To My Best Friend Mike. I Love You and Miss You.


 
 

Backstage at Maloney Hall, Catholic University 1975
 

November 15, 2017


Dear Mike~

Today is your birthday. I’d be calling you today, and probably sending you a video or something that I thought was funny, maybe it'd make you laugh. If you were having a “good” day, you may even call me first. You’d loudly make a stentorian declaration that was joyous as it was absurd about another year in a long life. Anyone who knows you can fill in that blank.

That’s what’s easy about this: so many folks loved you and knew you. They’re closing their eyes, probably wiping them, right now because yours was a personality that was easy to conjure, easy to love, easy to celebrate. They’re hearing right now, because yours was “the big voice, that leaves little choice”. You’ll always reverberate. I’m happy for that.

But I’m also very, very sad. Because you were my best and oldest friend in this world until you left.  Yes, our close families know us and love us…but 12 year old buddies? Forget it—we knew SO MUCH about one another, for SO LONG.  

I never apologized for our regressive adult goofball behavior because why should I? There was too much information there for us NOT to return to high school, where I think we may have been at our happiest. Everything after—what we did and didn’t share—was too copious a lot to be hauled into every moment. It was the world we were all are forced to confront, and not always easy. It very seldom is. 

There’s something I never told you, Mike. I didn’t because I hadn’t realized this truth until after you were gone. You may have nonetheless known on some level being so smartly observant and sensitive to others’ feelings.

But I'll explain: From the earliest time I can remember until right before my father's death, I was a fairly happy kid. My parents and my siblings made me feel special, the world was playful and interesting and I felt that I owned some special gifts that, when shared, might make people feel good. Folks seemed to enjoy themselves and made a big deal when I would play and sing or perform in musicals. It seemed I felt that I “knew my calling” pretty early on.

You had a similar childhood! You were bright and brave (braver than I) and most grown ups and other kids, found you entertaining, helpful, and fun to be around.

But you and I had yet to meet. I was in Fredericksburg playing in my first bands, operettas and talent shows. You were more or less doing the same sorts of things in Springfield. 

When I was nine years old, though, my Dad became ill and battled for a long while. My younger sister's and my ages were enough to compel the older others to shield us from the harsher aspects of that reality until the very end of that fight. I didn’t hear that he “wouldn’t make it” until the day or two before he passed, and my sister didn’t until after he did. 

Life then reeled and grew complicated in ways not before known.  

Times were particularly tough for our mother. Another good soul and timely consoling friend to her met an untimely death, we had a frequent prowler at our house, and a fellow assigned to me from the Big Brothers Association turned out to be a pedophile who indeed kidnapped another young kid the following year after we moved to DC. And the Civil Rights/Viet Nam era was raging with its injustices, assassinations, riots and transformative madness. That eemingly cyclical now. 

When we moved to Washington in Jan ’69, staying in my grandparents’ house in NW my sister and I were the “new kids” at a parochial school in the neighborhood. Most of the kids weren’t very welcoming to the kid who some “thought was a hick” for his “southern accent”.  The big deal “boogie woogie” boy from Falmouth seemed personae non grata. I was more than ready for a happier next chapter to begin for me and my decimated family. 

That's where you came in, Mike. We still hadn’t met, but soon I would SEE you for the first time.

You were in the Spring Musical production at Bishop Ireton High School, which enjoyed a sterling reputation for high quality productions. My cousins Steve and Tim Sheehy were in the pit orchestra, and since I’d be a freshman there the next year, and I was holding out hope that all this wasn’t more mere hype.  

We drove to Alexandria, and my mind raced the entire way. The show was Mame, and you played Patrick Dennis, the kid. I had been in a couple of school shows, had seen a few, but THIS was the BEST I’d ever seen, the music sounded top notch, the singing, the acting…and YOU were spectacular. You sang and danced, acted believably, projected zeal and killed it. It was a true thrill! 

I learned that you were an 8th grader but so blatantly and perfectly qualified for the role that they skirted the rules a bit. You'd be a Freshman there the next year. This high school thing seemed promising. I had an anxious excitement for the near future for the first time in too long a time. 


We finally moved to our new house in Alexandria for which we’d left Fredericksburg, and the first day of high school arrived. You had to be there somewhere, but there were so many kids everywhere, I thought perhaps we’d be lost to one another among the masses of long hair, ties, corduroys and desert boots.

It was on the second day of school that I heard a commotion up ahead in the main foyer of the school. “Aw, MAN…” a familiar voice crowed, “…come ON, you guys…gimme a break!”

Wild laughter erupted from the gaggle of older guys who had—for the second or third time—just batted all of your books out of your arms and onto the floor. “What?? Little Cotterrrrr!?” one taunted. “Get your brother to help!!” Tommy, your brother, was a Senior whom I’d soon later see straddling the bannister at the top of the stairs and winging a hefty book pretty damned hard down the stairs at someone. I'm not sure if it related to little brother's episode, but I like to think so.

It was chaos amid the rush of boys headed to their next class. You didn't push back, strike out or call names, but merely let them and that pass until you had the time and room to finally pick up your spilled stuff.  

I helped you, and you thanked me. I told you that I’d seen you in Mame the prior Spring and that you sure were great. “Aw man, REALLY??” you said and introduced yourself. I did the same, and said that I had been in shows, too. But you wanted to talk about music, said you had a classical guitar, but wanted a nicer steel string one. I mentioned that I too played, and you said, again “REALLY? You play? Man, we should have a duo!”

That’s how I remember it, Mike…it was that quick. The next day we played and sang together, and it was as if that was always the reason that we had come there. At the time, a new experimental modular scheduling was being tried--students could arrange their classes and schedules to foment huge blocks of continuous “study” time, which was time NOT in class. A,B,C,D,E & F days. Your schedule coincided with mine on E, “togetherness day” you said, and we’d hang and sing and play wherever we could find a space or stairwell.

Mike, you and I and most folks looking over our shoulder at this letter know everything that happened after that, since then and what it meant, the cool places and folks to which our friendship would lead, but I never thanked you for being the first person to turn the page in a few really bad, sad and seemingly interminable laboring chapters of a kid's life to the next happier, more exciting and rewarding chapters that led all the way to this moment I’m gratefully appreciating right now. 

If you don’t mind, I’d like to share something else about you with everyone:

When we graduated—after so many adventures both personal and professional throughout our high school years—and college--that great slowly lowering boom of the adolescent-- loomed above us like a great interrupter of all our most verdant dreams. You would be going to Catholic University and I to Miami University in Florida. We lamented the interruption and our separation, but held out hope that my Miami University deal with my mother wouldn’t work out and I would be back in the Spring to pick up where we left off—doing shows, writing songs, occassionally opening for big acts in big halls by ourselves and with Bill & Taffy and others. Mostly, Cotter & Carroll would resume and not falter in DC.

I didn't dig Miami U. There were no clubs in Coral Gables, merely a juke joint a few miles away that had 50 cent 7 and 7s on Wednesdays. I spent most of my time playing piano, singing and writing by myself in cramped campus rehearsal rooms. Oct 26th was circled on my calendar, when I’d be joining you and Bill & Taffy for their set at DAR Constitution Hall, opening for Jackson Brown. That was a magical evening. Jay Winding, Jackson’s sideman gave me a shot in the arm rap that THIS was what I should be doing, that college wasn’t for everyone, and that I’d have time to get back to later. Things would pan out, one way and another. I decided that night that I’d return from Florida after the semester, one way or another.

After repairing back to Miami and in the worst kind of funk, I thought that I might not last until then. About a week later, Bill & Taffy phoned to propose an idea: come back to DC, but stay in school by enrolling at nearby Catholic University. And, would I be interested in rehearsing a few songs as a group—a singing group. The group would be Bill, Taffy, Margot Chapman and me. I said sure, are you kidding? 

No, they weren’t, but I was asked to not mention it to anyone for fear that word might get out too soon, and that could be a bad thing for a few good reasons. I reluctantly agreed.

You were so excited, and I was too--I was coming back, and we'd both be at CU, no better. 

But there was more to this picture than I could divulge and that was difficult, awkward and I thought somewhat unfair. My promise would be broken within a week on the night I showed up at your door at Spaulding Hall dormitory with a bottle of Stoly. 

I explained it all, sheepishly, shamefully and contritely. It wasn’t that Cotter & Carroll would be handcuffed from doing our thing, but this other thing was very much on the platter, too.

“Oh…” you halted for thought. I sat and watched your eyes dart about with your high-velocity thoughts and braced for understandable anger, disappointment and indictments of my betrayal.

“Wait a minute, so, you, Bill and Taffy and Margot—that hot chick from Breakfast Again?—that’s kind of cool, huh!?”

“Yeah, I guess”, that aspect was indeed exciting I supposed and concurred.

“Wow…” Another pause…here it comes, I thought.

—“Man! I can’t WAIT to hear THAT, man! That’s gonna be FUCKING AMAZING!”

I sat amazed and grateful and a little less ashamed for my silent period of non-disclosure, but mainly I realized what a true friend is. You were more psyched than I, about something that would ultimately mean the end of our duo. We would always play gigs, you and me, you and Margot, me sitting in with your band and vice versa, but it never crossed your mind that our friendship was threatened. I was prepared to lose and lose again, but you flipped the polarity switch masterfully. This was a GOOD thing. It was a win-win. I had never admired anyone more than you at that moment.

Your “up” side was the most buoyant lift that I could ever imagine. 
It was a constant, a lighthouse that was always on and spinning above a churning coastline.  Nothing could deter or reset your positive compass, your proactive enthusiasm. We started with the simplicity of doing something we loved that we could trust would always be there, and ended by having the thing that was simply always there. Love and Friendship.  

Mike, I was aware early on of your chronic attenuators, how you could be profoundly hobbled during those emotional valleys, but you muscled through them countless times. I hope folks will remember and appreciate just how many times you soldiered through the darkness so bravely.

A few years ago, when the two of us were going over some parts in a dressing room before John Jenning’s fundraiser finale, you were so tenuously there—I looked up from the page to see an expression on your face that I thought was surely your goofing at me like so often, only to realize that you were desperately reaching to the bottom of your stores of stability for a gasp of fuel and strength. I know if it weren’t that particular reason for which we were all there--for John--that you wouldn’t have been. You would have been in the place where “misery doesn’t know better times” until a sunnier day dawned. 

You were BRAVE, Mike.

And you had so much love for your friends, for your family. We all know how utterly ironclad your resolve was when it was time to be there, when we really needed you. 

I just need to know that somehow you’re aware of your profound meaning in my life. I need everyone else to know, as well. The day we met was Day 1 of the rest of my life. I wasn’t at all certain that things would ever start to work out, then you were there. Like a lighthouse. A life preserver. You’re my oldest and dearest friend and I’m just now beginning to contend with your being gone. I miss you so so much, and I know it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I hope I see you later, somehow, some way.

My last conversation with you was on July 1, and we talked about all sorts of things. Mostly you were just erupting with joy and enthusiasm over your Summer with Georgia, her studio project and how wonderful a person Lisa was. You told me how much you missed sister Christine, how she lured you lovingly over to her house and laid books on you all the time. Gratitude gushed from you that night. No one appreciated good will more than you, Mike.

You exclaimed again that you “never talk on the phone this long with anyone!” and we laughed alot and loudly. 

Then you told me you had just finished an “amazing” book—James Agee’s A Death In The Family.
“That’s one of my favorite books of ALL TIME”,  I spat. “Meredith had seen it somewhere and thought I might like it and, wow...”

“It’s UNBELIEVABLE.”  We spoke of it being brilliant, how it managed to decode the shock of an untimely death through the eyes of a child. I mused of how the brakes failed on the car in the story, how the accident left nary a mark but a just a slight cut on the bridge of the victim’s nose, as I remembered. 


You chimed something abruptly that was at first garbled.

"Huh? What?"

“A Cotter pin!! It was a COTTER PIN!” You loudly exclaimed.

You couldn't stop. “Do me a favor…read just the last ten pages—it’s amazing—just read the last ten pages.”


Happy Birthday, Mike. I wish you could come back, even for a day. Visit us in a dream, OK? We're waiting. 


~Jauntzy, Stinky, Sfinkter, etc.

 

 
From the BI-Word, March 1972  



 
Some scrawlings if I'd the chance to speak at Mike’s Memorial:



We wake each morning to gravity. We usually don’t consciously address it—we merely rise, get up somehow, greet and get at a day wherein we’ve mostly learned to ignore the utterly inescapable and inexorable force—that constant reminder that the center of the earth wants us.

We do it, day after day, managing somehow to find a reward. We’re fortified with purpose, dedicating efforts large and small until we get to it— a sigh, a laugh, some measure of gratification, a prize, a wee measure of a larger elation. We defy that gravity that hasn't ever and will never let go. Its tenacity is ancient, its origins a distant cry of unfathomable forbearance.

It’s quite possibly the first worldly in utero sensation we have. It’s our oldest companion, friend and foe, gravity.

Some find aid in spliced in skewed perspectives, making the challenge ahead seem more approachable, do-able, manageable.

We feel we’re in a vessel upon rough waters, and the deck is coated with renegade rolling marbles. Or maybe tumbling rolling tubes which won’t rest until they come to rest. Where gravity puts them. We clamor sometimes desperately toward something to which we can cling—a rare slab of stability where we can regroup and refresh. This ride is even thrilling, maybe…perilous…we don’t worry about the landing but …

…we grow and come to realize that the vessel is just an illusion. We are and have always been completely submersed in the water.

We rise, fall, gasp, hold our breath, become completely submerged…all the while the current carries us.

Like the naturally wise adult salmon, we feel reason for battling upstream against inexorable currents toward our natal homelands. Some do it regularly and some early on realized that they would need to remain close to their beginnings. 

Whether a boat, a fish, a bird, a man we, as Neil Young puts it, “collide with the very air we breath”.

We make bolstered runs up against the same wind we need to fill our sails, to lift our wings. We swim upstream to survive, in the very water that will sustain us and our offspring.

The moments where we can merely relax and enjoy the ride seem few and far between.

Our futures are nagging entities in need of building, planning, providing and tending. The future steals much of the present, wouldn’t you agree? And many of our concerns, cares and conundrums reside in tidy compartments tucked well within the family home on the back side of that welcome mat. 

Our friends, our families, our fellow humans are in need, and we draw many lines to sort out what and for whom we choose to see.

There are those that find their calling within the framework of rescue, companionship, care giving—the immediate alleviation of another’s pain and suffering, are they are lucky. They have the instant gratification of immediately improving the well-being of another. 

Alas, there are those among us who aren’t personally rewarded by an altruistic spirit. They don’t get a rush, only an inconvenience.  

What Mike and I had in common, a frustration of sorts, is that our spirits, regardless of the gifts and tools that we bring as entertainers, are usually gifts of joy, mollification, relief, inspiration. We also love doing it while we’re doing it. We bring a release, maybe some elation, some healing if we’re lucky, and we dig it while we’re doing it. A win win. 

If only it were that simple. Art reacts, it reflects, it even thankfully deflects…rock and roll, it doesn’t solve our problems, it just allows us to dance all over them for a while. The hard realities and the hard work still stare at us coldly when we return to the churn.  

As much as he may have appeared to be the typical exemplary middle class fence painting lawn mowing suburbanite male (which he was, in at least those respects) Mike didn’t believe in the paint by numbers life.

Whatever conventional conforming Mike managed was voluntary, perhaps discretely begrudging. He was polite and considerate of others’ feelings, respectful of others’ RIGHT to have their own beliefs. BUT, one large ethos of our friend, what he DID NOT believe in: passing himself and his beliefs off disingenuously. Mike was not a hypocrite. He loathed hypocrisy, yet he did not loathe the hypocrite. He understood THEIR plight. That was their “cross to bear”. But he was highly unnerved when one expected him to go along with the motions, the ceremony, the pageantry of and about something he truly knew in his heart he DID NOT BELIEVE.  

And when a scabrous policy on high reached indiscriminately down to affect the under-privileged, the under-served, and the under-informed, well…we know how Mike felt about that.  

He was of this world, but his boyish enthusiasm for the weird, the wild, the wonderful was couched in an old soul’s discerning insight into a much deeper philosophy. 

Cognitive dissonance and dishonesty came into play only when he needed, as most do, to camouflage shame. Shame for himself or his family and friends.

In his affairs, his relationships, his dealings, I never knew Mike to be underhanded or deceptive out of avarice or spite. 

In this way, and in so many others, Mike was so very brave. He was brave to choose to always be true to his heart. He knew how much work that would require. The currents he would come up against that truth within and without. 

So many of us need to adhere to some existing code to help us determine our paths, decisions, battles. We turn to sacraments, commandments, societal and familial expectations. That’s our culture, and it includes multitudes of other cultures big and small, heirloom and nascent.

I think Mike was up against those deliberations constantly, for he thought for himself. That should make us all more appreciative of those times when he went the extra mile, or yard or footstep to be where he knew he counted most. To be there for someone else. To put in the good word. To refrain from a personally derogatory one. To be a cheerleader. A fan. A friend.

To not be petty. To see to the other side of a sticking point and move on. Michael looked to see the diamonds in the rough. That's ironic, but true. Between the two of us, I heard scads more pep talks from him than he heard from me.

None of us have any of the sure answers, only some vague ones. That money changes everything. That it’s better to have it than to need it. 

We hold each others' answers in our hearts. It’s better to love than to hate. It’s better to try to see someone’s perspective, or at least respect that one’s perspective, whatever it may be, is inarguable. At least try to understand. If Mike and I were Jem and Scout in To Kill A Mockingbird we’d have spent more time than they did on Boo Radley’s porch. 

Mike’s Spiritual Creed: Be good for goodness’ sake. These approaches are better. Not because we give them 4 out of 5 stars, but because we should give them 9 out of 10 nods. We should affix them like pocket watches in folds nearest to where there is the least sunshine. We should WORK to be BETTER. Then we’ll ALL be doing better, a little closer to all doing well.