A bit of history, all of it true: Michael was allot of things. A couple of my personal favorites were: A United States Marine, a Crew Guy/Drum and Keyboard Techie/Monitors Guy for numerous Bay Area Rock and Roll Bands (too many to mention, in fact), a mostly soft spoken man with a soft spot for dogs, a sport fisherman (although he was lousy at it compared to your's truly), a Friend when you were in need and a pretty nice guy in general. I returned his favors. In both life and in death. Burnt United States Currency (A Federal Offense. Come get me, Coppers.) that he owed me, ceremoniously.
When Michael passed, I was notified. His 105 pound Labrador Retriever, Gracie, (We'll see her, later) was dumped in my apartment's lap and I began the task of grieving, taking Gracie on adventures while putting up with her bad manners, working through all the shit that comes with knowing you're going to have to bury your Friend, doing battle with the Coroner's Office, funeral homes, cemetaries, grieving some more, letting the pain and notion of my own mortality soak in and drinking more than I should have for about a month. It sucked but, it: "had to get done," no matter what else happened.
Gracie is now in the tall grass in Saratoga, Ca.. Got herself a "Ceement Pond" an' everythin'. Eat y'er heart out, Jethro Bodine. I woulda' kept her but, I live in a small place and cooping up a 105 lb. dog just wasn't "right" to do. My Landlord woulda' gigged my ass too.
I also had to educate myself and find some allies when it came to fighting City Hall. I got lucky. I discovered an organization that I can't find enough ways to thank: The Missing In America Project. M.I.A.P., as they're known to the world at large, was absolutely instrumental in getting my Friend properly buried when the bureaucracy was going to simply dump him into an unmarked "group grave" and I found that out. That simply: "Would Not Do." I put on my armor and drew both weapons. My brain and obnoxiously tireless persistence. You DON'T want to mess with me when I am hurt AND angry. Either by itself, fine. Both? Don't do it. Somebody's gonna' need to get a mop.
After awhile, it turned out that Michael has a Daughter. She can add her name in the comments section at page bottom, should she choose to do that. I, out of nothing less than pure respect, will not add her name here. It's not my privilege.
Over time, she and I have talked on the phone and plan to, at some time in the near future, meet in person and take "that ride" to her Dad's gravesite at The Northern California Veterans Cemetery in Igo, Ca.. I've been there already.
M.I.A.P. found Michael a great view of Mount Shasta. Not to mention a proper grave stone and all of the rites of passage that go along with the burial of one of our Nation's Finest. They ALL are. And, I'm in no way speaking singularly about Marines here. I shot the whole "transfer" ceremony in black and white, high speed. I have a camera(s) and know how to use one.
90% of the people I know have, in various ways, been touched with a person that died or was scarred by this or that conflict in defense of the United States of America. I am the "estranged" Son of an Air Force "weather prognosticator." I was raised with two Stepfathers, both United States Navy career musicians. My Brothers, Nieces and Nephews, many, many, Friends have all served. I did not choose to enter the military. 1973. Not a great time to be in The Service. I got to sweat out my Senior Year in high school knowing that I was 1-A and #012. Nixon cancelled The Draft three weeks before my 19th Birthday. To be blunt: "I wasn't cut from that cloth." Honestly, I would have been a really lousy soldier. I could list all the reasons "why" that is true but, this isn't: "About me."
Among other things I've already mentioned...Michael was also famous for "forgetting the tent poles on camping trips," "being somewhat inappropriate in a somewhat appropriate way," and "knowing allot more famous people than most people ever will and not getting all stuck on their fame." I'm kind of the same way. One of the reasons we "hit it off" was that we were both Crew Guys. I was a Lighting Designer for Rock and Roll Production about a million years ago. Michael was a Crew Guy. Let it suffice to say that: "There is a camaraderie amongst The Guys Behind The Scenes." You don't have to be famous to have a really good time.
I've rubbed elbows and supped with more Snotty Rich People that were also "famous" than you can shake a snake at. I wasn't all that "impressed" by most of them. There are a few "stand-out's" here and there but, for the most part, I was very aware of their "Caste System" and that I was just a Pawn in their chess game with fame and fortune. I also: "Didn't give two shits about that." I'm as comfortable with a fair paycheck in worn Levi's, a pocket t-shirt with a band's name on it and a pair of Chuck Taylor low-cuts, eating a hamburger as I am in a tuxedo having vintage Champagne with Brie and Duck l'Orange. Just not: "Jemimah, Baby..." There's ONE guy out there that "gets" that joke. Love ya', Pal.
As an aside, I suppose I should include: "The-Great-Jim-Marshall-Lahaina-Rescue-Mission Story." It is, after all, one of my favorite: "Hanley Stories." To wit:
Michael, his older Brother, Peter and I went to a Jefferson Starship show just north of Lahaina, Maui, Hi.. It was April or May of 1993. Something like that. Jim Marshall, if you aren't making a connection with the name, is a really famous/well known/talented, etc., professional photographer. He's "passed on" as well.
Jim was full of Bushmills, piss, "whatever" and vinegar at the Starship venue, an outdoor, "festival-style," affair, photographing the band for their upcoming tour. Lahaina was their "warm up" (pun intended) gig for a Pacific Rimjob/Asia/God-Knows-Where tour. Papa John John Creach, a delightful man, was there with his wife, Sylvia. I'd never met Papa John (or Sylvia) and was excited to do so. Of course, we were all "Backstage Guests w/Slap-On All Access Passes." Michael had worked for various permutations of "The Jeffersons," (as he liked to refer to the entourage, as a group), over many years.
So. Marshall gets likkied up, he's shooting film, probably being obnoxious to someone and a HUGE Samoan Security Guard is kicking him out of the show. Jim's screaming at the guy: "No! You don't understand! I'm THE BAND'S PHOTOGRAPHER!" Michael and I: "Both have our Catcher's Mitts on." The Samoan Guy doesn't care. What do Michael and I get to do? Talk the Samoan out of throttling Marshall and get him the Hell outta' there without getting his cameras busted. They're EXPENSIVE! There will be more photo-op's. They weren't making any more Jim Marshalls though. We hop into the rental Crew Van and head off for Lahaina, running the Maui Cop Gauntlet set up for drunks leaving the show. Hanley doesn't want to drive. I get stuck Doing The Dirty Work. Again.
Marshall has "forgotten" where he's staying in Lahaina. We cruise around for about 45 minutes, illegal as Original Sin in the rental van. Finally, we find the joint. It's tucked into a familiar alley that I, luckily, know about. We get Jim into the room, he whips out a joint and a bottle of Bushmills. Jim's griping that: "Man. Doesn't anybody here know who I am?" schtick. Michael and I realize we're not only missing the show but: We've left Peter to his own devices, which wasn't particularly intelligent, considering circumstances. Pete could get mouthy with just about anyone and he may have been zero'd on the Samoan. We run the gauntlet again, gain entry and get backstage again. Safe at home! Sort of. We still had to make it back to Wailuku, where we lived.
I ended up with Paul Kantner's S.F. 49ers ballcap (he left it next to the hotel pool and forgot about it) outta' the deal but, (shoulda' had him put his marque on it w/a Sharpie) it was still pretty weird, for a non-paying gig. "All's well that ends weird." Something like that...
"I Know, It's Only Rock and Roll but, I Like It, Like It. Yes, I Do..." Believe you me, I've had it weirder and weirder. The Hanley Boys, too. Peter, among other distinctions, had long since been nicknamed "Peter-Peter" by Timothy Leary. You get the picture. They used to live next to Dennis Hopper in New Mexico. Talk about weird...
Michael was also of the Chuck Taylor, ballcap and t-shirt persuasion, although he preferred sturdier footwear. As I said: "I'm wearing his Bo-Sox hat." I'm a Tie-Dyed-In-The-Wool, San Francisco Giants Fan.
A 46th and Vicente, S.F., Ca., Giants Fan. Capital "F" intentional. Period. Multi-generational S.F. Baseball fan, even. The Seals? Get the fuck outta' here. See the 1940 hat on the "about me" Masthead? It's one of two I own. 'Nuff said. WE (The Giants) WON THE FUCKING WORLD SERIES! AGAIN! Have a plate of that!
Joe diMaggio played for the S.F. Seals. His '33 season, 63 game hitting streak, still stands as a milepost in the P.C.L.. Then he went to the N.Y. Yankees. "Traitor." I jest. Although Joe and Vinnie, his brother, too, were from Little Italy in North Beach, San Francisco, Ca., The Yanks paid better. It's Joe's birthday on the 25th. He would be 100 years old if he were alive. He "Got The Girl, for awhile," too.
I digress. (A "rave" snuck in through the side stage door.)
Both Michael and I were/are HUGE baseball fans. He even liked The "Pawtucket Chickens." Boston's "Farm Team." The story also goes: His family owned Hanley Brewery, Providence, R.I., "back when". It shut and locked the doors in 1957. Yep. Like I also said: This is one of the VERY few times that some one of The Usual Suspects doesn't get a pseudonym on this here daisy chain of tomes.
A granite headstone, with my tears upon it, reads:
Michael Francis Hanley
U.S.M.C./Vietnam
12-31-1949 - 11-23-2010
Yea, he never had to worry about having a Birthday Party. 12-31-'49. The Sonofabitch STILL gets 'em and the Whole World is invited. Go figure. I drew the Anniversary of The Atomic Bombing of Hiroshima. My party's not that cool. It's a crooked deal but, that's Poker. "Play 'em as they lay," goes the saying. I have a Hiroshima Carp Japan League Baseball t-shirt. I "bow" on my Birthdays. To the West of here.
See ya' Pal. I'll catch up with ya' in the ether, soon enough. There better be both Bushmills and Jameson (baseball and electric guitars, too) in Heaven...Rest well, Sweet Prince.
Mike (His "Trigger Name," he used to say) always liked this song:
http://youtu.be/M2366vVAdHA
Me too. At least it's not The Eagles. (Think: "The Dude" from The Big Lebowski. We both, three in fact, all, LOVED that movie.)
-Doc
Michael, far right. Earlier Rock and Roll days. The rest of you guys: "Know who you are."
O.K., cut the deck again. Deal Aces, Danke. Let THIS MUG in here too:
"Singin' out like Sunday." Indeed.
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