insisted that she and her entourage be invited also.  I mailed all the invitations to the aforementioned announcing my triumphant return and the party that would be celebrating my "dog leg in the river of  life".

I procured copious amounts of food and drink for the occasion and I also did a little "splashing out" (as the English say) for myself.  The wacky idea had come to me to rent a full white tail tuxedo outfit complete with white satin top hat and cane.  Cab Calloway redux...  I also scored a little white bindle of party favors for myself and a select few...  The guests started flowing in and quickly filled up the house.  I excused myself, went down to the bedroom and changed into my pearly white and shiny tuxedo outfit.  As I re-ascended the stairs, the conversational hub-bub died away to be replaced by a group cheer.  "As the new Mayor of Happy Acres I would like to welcome you all!", I jubilantly announced to the throng.  It was quite a night.  At one point I stopped to speak to one of the gals who I worked with at Phoenix Leasing:  "Bonnie! So glad you could come!  Are you enjoying yourself?"  She looked up at me with a coy little stare and replied.  "Why yes I am.  You sure look splendid in your outfit...  Do you ever wonder what I look like under my dress?"  I had never experienced a blatant come-one like that and before I had time to formulate a more diplomatic response all I said was:  "Why, uh...no...Bonnie...I really haven't".   Her "come-hither" stare quickly turned to a "hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned" look and I quickly moved on.  I had to go back down to the local liquor store two more times that night.  Sometime after midnight the Sheriff showed up and asked us to tone it down.  In the morning I found several people slumbering on couches, inside and outside the house.  (there was a temporary couch parked in front of the house).
  

As I was standing in the middle of the living room surveying the after-birth of my party, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.  One of my studio partners, who was quite a womanizer (we called him the great white

 shark of love--in subsequent years he hit on a succession of my girlfriends), had bedded down in the downstairs guest room with one of my former co-workers from the leasing company.  I could tell that she was somewhat embarrassed at her current circumstances and whereabouts and I tried my charming best to put her at ease.  I offered her a cup of coffee and a bit of chit chat and then she was on her way.  I never did see "the shark of love" that morning.  I suspect he sneaked out the side door while she was still asleep.  She called me a few days later to invite me to her home for dinner and though I was actually juggling two girlfriends at the time, for some reason (gallantry and chivalry, no doubt...) I accepted.  We had a nice quiet little dinner at her nearby condo and she told me that she was newly divorced and shared custody of her two kids.  She seemed somewhat sad and at loose ends and I tried my best to sympathize with her situation.  I must admit, I was a perfect gentleman and didn't try to take advantage of her.  After all, I already had two girlfriends.

My situation, in contrast, was nothing but jubilation.  After cleaning up the house, I took my gas powered weed whacker and set upon the seven foot tall Queen Ann's Lace forest that was starting to take hold in my horse pasture.  After a few hours of manly whacking, I took a break back in the living room.  I was dirty and sweaty but basking in an endorphin glow...  The phone rings and it's "the girl".  "Hi Mike; it's Adrian (we'll call her...) I wondered if I could come over and see you."  I told her that I was sweaty and dirty and was in the middle of a heavy weed whacking session.  " I don't care what you look like or what you're doing I just want to be with you...".  At this point I felt a little tingle of concern (my brother would say: "frisson of fear"...) and I believe the hairs on my neck stood up.

In the ensuing months she proceeded to come to the house uninvited a number of times.  I tried to explain to her that whatever she was feeling for me, I was not reciprocating.  "Look Adrian, it takes two to tango.  And my love life is already "tangoed" up enough...".  She wouldn't take no for an answer and revealed to me that she knew that I was controlling her thoughts and the only time she felt safe was when she was in my presence.  Oooookay...  Houston, we've got a problem.  With my psych major from Stanford in my back pocket I tried the friendly therapist approach.  I asked her if there was anyone she could talk to about these weird feeling of hers.  I quickly disabused her of any notion that I was controlling her thought processes.    

Me: "How about your parents?  Can you talk to, like, your               
    mom or something?"        
    Her:  "No my parents are both dead" 

    Me:  "I'm so sorry to hear that.  When did they die?"

    Her:  "Yesterday"

At this point, I felt like I was being dragged into the forest of Queen Ann's lace out back and I realized this gal was past reasoning with.  I didn't see her for awhile and I was starting to feel hopeful that she had come to her senses.  Meanwhile, when I mentioned this predicament to my friends, their group response was:  "Have you seen the movie "Play Misty for Me""?  I hadn't but they warned me to keep my doors and windows locked.  At night I found myself glancing in the window in the back door to the living room.  Finally I rented a video of the movie and really started getting alarmed.  Adrian was a good sized gal and with a knife in her hand I'm sure she would be a formidable foe...

So I'm sitting at my desk studying for an accounting test in my MBA program.  I hear a voice at the nearby window.  "Mike; Hi, it's Adrian.  It's mother's day and my kids are with their dad.  I'm so sad and confused I knew the only place I could be was here with you."  I tried to reason with her but I knew from our former conversations that that was folly.  Eventually, despite my protestations, she convinced me that if I just let her in she wouldn't bother me.  She would sit quietly in the living room and not bother my studying.  She would do her knitting...  "Great!  I thought.  Instead of a knife, I'll be jousting with knitting needles!"...  I must say, though, she was true to her word.  As I poured over the various methods of valuating business inventories: LIFO? or FIFO?  Depends on your corporate tax situation...  All I heard from the adjoining living room was the quiet click of those long, sharp knitting needles...  After awhile the rhythmic clicking stopped and I began to get uneasy.  Had she removed the needles from whatever garment she was knitting?  Was she, at that very moment, silently creeping down the hall towards me in her bare feet a deadly knitting needle lance in each hand?
  

  "Adrian?  Are you still there?  What's going on, Adrian?"  With mounting apprehension, I crept into the living room.  No Adrian.  Her knitting bag was there.  I peeked in.  Good; the needles were in there and not on her person.  Now to find the person.  She wasn't in the kitchen so she must be downstairs.  "Maybe she's using the bathroom" I thought hopefully.  All was deathly silent.  I stood there for the duration of what should have been a decent bathroom break.  No bathroom noises.  I started to get a bad feeling about this; my bedroom was down there.  I went down the stairs and peeked in my bedroom.  There lay Adrian, snuggled up under my covers.  Oh Houston...  I eventually coaxed her out of the bed and up the stairs.  She started to get nasty at me for man handling her.  I thought of those knitting needles gleaming evilly in her bag and I decided that, since I had some momentum going for my I should just keep pushing her down the hall and out the front door.  Which I quickly locked.  Adrian started screaming at me at the top of her voice hurling all kinds of unjust profane language at me.  Including the fact that I had her purse and knitting bag.
  

By this time I had had enough and I dialed the sheriff's office.  As I was waiting for the phone to pick up, I heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the end of the hallway.  At the time, the front door was all leaded paned glass.  Adrian had taken a rock and broken the pane next to the door handle and was reaching in to unlock the door.  "I'm coming in you !@#$%^&*!  I want my stuff!"  Fortunately, my living room phone had a very long chord on it.  With my ear still to the receiver, I grabbed the phone and ran down the hallway, jamming my foot at the base of the door just as she was about to open it.  In order to do this, the phone chord was not only fully extended, the curly receiver chord was also fully uncurled and the phone was suspended in mid air.  Seeing that I had successfully blocked the door, Adrian let out with another lusty round of epithets "!@#$%^&*!"  she yelled out at the top of her voice.  Meanwhile the sheriff's dispatcher had finally answered the phone and I explained the situation as quickly as I could; noting that the trespasser was now throwing shards of glass at me from the glass pane that she had broken.

I mentioned to the dispatcher that maybe we could go into my current employment status and my mother's maiden name some other time and that I was currently dealing with incoming shards of glass.  She said not to worry a squad car was on its way.  Sure enough, thankfully, I could hear the siren wailing as a squad car wended its way up the hill.  Meanwhile, in addition to Adrian's angry exhortations, I could hear my neighbors from across the street, urging her on.  "You tell 'em babe!  That @#$%^&*-ing guy is nothing but a *&^%$#!!!  By this time the sheriffs had come to my rescue and quickly had Adrian in hand.  I opened the door and followed the sheriff outside.  There I could see my neighbors standing on the deck overseeing this whole imbroglio with highballs in hand.  Since we were sworn enemies because of the recording studio, they booed lustily as Adrian was deposited in the back of the squad car.
  
     The other officer, with clip board in hand, asked me for a full report.  I explained all of the above to him.  He looked at me and saw the blood where several of Adrian's shards had found their mark.  "Do you want to press charges?", the officer asked.  I thought about how none of my reasoning had gotten through to the poor girl, and decided it was time for the professionals to take over.  "Yes, officer, I've tried to reason with her but nothing has worked and I think it's time to put her in the hands of the professionals.  I can't have her continuing to come here like this.", I replied.  The officer responded: "Alright, Mr. Stevens, that's attempted 'Breaking and Entering' and assault with a deadly weapon.  As they hauled her away to the boozy boos and jeers of the peanut gallery across the street, I thought to myself:  "Better a couple of superficial glass cuts on my arm and neck than twin knitting needles plunged into my back".

    I had no idea, when I let my fingers out of the box this morning, that they were gonna run away with this story like that.  And for that I'd like to apologize.   I promise to stop soaking my fingers in coffee before I turn the computer on...  Next up:  I hitch-hike from Palo Alto to Chicago for my brother's wedding in 1970.  Doesn't that sound like fun???  Love and kisses, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres.