Chapter Three
Rock’n Me
Oh, my aching head. My recollections are veering somewhat off the less than straight and narrow path of how I got here. If I can concentrate, let’s try to get back on course lickety-split. Lickety-split? Who (under eighty-five) says that in 2013? Damn, these fumes are messing with my mind.
I loved my parents and they loved me. I still do. All this past tense probably has you thinking they moved on to the great rock arena in the sky. But, no, they are very much still with us. They are getting to the upper reaches of the maturity scale but not slowing down much. I guess my fear of aging forces me to think mostly of them in their parenting prime. Ok, let’s get back at it and learn some more about the ole Mickster...
So, by now, I’m sure you are wondering about me and how I got to where I am. Believe me, so am I. You are probably also wondering what all this has to do with MBAs. In the words of Confucius, “Patience, little ones. Great rewards await those that that move more steadily like the tortoise than those that charge headstrong like the lion.” Or was that Keith Carradine?
Ok, about me. I went to Fairview High and was a pretty level-headed kid. I was three years behind Jay who had blazed a mighty wide path with his surfer looks and big personality. He was voted most likely to be a rock star. That made him a tough act to follow. It also made me try harder than most and forged my tough mental attitude. My mantra was (and remains to this day, despite my current predicament) that failure is not an option.
I was relatively normal in that I chased the outrageously pretty girls and caught the average (and slower moving) ones. I smoked a few illegal substances but never got into exotic pharmacology. I did other stupid typical teenager things (e.g. toilet papering the Assistant Principal’s house), but rarely got caught. I was told by a few that I was rather quick witted. I was told by many more that I was a real smart ass. I managed to keep my grades up mainly through street smarts and charm. I was not real big on studying but somehow most “learning” came pretty easily for me.
Like many of my decade, I tried to pursue my passion for rock music. We actually didn’t know that the current rock back then was destined to be classic rock today. All we knew was that we loved it and we lived it. In junior high I got a few of my like-minded buddies together and attempted to form a band. Since we had no idea what we were doing or if we were going to be any good at it (although we just knew we were going to kick ass), we didn’t want to spend any actual money.
“Please, Mr. Johnson. Can you just loan us the instruments for the weekend? We will be very careful with them.”
Rolynn Johnson was our Fairview Jr. High band director and a pretty cool dude. He did get caught up in that bestiality thing years later, but he wasn’t like that when we knew him. I knew that he played in a forty’s swing band on the weekends and had access to electric guitars, amplifiers and drums.
“Just why do you want these instruments, Mick?”
“My friends and I want to see if we have what it takes to be a band. And we can’t afford to buy instruments right now.”
“What kind of a band?”
“Well, I was thinking of a throwback swing band doing great songs like Sentimental Journey, Take Five, or Pastel Walls.”
“Really? You were thinking about Pastel Walls?”
“Sure. That is an excellent tune with a great swing beat.”
This technically was not a lie. I just wasn’t exactly answering the questions he had asked. I was thinking about a throwback swing band (his). I wasn’t saying we would or could play that kind of music. No way. We would be laughed all the way back to elementary school. And I was thinking about Pastel Walls knowing the obscure fact that Rolynn wrote it and recorded it. It sold about fifteen copies. His daughter, Jolynn, who I dated briefly, told me it was his pride and joy. It wasn’t really a horrible tune. “I live in jail since you went away / All color is faded, turned to grey / I roam these bland lonely halls / Searching for your pastel walls.” Ok, it was really horrible.
“Well, isn’t that impressive. It’s encouraging to see that some of our youth appreciate real music. I’ll tell you what. How about I bring a few guitars and amps over to your house along with a drum kit this evening? Unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay. I’ll bring some cool charts you guys can practice. I’ll pick the instruments up Sunday night. But, be careful, I will need them back in pristine condition.”
“You got it, Mr. Johnson. You are one swinging cat. Thanks!”
As promised, Mr. Johnson brought the instruments to my house on Friday. Dad loaned us the garage and warned the neighbors. We had fun setting up most of that night and agreed we would jam the weekend away starting Saturday. First, we needed to come up with a bitching name. We kicked around some hormonal fueled names (Cleavage Divers, Tan Line Tracers, The G-strings) but concluded our Moms might ground us of we used any of them. We thought about The Toe Jammers and Fingernail Fungus Finders but decided those were a little too gross even for rock and roll. Since I was the one that procured the instruments and provided the garage, we agreed on Mick’s Cool Licks. By noon on Saturday, three out of the four of us knew that a life of touring, groupies, and adoring fans was not in the cards for us. We sucked and didn’t really enjoy trying to play. Those guitar strings hurt my fingers. The drummer almost poked his eye out. That left one of us. His name was Edgar. He was very pale and could play the guitar pretty damn well. His last name was Winter, right? No. He wasn’t that pale and couldn’t play that well. I think his last name was something like Sickenfuss. Whatever. For one weekend, he was a rock god to us. Between watching the Buckeyes and the Browns on Dad’s old black and white, we listened to Edgar do a decent job of tearing through the Stones and the Who.
It was early Sunday evening. Mr. Johnson was on his way to get the instruments. All but one were only lightly used and carefully packed away.
“C’mon Edgar, we’ve got time. Do that Townshend thing again!”
Edgar was really in the zone by now. He loved the Who and had seen them in concert. He was ripping through power chords and doing the helicopter arm twirl as we cheered him on. He began spinning in circles, jumping up and down, power flinging his long white blond hair and making really painful faces. He finished in a near rock orgasm. Unfortunately he got a little carried away at the climax and lifted the guitar high above his head.
I shouted, “Nooooooooo!” It was too late. Still lost in his fantasy, Edgar smashed the guitar down onto the garage floor where it shattered with a final dying minor chord. The garage went silent as we all stared at him. He wiped his hair back off his face, looked at us defiantly and yelled, “Rock and Roll Rules Forever!”
Well, yeah, it does. But I wasn’t sure Mr. Johnson was going to let us see forever. We might be lucky if we saw the sunrise. Eventually, he and Dad worked out a deal. I mowed and trimmed Mr. Johnson’s really big yard for free for the next three years. Why me? Well, I was primarily responsible. Plus, Edgar would die under the Ohio summer sun. I think Dad might have thrown in his preferred customer discount on some siding too. While I did build up some great leg and arm muscles pushing that old rusty mower around, I did not gain any musical chops. Even today, the only musical instrument I excel at playing is the stereo.
After my junior year in high school, I figured I had pretty much worn out Ohio. I thought about Florida or Texas. Good schools in both and little snow as a bonus. I had been an all district wide receiver at Fairview when we won State. Even though I was beginning to think football was kind of a stupid game and was starting to tire of playing, it did present potential scholarship opportunities. So, like any eighteen year old all American boy, I chose my future based on a girl.