Mickey Stanley belted out the last line of his band’s most famous song, “Portland Forever.” The crowd screamed it out with him, holding up lighters, their fists in the air.
He might be as old as the older ones in the crowd and old enough to be the father of the younger ones, but Mickey still had it.
“Good night!” he shouted as the crowd roared for an encore.
Mickey had been the lead singer for Oregon for more than 30 years. The band had toured extensively in the 80s and 90s, and Mickey had made a fortune.
In his 40s, he started producing music for others. In his early 50s, he was surprised when Oregon’s songs began to enjoy a resurgence.
Now the band was back together and on the road again, promoting a new album. They’d just finished a series of West Coast concerts and landed in Portland. A driver was waiting at the airport to pick Mickey up.
On his way home, he looked out the window and smiled as he thought about the size of the crowd at the concert at Stanford the night before, how much he enjoyed partying with college students afterwards and how favorable the media reviews were that morning.
The limo pulled into his driveway, and the driver got out and pulled Mickey’s suitcase out of the trunk.
“I can take it from here,” he said, handing him a fifty.
Mickey’s wife, Patti, appeared at the front door.
“Welcome home,” she said, smiling.
He wheeled his bag up the front walk and gave her a kiss.
“I missed you,” he said, embracing her.
“I missed you too,” she said.
It was dinnertime, and Patti had made them hot dogs and french fries. As they sat down at the kitchen table, she filled their glasses with cold water from a plastic pitcher.
“So tell me about the tour,” she said.
He had just begun to tell her about the size of the crowds when the phone rang.
“Do you mind if I get that?” she asked.
“No, go ahead.”
Mickey squirted ketchup on his plate, picked up a french fry and dipped it in.
“Sorry,” said Patti a few minutes later. “That was Jane. She just got home from the hospital.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Pretty good,” she said. “I baked some cookies for her today. I’ll bring them over after dinner.”
“That’s nice."
“By the way,” she said, “it’s garbage night.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow afternoon, and the grass is about a foot high. Do you think you could cut it in the morning?”
“Sure.”
“Now, what were you saying about the tour?”
He might be as old as the older ones in the crowd and old enough to be the father of the younger ones, but Mickey still had it.
“Good night!” he shouted as the crowd roared for an encore.
Mickey had been the lead singer for Oregon for more than 30 years. The band had toured extensively in the 80s and 90s, and Mickey had made a fortune.
In his 40s, he started producing music for others. In his early 50s, he was surprised when Oregon’s songs began to enjoy a resurgence.
Now the band was back together and on the road again, promoting a new album. They’d just finished a series of West Coast concerts and landed in Portland. A driver was waiting at the airport to pick Mickey up.
On his way home, he looked out the window and smiled as he thought about the size of the crowd at the concert at Stanford the night before, how much he enjoyed partying with college students afterwards and how favorable the media reviews were that morning.
The limo pulled into his driveway, and the driver got out and pulled Mickey’s suitcase out of the trunk.
“I can take it from here,” he said, handing him a fifty.
Mickey’s wife, Patti, appeared at the front door.
“Welcome home,” she said, smiling.
He wheeled his bag up the front walk and gave her a kiss.
“I missed you,” he said, embracing her.
“I missed you too,” she said.
It was dinnertime, and Patti had made them hot dogs and french fries. As they sat down at the kitchen table, she filled their glasses with cold water from a plastic pitcher.
“So tell me about the tour,” she said.
He had just begun to tell her about the size of the crowds when the phone rang.
“Do you mind if I get that?” she asked.
“No, go ahead.”
Mickey squirted ketchup on his plate, picked up a french fry and dipped it in.
“Sorry,” said Patti a few minutes later. “That was Jane. She just got home from the hospital.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Pretty good,” she said. “I baked some cookies for her today. I’ll bring them over after dinner.”
“That’s nice."
“By the way,” she said, “it’s garbage night.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow afternoon, and the grass is about a foot high. Do you think you could cut it in the morning?”
“Sure.”
“Now, what were you saying about the tour?”
