On Remembering Kevin Foley

While attending last week's benefit for my friend Kevin Hazlett, the first person I happened upon as I entered Bunker's was Kevin Foley. We hugged and I mentioned how we only see each other anymore at the worst of times, referring to our last meeting, a couple of summers past, at the funeral for his brother Steve. We laughed this off. What else do you do?

My first distinct memory of Kevin has him driving his motorbike through the halls of our high school. There are many vague memories before and after. The other night he brought up the old days at the Longhorn. It wasn't like Kevin and I ever made plans or anything, we just always ended up at the same show or party or stumbled into Lyle's or the CC Club at the same time. I always made a point to take in Routine 11 shows, if only to hear Kevin belt out Rockpile's "Teacher, Teacher." Or was that Swingset? The bands run together... Facebook provided me today with this video of a rather drunken lament to his brother's passing during a Curtiss A Beatle's show.

Facebook also provided me today with news that Kevin Foley had died in his sleep two nights ago. First Steve, now Kevin; my heart goes out to the Foley family and all my friends who are their friends. So long, Kev... It was wonderful while it lasted, though not nearly long enough. Say 'hi' to Steve for all of us.

On Meeting Kevin Hazlett

First met Kevin Hazlett, I guess, when I was just a kid. It was probably playing "Fenway Park" at the Sweeney house in Interlachen Park, in Hopkins. I played Little League with the Sweeney family and spent most of my summer days at their house, which meant running all over the neighborhood to the Carr's, to the Sawyer's, to the Hazlett's. My family always seemed to be seated within screwing around distance of the Hazletts in church.

By 1982, Kevin was living in New York and I was hitchhiking across the country (lived in San Jose, CA at the time) to a writers' workshop in Vermont. Kevin was gracious enough to let me sleep on his couch for a week. I vaguely recall a lot of 4am nights, a subway turnstile jump (my bad), and spending a lot of time walking the streets, handing out free tickets to a gig his band was playing toward the end of my stay. That night ended with a drunken saxophone player behind the wheel and me in the back of a flatbed truck, trying desperately to keep their gear—and myself—from spilling out into the street.

It was 1991, I guess, when Kevin asked to join a basement band I was in. I didn't flatter myself that he wanted to play my songs; we had a great bass player sitting in with us while between bands and that was the obvious attraction. The basement got sold and Kevin got Steve Foley to let us use the Replacements' practice space while they were on tour. We got a real drummer. And a gig. The gig ended when the police showed up as I was doing the "testing, testing" thing into the mike. That's my rock star story.

Tonight I go to a benefit for Kevin. Cancer, 'nough said. There will be great music and really lousy jokes. I look forward to it.

On Progress

Relatively good news for both my followers (and any stoppers-by): Googled my name this morning and this website actually came up! Twice. Website, story, Facebook, 'nother story, LinkedIn and website again. Now that's progress! (Special thanks to Margaret and Fluffy for their help with them META Tags.)

More progress, I guess: Got another query for No Happier State rejected last night, but she "copied" a colleague who she thought might be interested. A wonderful thing for her to do and would be very promising if the same colleague hadn't already rejected it last summer...

On Meeting Michael Stipe

My apologies for not posting in a while (if either of you are still tuning in). I began a job (after over 2 ½ years unemployed) that was supposed to be just weekends but has added some week nights and I'm all out of whack. (No excuse, I know.) To recap: I'm documenting famous people (mostly writers) I've met, mostly for my own sake. So far I've made it through John Gardner, Raymond Carver and Kirby Puckett. Today's installment: REM's Michael Stipe.

REM came to Minneapolis back in the 80s. To the Orpheum, I believe. Afterward, I managed to get into an after-hours party at First Avenue on the coattails of the Fabulous Welch Sisters. I found myself at a table with Michael Stipe seated to my right. To his right were three of the sisters, all vying for his attention. Somehow I managed to squeeze into the conversation and asked Michael about a particular song lyric that was bugging me—something about Nero and that horse. He explained what he meant by it, then turned his attention back to the women. As I pondered his explanation, he turned back to me and said: "You still don't get it, do ya?"

Now, anyone out there who knows me has asked me that same question a time or two. I admitted that no, I didn't get it, and he went on to explain at length. I was very impressed that he would take time away from these lovely women to explain his lyrics to me. I mentioned that he must get stupid questions like that all the time and asked how he usually handled them. "I usually ignore them," he said and went back to the sisters.

We later found Michael wandering in the parking lot and asked him if he needed a lift over to the hotel. I was the only guy in a car full of women and he jumped in on my lap.

I can't remember the last Rolling Stone I read. I don't keep tabs on rock stars, but I tuned into one of Jimmy Fallon's first shows a while back because Michael Stipe was a guest. They began their chat by discussing Michael's boyfriend. I thought back to that night long before, how good I felt that this guy took time to have a thoughtful discussion with me about his work. And all the while, the creep was hittin' on me! 😀

On Meeting Raymond Carver

[Wikipedia: Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr. (May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988) was an American short story writer and poet. Carver is considered a major American writer of the late 20th century and also a major force in the revitalization of the short story in the 1980s.]

The University of North Dakota conducts a wonderful—free—writers' conference every March. Back in 1986 I attended because Raymond Carver was to be the featured writer. Carver had studied under John Gardner (see earlier post), so I figured I had a minor connection and, as much as I wanted to meet Carver, I was also curious as to any insights he might have regarding Gardner.

Carver didn't arrive till the final day of the conference because of his wife-to-be Tess Gallagher's health. We went to a few parties that evening that Carver wasn't likely to attend (he'd long since quit drinking) and we finally made it to an on-campus gathering—that we likely weren't invited to—much later than I'd hoped.

We entered some sort of faculty club and there was Carver, putting his coat on and looking anxious to leave. I approached him anyway (it was my only shot) and extended my hand. "Mr. Carver," I said and introduced myself. He reluctantly shook my hand and said he was waiting for his driver. I mentioned a Georgia Review article he had written about Gardner, shortly after Gardner's death four years earlier. Carver smiled like he was pleased I'd at least done my homework. I went on to mention meeting Gardner two weeks before his motorcycle accident and his accepting a story of mine for publication. Carver took off his coat and we began to talk. His driver came down and Carver told him to wait. We talked for ten minutes about his early writing days with Gardner and my experience at Bread Loaf.

Raymond Carver died in 1988. He is sorely missed as a writer and—as I found out for ten minutes—a good guy.

On Meeting Kirby Puckett

[Wikipedia: Kirby Puckett (March 14, 1960 – March 6, 2006) played his entire 12-year baseball career with the Minnesota Twins (1984-1995).]

The Visalia Oaks came to play the San Jose Bees back in 1983. The Bees played in the lowest (single A) minor league and were a co-op team owned by four Major League teams and one from Japan. The first base coach doubled as their interpreter. Small ballpark, small crowd; the players and umpires couldn't help but hear the hecklers.

After some tailgating, my friends Bodie (from Tennessee), Tex (from Mississippi), DinDin and I took our seats behind the third base dugout. (Both southerners had booming twangs. Very effective. Us Minneapolis natives, not so much.) It was our custom to pick one member of the opposing team and ride him relentlessly throughout the game. We saw the name Kirby Puckett in the program and he was the one. Though comparatively svelte in those days, Kirby still had the huge butt and, when he waddled up to home plate to lead off the game, we let him have it. We gave him our best stuff, even managing to rhyme his last name without being vulgar.

The first pitch came in eye-high. Kirby hacked at it anyway, hitting a line shot that was by the shortstop before he could even react. The ball stayed on the same plane till it crashed into the fence in left-center. The hardest hit ball I've ever seen. Kirby chugged into third with a stand-up triple, looked up at us and tipped the bill of his helmet—all the while flashing us that wonderful smile.

We quickly searched the program for someone else to taunt. Within a year Kirby was getting four hits in his first game with the Twins and the rest is World Championships and Hall of Fame. (Okay, so we really didn't meet him. But he did acknowledge us.)

On Meeting John Gardner

[Wikipedia: John Champlin Gardner, Jr. (July 21, 1933 – September 14, 1982) was an American novelist, essayist, literary critic and university professor. He is perhaps most noted for his novel GRENDEL, a retelling of the Beowulf myth from the monster's point of view.]

It was the spring of 1982 when I received a phone call from the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop asking if I'd accept a scholarship to attend their conference that fall. The call itself was a shock and came just in time for me to escape a nasty roommate situation. They asked, would I be arriving by car, bus or plane?

"On foot," I replied. "I guess I'll be hitchhiking..." I lived in San Jose, CA. The conference is held in Middlebury, VT. I was in no hurry. I had little money, no place to live and plenty of time. It took two months. (If you hang around this blog long enough, I'll likely tell the hitchhiking story.)

Twenty-five young writers received "working scholarships" that year. The "working" was waiting tables, something I'd never done before. They asked for a volunteer to take the children's table in the corner; they said the few children that had been dragged by parents to the conference always sat at that table. This seemed about my speed. The first night the table was empty and I happily ran food and bussed tables. That night a rather drunken John Gardner was one of the opening night speakers. He addressed the crowd with a succinct: "If you're not writing politically, you're not writing shit!" and stomped out of the hall.

The next day's conversation obviously centered around Gardner's "speech." That night I was in the kitchen, helping out where I could, preparing for the dinner meal, when a fellow waitperson rushed into the kitchen. "Carolyn Forché and her people are at your table!" she screamed. I protested that it said "children only" right on the table. "Tim O'Brien's at your table!" another voice called out. That can't be, I demanded as the kitchen door opened and someone cried: "John Gardner and his entourage are at your table!"

The children's table had become the big shots table (along with jokes about it still being the children's table) but that was the least of my problems: John Gardner was my "reader" for the event and had left a note in my box—along with the stories I had submitted—to meet in a few days and discuss my work.

Arriving early for our meeting, I found a University of Minnesota wrestler named George seated on the very couch I was to meet Mr. Gardner at. "I have a meeting with John Gardner," George said. When Gardner arrived he apologized for the mix-up and asked George to return in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, I thought. I hitchhike across country for an hour-long meeting with this guy and all the bastard gives me is twenty minutes. He took the stories from me—he'd made no notes on them—and proceeded to give me detailed critiques on each of the three. From memory.

He pointed to one story and said: "I bet you'd get some laughs if you read this one in front of a group." I explained that I had read it the night before at the scholarship winners reading and, yes, it got some laughs. "Sorry I missed it," he said, looking sufficiently contrite. He looked at his watch and I could see that my twenty minutes were up.

But there was no George in sight and, to keep things rolling, I said the first thing that came to mind: "So, what about the 'you're not writing shit' speech?"

"What's been the hot topic all week?" he asked.

"Your speech," I admitted.

"Exactly," he said, and still no George. After a pause, Gardner asked: "Where you from?" I said San Jose, then mentioned the two-month hitchhike. This seemed to impress him more than my writing. "How old are you?" he asked. I said twenty-five. "That's a good time to be published," he said and pointed to one of my stories: "Lop off the last line of this one and I'll publish it in my magazine, MSS." About then George arrived.

I got a ride to Wisconsin from a fellow waiter and a lift from Minneapolis to Wyoming for a friend's wedding. I was back in San Jose by September 15, when the paper ran the story about John Gardner and his motorcycle crashing over a cliff the day before.