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I’ve always been good at remembering silly trivia

For the life of me, there have been subjects involving a great deal of memorization — like foreign languages — that I have never been able to learn.

Maybe that’s because an incredible amount of the space in my brain has been devoted to remembering things I never wanted to remember, like titles, artists and even lyrics to nearly every song I heard of the radio between about 1965 and 1975.

Around 1972 or ’73, my friends and I used to go to the Campus Club, a basement beer joint at George Washington University. They rarely had a band, usually just a soundtrack of oldies. One of the games we played was seeing who could identify a new song first. I usually won, and my most shining moment — I can name that tune in one note — came when I got “Light My Fire” by the doors just as it started.

It’s funny how we remember the tiniest of triumphs when we don’t have major ones to remember. It sort of reminds me of the person who said the reason faculty politics are so vicious is that there is so little at stake.

I haven’t played that game it at least 30 years, other than listening to the radio when I’m in the car alone by myself and I have an oldies station on. It might surprise some people who know me, but I listen to Sixties music a lot less than I once did. I almost always still know the song, but there are more times than there once were that the name of the group doesn’t come to mind at all.

The other afternoon I was in the car, and a song with a fairly extensive instrumental lead-in started playing. It didn’t register at first. It certainly wasn’t a major hit by a major group. But all of a sudden, I found myself thinking … “Alice Long,” by Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart, from ’68 or ’69?

That’s exactly what it was. A song that only got to No. 27 on the Billboard survey in the summer of 1968. A song I never really liked, a song I never really thought much about.

Damn.

I’ve still got it.

And I still speak only one language.

 

posted by Mike in baby boom,Happiness,memories,Music and have No Comments

We all have memories of a few Christmases past

I was trying to remember my first Christmas as an adult, the first one I didn’t celebrate at my parents’ house or my grandparents’ house.

It was 1975, although you could argue 1971 on a technicality. I was still living at home in 1971, but the rest of my family went to Russia with a tour group. I got together with three other friends — my closest friends — whose families were also away. We worked together and did a Christmas dinner at my friend Mick’s house. Mick and my two Chris friends — one Christine and one Christopher — filled out the group. I think I can safely say without fear of excessive chauvinism that we were fortunate to have a female in our group.

My first apartment -- 35 years later.

That was really just Christmas dinner, though. My first real Christmas in my own place, with decorations and everything, came in 1975.

We had moved into a new development outside Herndon, Va. The apartments in Stuart Woods were brand new. A one-bedroom unit was $230. It was the only apartment I ever had with its own washer and dryer. We moved there in February, we got married in April and we lived there till May 1976. She commuted to Langley and I commuted to the Ballston neighborhood in Arlington.

I don’t know if we had any problem-free years in our marriage. We were together for less than five years; we probably married too young. It’s as good an excuse for failure as any. It’s funny how 37 years later, I have little memory of where in our living room we put our Christmas tree. Maybe we didn’t. Ironically, it was the only Christmas we celebrated together in the United States. In 1976 we were in Austria and in 1977 we were in London for Christmas week.

She spent Christmas of ’78 on temporary duty in Beijing and she went to Nevada to spend the ’79 holidays with her parents. In January 1980 we split for good.

Regrets? Yes and no. I doubt that a thoughtful person could fail to regret a marriage that didn’t work, but on the other hand, I have spent the last 21 Christmases married to the real love of my life.

Lex this Christmas.

If there is a sadness at all, it comes when I see my two grandchildren celebrating their first Christmases, Madison in 2009 (at 15 months) and Lexington this year (at 13 1/2 months). My first Christmas with my wonderful children came when Pauline was already 12 and Virgile was nearly 8.

Seeing pictures of the grandkids with the gifts we gave them is so wonderful. In the picture here, Lex is pushing a cart we gave him for Christmas and wearing a Georgia Tech football jersey we gave him for his first birthday in November.

Christmas is pretty wonderful when you have children or grandchildren, but it was also pretty special when I was first on my own and never dreaming that a marriage could end in the most excruciating pain. I don’t think of her all that much, but there are times I wonder what it would have been like to hold a baby in my arms and know that it was my child, not my grandchild.

I am a very fortunate man. I have two wonderful children who look at me and see a father, not a stepfather. I could never love a child more than I love Pauline and Virgile, and I could never love a grandchild more than I love Maddie or Lex.

I know it all worked out for the best.

No question at all.

That doesn’t keep the “what ifs” from popping into my mind once in a while. In the end, I guess I’m only human.

posted by Mike in Christmas,Family,Friends,Happiness,Holidays,love,memories and have No Comments

So beautiful to find wonderful old songs on iTunes

My grandmother was born in 1895, and we used to talk about all the amazing changes that had occurred during her life.

There is no way my own life — even if I do live to be 94 — will have the same level of changes hers did. When she was born, most Americans lived on farms without electricity or indoor plumbing. They used horses and buggies for short trips and coal-powered trains for long trips. No one yet flew, and there was no penicillin for infections. There were no motion pictures, television or even radio.

What didn’t we have when I was born in 1949? I don’t need to go into most of them, but I will mention one thing.

iTunes

We didn’t have iTunes.

That might not sound like a big deal, but there are several ways in which it is just huge for people who love music. In the late 1970s, when the size of my record collection peaked, I had about 600 record albums. If you figure an average of about 11 songs per album, that means I had about 6,600 songs.

As I started moving around the country in the ’80s, my collection got smaller and music became something to be listened to on the radio.

I had switched first to cassettes and later to CDs, but they took up space too. A few years back, I noticed that my daughter and my son had both started saving their music on their computer hard drives.

Read more…

posted by Mike in Christmas,Family,Holidays,Home,love,memories,Music and have No Comments

Strange to remember what SNL once meant

It has been at least 10 or 15 years since I have watched an episode of “Saturday Night Live.”

In fact, I don’t think I have watched it regularly since Dana Carvey was doing impressions of George H.W. Bush. Partly it was because the show didn’t seem particularly funny  anymore, and part of it was that 11:30 p.m. on Saturdays wasn’t exactly prime time fun time for me with a wife and kids.

Oh, I watch clips on the Internet, especially during election campaigns. I got as much of a kick as anyone out of Tina Fey’s spot-on Sarah Palin impression, and I certainly enjoyed Will Ferrell as George Dubya Bush.

But not enough to watch the show.

Season One, 1975-76

Still, once was the time I wouldn’t have missed it. I was 25 when SNL came on the air in October 1975, and I don’t think I could possibly explain what a big deal it was in those final years before cable TV and the decades before home video and the Internet.

Three television networks plus PBS and local independent stations, and very few stations stayed on the air all night. Late night music shows had been successful earlier in the decade — “Midnight Special” and “In Concert” had drawn young audiences to see musical acts they loved.

NBC lost the right to show “Tonight Show” reruns on weekends, so the network decided to put together a live comedy/music show that would run for 90 minutes. Lorne Michael assembled a cast of unknowns. got some stars to host and perform and went to work. A look back at the first show demonstrates how different the original premise was from what followed. George Carlin was the host, and he didn’t participate in any skits or interact at all with the cast members. All he did was perform parts of his standup comedy act at various points in the show.

If you look at that first season, there were oddities. Candice Bergen hosted twice in the first eight weeks, and Elliott Gould (remember him?) hosted in January and again in May. There were two shows in the middle of summer, which was also strange.

Most people who are familiar with the show know the names of the seven original Not Quite Ready for Prime Time Players — Chevy Chase, John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Garrett Morris, Jane Curtin, Gilda Radner and Larraine Newman. But most don’t remember — I certainly didn’t — that the first cast included two additional names, Michael O’Donoghue and George Coe. I still have no idea who George Coe is.

It’s strange to look at that first show and realize how many of the people who played major roles are no longer with us. Belushi died in 1982, Radner in 1989 and O’Donoghue in 1994. Musical guest Billy Preston died in 2006 and Carlin himself died in 2008. Of the still living members of the cast, except for maybe Chase and Curtin, they never surpassed their SNL work, and Chase only spent one season on the show.

In these days of hundreds of entertainment choices, with Tivo and DVRs and all sorts of other ways to time-shift shows, it’s tough to understand that in the fall of 1975, a lot of us in our 20s went out on Saturday night and made sure we were home by 11:30 so that we could watch SNL.

Boy, things really do change.

 

 

posted by Mike in Americana,Comedy,memories,Music,television and have No Comments

Friends pass away and others sometimes come back

When you reach a certain point in your life, the world stops giving you things and starts taking them away.

In the last couple of years, I have gotten several rude surprises in the form of bad news about former friends and colleagues. In April 2009, my former roommate David Poole of the Charlotte Observer died at age 50. I hadn’t seen him for more than 25 years, but he had been morbidly obese when I knew him and I don’t think that had changed. The bad news in that case was a surprise but hardly a shock.

Andrew Cseplo, upper right

The news I got this morning was truly a shock. My friend Andrew Cseplo, who preceded me as editor in chief of the campus newspaper at George Mason University, was found dead in his cab Thursday night at 13th and Constitution in Washington, D.C. Emergency medical technicians tried to revive him, but were unable. It looks like he had a heart attack, which came as a shock to the friends who actually see him from time to time.

He was 53, and at least during the last two years on Facebook, he seemed to be having a really good time. He had one of the best senses of humor I have ever seen; I would have thought he might have been able to make it as a stand-up comic.

And now he’s gone. It is depressing to lose a friend, but it is especially depressing when the friends you lose are younger than you are.

I have been blessed in my life. I had three grandparents alive till I was 35 years old, and I was 58 before I lost one of my parents. I have only lost one relative — a cousin — at a shockingly young age, but he had a medical condition that made it certain he wasn’t going to make it past adolescence.

It’s strange, though. Relationships end all the time, and some end with a finality that resembles death. For five years or so, I was closer to my first wife than I had ever been to anyone else. But we split up in 1980 and haven’t seen or spoken to each other in more than 30 years. We might as well be dead to each other.

Still, for all the friends and relatives we lose along the way, occasionally they come back. Some years back, I was able to re-establish contact with my friend Walter Masterson. We stayed in touch for the last three or four years of his life. When he died at age 87, our renewed friendship had made both our lives more pleasant.

Billie Johnson

Friday on Facebook, I got a pleasant surprise. A woman that I knew for only one year — my senior year in high school — sent me a message. Billie Johnson was my government teacher in 12th grade, one of the two or three finest teachers I had in my many years getting educated.

She taught government at my high school until she retired in 1994, and she is still actively working for teachers — both active and retired — to protect their rights. In a challenging time when the far right seems to see teachers as the villains for everything that’s wrong with our country, it’s important for people to stand up and say no to them.

It made me very happy to hear from her. I have never forgotten something she said to me at the end of 12th grade. She apologized to me for not being able to make the class more interesting. She said she knew I would have benefitted from a more advanced class, but government was a required subject for every high school senior in Virginia. She had to teach a class that would get as many kids through as possible.

Her apology embarrassed me. Sure, what she said was true, but I hadn’t even gotten an “A” in the class. I didn’t think I had the right to a more challenging class.

Good teachers are like that, and she was one of the best. It’s strange to go from a teacher-student relationship to a friendship between two retired adults.

It’s kind of nice, though.

Not all the surprises we get at this point in life are bad ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

posted by Mike in Friends,Happiness,Health,memories and have No Comments

What if you could travel back for a little advice?

I was thinking recently about conversations I’ve had with my best friend Mick Curran.

Mick and I have known each other since June 1965, when we met at the swimming pool in our neighborhood in Fairfax, Va. We have had so many conversations in the last 47 years that I might have spent as much time talking with him as any other three people in my life combined.

We’ve had serious conversations and silly ones, conversations about the best things in our lives and the worst.

We had some interesting ones of the type that guys who are playing the back nine of life have a couple of years ago. The ones that start with “If you could change anything …”

Stepping back in time ...

My question was this:

Let’s say you had the opportunity for five minutes to go back in time to an earlier point in your life — let’s say just before puberty — and meet your younger self. You can tell yourself one thing, give one piece of advice, but it can’t be something serious like study hard, don’t take that job, make that investment or don’t marry that girl.

In fact, it can’t be anything that an adult would tell a child that the child might not believe. My mother told me time and again about things that mattered and things that didn’t matter, but I don’t think her advice changed anything I did or didn’t do. My mistake.

Ideally, you would tell yourself something that would be useful to you later that had never crossed your mind at that point.

So if I could step back into time for five minutes in the summer of 1962, the summer when I was 12 years old, I would have two words to say to my younger self:

“Lift weights.”

I was reasonably athletic as a teenager, but I was not physically strong. I was skinny but flabby, which is not a great combination. I was never a 99-pound weakling, but I certainly found myself intimidated by guys my own age who were in really good shape physically. When I was in 10th or 11th grade — I forget which — we were doing a three-week unit of wrestling in gym class.  I was pitted against a kid who was one of the top wrestlers in the school. He joked to his friends that he would pin me in less than 15 seconds. My greatest hope was to last longer than that.

It took him about 40 seconds to pin me, but I was on my back trying to keep my shoulders off the mat right from the beginning.

I’m not sure there is any worse feeling for a teenage boy than to be weak, and when you’re a year younger than all your classmates — as I was — it just adds to the feeling of insecurity. And when a teenage boy feels insecure, too often his feelings come across as neediness.

Taking care of yourself, building at least a certain level of physical strength, really would work wonders.

posted by Mike in baby boom,Exercise,Happiness,memories and have No Comments

Some intellectuals are never recognized

As little as I’ve been writing recently, I ought to be ashamed to do this. But I came across this piece from January 2004 and thought it was both funny and relevant.

Now you’re really going to have to listen to me.

I received a letter from Cambridge, England, notifying me that I had been selected as one of the 2,000 outstanding intellectuals of the 21st century.

That’s right, we bad. We bad.

Sorry, but I couldn’t help channeling Richard Pryor in “Silver Streak” for a minute there.

Seriously, here’s how the letter started:

“The Oxford English Dictionary defines intellectualism as the ‘doctrine that knowledge is wholly or mainly derived from pure reason’ and it follows by saying that an intellectual is ”a person possessing a good understanding, enlightened person.’   Surely, therefore, this definition is the reason for your selection to be included in this prestigious publication which is due for release in late 2004.”

Well, gosh.

Now I’m no slouch. I read two newspapers every day, I finish the crossword puzzle more often than not and I can usually beat the contestants on “Wheel of Fortune” to the correct answer.  Sometimes I don’t even need to buy a vowel.

But intellectual? I’m not even the leading intellectual in my own family. My wife has doctorates in astronomy and geophysics, my daughter has two bachelors degrees – both with honors – from UCLA and my son just finished his first semester of college at Cal State Northridge with a 4.0 average.

In my house, I’m the freaking village idiot.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If Bill Cosby, Elayne Boosler, Jerry Seinfeld and Steve Martin all lived together, one of them would have to be the least funny guy – or girl – in the house.

And if Willie, Mickey and the Duke lived together – when they were all living – one of them would have been the least athletic. I’m thinking Duke.

No competition at all.

So it’s all a matter of comparison. Put me in a phone booth with Dubya and I’d be the first one to find my way out. Yeah, I know he’s got degrees from Yale and Harvard, but my guess is the names “Pierce” and “Bush” – momma’s and daddy’s names – had more to do with that than any grades he actually earned. If Dubya had a brain, he’d be outside playing with it.

Put me up against ol’ Dub in a battle of wits and I’d refuse to fight. There’s no honor in beating an unarmed man, even if it would be soooo much fun.

Anyway, I’m no dope. Just ask the folks in Cambridge. Those limeys know brains when they see them. We’re talking about the land that gave us Billy Shakespeare, Bert Russell and Monty Python.  I’m part English myself, on my mother’s side and way back on my natural father’s side. Of course, I’m part German too, and the Germans have a fine intellectual tradition of their own — Goethe, Nietzche, Goebbels.

Oh, never mind. Every nationality, every ethnic group, has its great thinkers and its morons. For every Benjamin Franklin there’s a Benny Hill, for every Apostle Paul there’s a Pauly Shore.

And for every Mike Rappaport, well, there’s a Mike Rappaport. Like most people, I’ve got my smart side and my goofy side.

But hey, Cambridge likes me. Cambridge thinks I’m one of the finest minds of my generation. Cambridge figures I might do something great someday.

Uh, Mike … Isn’t this another one of those books where they’ll put your name in a book with a few thousand other wannabes as long as you pay $300 or $400 to buy the special leather-bound edition?

Not at all. If you want the book, you can buy it for whatever they’re selling it for – in pounds, not dollars – but they stress that you don’t have to buy the book in order to be listed in it.

They love me for my mind. Not my money.

But didn’t you buy the book when they put you in “Who’s Who in America?”

Sure, but that was because I wanted to donate a copy to the public library. I didn’t want to be one of those prophets who was without honor in his own small city of 24,000 people.

Uh, yeah. Whatever.

Yeah, I bought the special leather-bound edition and looked inside at my bio once or twice. Then I donated it to the library. Dang book wouldn’t fit in the bookcase, and I needed more space in the bottom of my closet for my shoes.

That’s not the point, though. It’s one thing to be in “Who’s Who in America.” They’re not particularly selective. I think Dubya, Pee Wee Herman and the guy who mows my lawn are all in there. But if someone thinks you’re one of the “2,000 outstanding intellectuals of the 21st century,” that’s really something.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Vanna White is calling.

 

posted by Mike in humor,memories and have No Comments

Great books aren’t just for boys or girls

My younger sister is a great thinker and a real activist. She sent me an article she wrote for The Horn Book in which she argued very effectively that we ought to stop dividing children’s books into books for boys and books for girls.

Thinking back to my own childhood, when I read several hundred books a year, I remember that boys were pushed toward Tom Swift and the Hardy Boys while girls were given Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins. That’s probably oversimplifying it — I never read much of any of those series — but I read a ton of baseball books and most of the science fiction written by Robert Heinlein.

A lot of those books came from the Carnegie Library in my mother’s home town. I usually spent several weeks visiting my grandparents every summer, and I would check out five or six books every other day. But there were a few books — rare ones — that I would read over and over again as the years went by.

They weren’t the so-called iconic books of my generation. I never read any Tolkien, and books like “On the Road” left me cold. I did read “The Catcher in the Rye” a couple of times, but I never thought it really spoke to me. Holden Caulfield was half a generation ahead of me.

There was one book, though, that sort of came out of nowhere for me. My dad was born in New York City and grew up in Brooklyn. Starting when I was 7 or 8 years old, we spent time with our grandparents in Brooklyn nearly every summer. I never made it to Ebbets Field, but I saw so many other fascinating things about America’s favorite city-within-a-city.

I don’t know how old I was the first time I read “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” The book had been published in 1943, and the story it told occurred more than a generation before that. I don’t think it was the first book I ever read with a female protagonist, but it was certainly one of the first ones that really resonated with me.

It was such a beautiful story, so completely American. Francie Nolan lived in grinding poverty in the years just before World War I, but loved her life and believed that it would get better.

She was the granddaughter of immigrants from Austria and Ireland, with a hard-working mother and a charming, alcoholic father who worked — when he worked at all — as a singing waiter. She essentially had nothing, but she loved so many things about her life and didn’t feel like anyone owed her anything.

The amazing thing about the story — and I downloaded it onto my Nook to see if it was as I remembered — is that while yes, Francie is a girl, there isn’t anything “girly” about the story at all. She is first and foremost a person, an individual about whom we care deeply.

Second, she is completely and totally an American of the period in which she lived. She isn’t some phony Horatio Alger story. She doesn’t go from rags to riches; she survives her childhood and is headed off to college. It’s pretty apparent she has a chance at a good life.

What more can anyone ask of a real story?

 

 

 

 

posted by Mike in American Dream,books,Family,memories and have No Comments

A sax, a trunk and all of a sudden it’s 1986 again

It’s amazing how much my relationship with television has changed over the years.

I was never a big TV viewer when I was young. While I ultimately became a big fan of “Star Trek,” I never watched even one episode during the years it was shown on ABC. The first show that ever became “appointment” television for me was “Dallas,” which came on in 1978. It was around that same time that I first got HBO, and for most of the next decade I watched a lot more movies on cable than I did regular shows with all their commercials.

I still had a few shows that were appointment TV for me — “Dynasty,” “Moonlighting” and, starting in 1986, “LA Law.”

I don’t know if there was ever a show that had a cooler theme song/credits sequence. Starting with the jazz saxophone riff, and then the sound of the trunk slamming shut and showing the California vanity license plate reading “LA LAW.”

That image totally resonated with me. I was born in California, and even though I had never lived there, I had visited the state with my first wife in 1978 and then by myself earlier in 1986. My goal from the time I had started my career was someday to make it to the West Coast, and “LA Law” was so totally ’80s California that almost every time I watched it, it reinforced my desire someday to live there.

Two months after the show came on the air, I moved to Colorado.  Two years later I moved on to Nevada, still watching “LA Law” every Thursday night at 10 p.m. (it had been 9 p.m. in St. Louis and in Colorado) The show lasted until May 1994, by which time I had lived in Los Angeles for four years. I had stopped watching by then. Most television dramas start getting weird after five or six years, and I was working a lot of nights by then anyway.

Appointment television was becoming a lot less important to me by then. In the last 20 years, I only had one show that mattered to me that much, and after four or five seasons, even “The West Wing” wasn’t worth making the effort.

Of course, the advent of DVDs changed all that. All of a sudden, I could buy an entire year’s worth of a show and watch it as quickly — or as slowly — as I wanted, and I didn’t have to sit through commercials. There were numerous shows I hadn’t watched that became favorites on DVD — “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “Angel,” “Boston Legal” and others.

But “LA Law” never seemed to come out on DVD. The earlier hit show by creator Steven Bochco — “Hill Street Blues” — hadn’t done all that well, and to date only two seasons have made it to DVD.

Now season one of “LA Law” is out, although technically I don’t think it has been released in this country. The box that came from Amazon says it’s a Region 2 (Europe) DVD, although it plays just fine on my Blu-Ray player. The schedule for release in the United Kingdom is for a season to come out every three months, so who knows?

I do know that at the beginning of every episode, hearing the sax riff and the slamming trunk and then seeing the license plate takes me back in a way no other shows do. For a minute, it’s 1986 again. I’m 36 years old and still working my way toward making my dreams come true.

 

 

 

 

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posted by Mike in American Dream,California,Happiness,memories,television and have No Comments

Weight loss, my office and a favorite old show

Short takes from a journey through a disorganized mind:

When people used to describe a period of time by saying it was “40 days and 40 nights,” they generally weren’t referring to five weeks and five days or to 960 hours.

No, when they said 40/40, it was a colorful way of saying “it was a long time, but we’re not sure exactly how long.”

Well, when I tell you I have completed the first 46 days of my effort to get back into shape, I am referring to the specific number — 31 days of March and 15 days of April — and I have a specific result. I have lost 42 pounds. Of course it’s essentially the same 42 pounds I lost two years ago en route to losing 112 pounds in six months.

I wish I had kept track — or better yet — that I could just remember exactly how much weight I have lost in all the various and assorted diets of my life. I’m pretty sure that it’s at least 400 pounds, which would be great if I had weighed something like 550 and how was down to 150. Of course that’s not the case; I have been on nature’s roller-coaster ride for the last 30 years or so, and at some point the mechanism is going to break.

I’m actually pretty good at losing weight. I just suck at keeping it off.

That has to change.

***

In my room.

Something about my office — the one room in our lovely house that is all mine — just makes me happy. Deep down happy.

Nicole has done a truly wonderful job of decorating the rest of the house. Our house is a real showplace. But my one room, with all its movie posters, sports memorabilia, photos and the like on the walls, is the nicest room I have ever had that I could call mine.

The built-in bookcases, which are packed to the gills with books and DVDs, fill an entire wall. A television set and storage cabinets occupy the opposite wall. I’ve got four autographed jerseys, of which there’s room on the walls for two at a time. Right now I’m looking at John Elway’s No. 7, and I’ve got Johnny Bench’s No. 5 on the wall behind my left shoulder.

Chipper Jones is packed away for now, and I’m looking forward to the arrival of a fairly rare minor league jersey of Tom Seaver from his one season below the major-league level. He was 12-12 with Jacksonville in 1966. The very next season, he won 16 games for the New York Mets.

***

It has been nearly 15 years since television shows started coming out on DVD, and there is one that has been in my sights for almost all that time.

I was living in St. Louis when “LA Law” first debuted in 1986, and almost everything about it spoke to me of how much I wanted to live in California.

I had always had my sights set on the San Francisco Bay Area rather than the Southland, and I nearly got a job in Marin County in January 1988. That didn’t happen, though, and in 1990 I got a job in Los Angeles and moved south to spend the next 20 years of my life.

When we left for our retirement in Georgia in November 2010, I was more than ready to leave. But now that the first season of “LA Law” is finally out on DVD, watching it really brings back memories.

Good ones.

 

 

 

 

posted by Mike in California,Happiness,Hobbies,John Elway,memories,television and have No Comments
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