Lee Geiger

The drinking dens are spilling out
There’s staggering in the square
There’s lads and lasses falling about
And a crackling in the air
Down around the dungeon doors
The shelters and the queues
Everybody’s looking for
Somebody’s arms to fall into
And it’s what it is
It’s what it is now

Mark Knopfler, “What It Is” (2000)

Thursday

8:00am – My clearest thinking often happens while driving on I-5. Something about empty landscapes and pin-straight pavement. The comfort of knowing there’s an In-N-Out Burger every hundred miles or so doesn’t hurt.

Today’s journey is a 500-mile therapy session. Stuart Williams, an old college buddy from Claremont, has invited a handful of former classmates for a weekend of golf and libations at his home in Rancho Mirage, a mecca of lush fairways and enchanting vacation homes made famous by the likes of Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra. Each of us graduated from the Claremont Men’s College Class of 1982, a distant time when the primary prerequisite to gain admission to CMC (now Claremont McKenna College), arguably one of the most prestigious liberal arts colleges in the country, was one’s ability to fog a mirror.

My emotions are decidedly mixed. Sure, college was fun. I spent plenty of time at CMC draining kegs and chasing skirts. And I actually learned a thing or two, not the least of which were the conservative musings of William F. Buckley and Milton Friedman that have shaped my thinking for decades. But because I was so utterly ill-prepared–academically, financially, and socially–my four years at Claremont were a blur, a rickety bridge to scurry across to land a half-decent job. No matter which lens I look through, college left me wanting.

And I have no one to blame but myself.

Hindsight suggests the reason my memories of Claremont are met with a shrug and a “meh” is because I failed, miserably, to invest myself in my fellow classmates. Other than Havlin Kemp, my roommate of two years, I never really got to know anybody from my class. I have no explanation for this, because building relationships has been the secret to whatever success I’ve achieved in life. I simply messed this up.

I’m also a tad nervous. The other attendees include Jon Stott, Charlie Klinge, Tom Pendry and Chris Townsend. Other than Stuart, who I briefly worked with after college and stayed in touch over the years, and Jon, who lived next door to me during my sophomore year, I barely know these guys. In school I considered each of them to be intelligent, well-spoken, highly motivated and hugely popular, all qualities I lacked. Rarely did I play in the same sandbox as them. Truth be told, they intimidated the stuffing out of me.

My goal for the next 48 hours is not to say or do anything stupid. I brought plenty of good wine in case I do. It’s the one thing I know I’m good at.

2:00pm – To get in the mood, and because it’s on the way, I peel off the freeway and visit ye old alma mater. This is a BIG step for me. A head-on collision with CMC’s Development Office (i.e., gift giving) years ago has left a mental skid mark that remains to this day. It’s the reason why I disassociated myself from CMC and abruptly stopped writing the class notes for the alumni rag.

It’s been eons since I last set foot on CMC. Thanks to checks written by Henry Kravis and George Roberts, 1960-era alums who majored in golf before founding the financial behemoth known as KKR, a campus that once resembled an army base is now peppered with a panoply of glittering new edifices and landmarks. It’s absolutely, positively jaw-dropping. It’s no wonder Dave Mgrublian, Steve Eggert and Ken Valach, all major real estate development barons and fellow graduates from the Class of ’82, were added to the CMC Board of Trustees (Dave serves as Chairman). Smart move.

4:30pm – Stuart’s villa is magnificent. Located at the intersection of the 7^th & 14^th holes of the Thunderbird Country Club, the airy, spacious home was once owned by Phil Harris, a 1950’s-era band leader and comedian who served as the original Bill Murray laugh-generator for the Bing Crosby clambakes (President Gerald Ford also used to live across the fairway). During renovation, two dead mice were discovered buried deep in the original shag carpeting. To commemorate their brief yet fatal existence on their property, Stuart and his wife Lucy christened their new home “Rancho Ratones.” Brilliant.

Stuart, Jon, Charlie and I sit down for a delicious meal at Castelli’s. The classic old school Italian restaurant reeks of garlic and aftershave. Tom joins us after a three-hour death march from LAX. The frivolity continues late into the evening, with all six of us drinking whiskey around Stuart’s firepit, reminiscing about the good old days and debating whether Green Hall did suck. The twelve-year-old Red Breast was quite good, evidenced by the fact that I don’t remember going to bed.

Friday

2:00pm – The golf is GREAT. Stuart and I, legit golf nuts, play from the blue tees. I post a score of 90 which includes seven three-putts. Stuart fires an 85, which could have been lower had he not left a couple of sand shots in the bunker. His game is solid, his swing efficient, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Stuart hasn’t lost a ball since the Obama Administration. Charlie and Jon played from the white tees and shot scores that shouldn’t be repeated in polite company. It was a super fun day of golf.

Charlie, a Seattle-based real estate lawyer who owns his own firm and is married to a judge, played football at Claremont and looks like he could still suit up against Redlands. He’s laid back, charming, and engaging. I’d bet the mortgage he was one of the leaders in the CMC locker room. There are many reasons to be impressed with Charlie, but what really impresses me is the fact he flew down from Seattle just to spend one day with us. ONE. DAY. Amazing, and that act alone says a lot about him. I’m bummed Charlie won’t be staying the entire weekend with us. He’s such a great guy.

Jon, who after graduation took over the family wire business, plays a bipolar game of golf. Just like his days of playing baseball at CMC, Jon can hit the ball either right or left-handed. Not very well, mind you, but that’s beside the point. Jon is still one of the most open, honest, and quickest wits I’ve ever come across in my life. His self-deprecating manner belies a sharp intellect questioning the logic and validity of everything. That might explain why he double majored in Economics and Religion. He also has three grandchildren, which makes me very jealous. I’ve missed Jon, and I wish we lived closer.

I know Stuart the best, and I can honestly say he’s changed little over the years. Stuart’s way of looking at the world, at least from my perspective, has been the disciplined embodiment of what’s known as the transitive property of equality; if A=B and B=C, then A must equal C. It sounds easy in theory, but trust me, it’s very difficult to execute in real life. It has served him well, from Claremont to Harvard Business School to a 35-year career as a successful commercial real estate executive in Seattle. Nobody asks better questions than Stuart, and nobody gets to the point of a debate faster than he. He’s also, hands down, one of the nicest and most generous individuals I know. The fact Stuart’s a die-hard Seahawks fan is something I try not to hold against him. But I do.

Saturday

8:00am – I spend much of the morning hanging out with Sadie, Stuart’s too-cute and super-chill mutt. I also stalk the website of Townsend Public Affairs (TPA), Chris Townsend’s firm. It’s very good, filled with plenty of content and information about who they are, what they do, how they do what they do, and who they serve. Notice I use the word “they.” From my spot on the lounge chair, next to the pool, next to the jacuzzi, next to the putting green, next to the outdoor kitchen, it appears as though Chris has gone out of his way to make TPA less about him and more about the talented team of people working with him. I can appreciate his humility, but in my mind Chris, who can sell ice cream to Eskimos, could and should command a bigger profile, perhaps adding a video interview of himself. But it doesn’t matter what I think, because TPA has been in business for nearly a quarter century and is considered a leader in the field of public advocacy and grant writing, especially in California. Moreover, it’s clear from TPA’s website that Chris and his firm are focused on making the world a better place. Wall Street, not so much.

Lastly, while Chris is a high lantern of wisdom and speaks intelligently on nearly any topic dealing with politics, very few things impress me more than one’s ability to meet a payroll. And Chris has been doing that for over two decades. To me, that says a lot. Upon further review, I come to realize that everyone here this weekend has felt, or is currently feeling, the pressure of having to pay its employees. Thank goodness Rancho Ratones is stocked with plenty of booze.

2:00pm – We are sitting around the kitchen table enjoying a lunch of In-N-Out burgers, fries, and the random milk shake. A debate flares over whether Dan Debevec once ate four double-doubles in a span of ten minutes. Or maybe it was five in fifteen. Who knows. Either way, the very act itself is both impressive and insanely stupid, and serves as a perfectly valid timestamp of what we once thought was important.

Tom flew all the way from Chicago to be here, and except for the gray hair he looks EXACTLY like he did on graduation day. Right down to his black specs. Tom thinks long and hard before he speaks, and his thoughtfulness covers the gamut, from medical questionnaires to fundraising for the Lincoln Park Zoo to high school skinny-dipping. And lest I forget, the legacy of French wine. Each word uttered by Tom has a meaningful purpose, and each sentence is worthy of your time. Tom is gracious and concise, and would have made an excellent professor. And if you think Tom is wise now, wait until his 11- and 14-year-old kids grow up. Few things add to life’s knowledge base than raising teenagers. Especially while you’re collecting Social Security.

Both Tom and Chris earned Master’s degrees from Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government. Listening to them discuss politics is worth the drive down itself. I quickly discover that trying to keep up with them is akin to bringing a knife to a gunfight. Why couldn’t one of them run for president?

Stuart fires up the jacuzzi and everyone but Chris dons their bathing suit. It’s fair to say that between the four of us, there may have been one discernable ab. Such is life. The ensuing conversation revolves around NFL football, and this is yet another topic where Chris has the upper hand. A lifelong Raider fan (not that there’s anything wrong with that, says this lifelong 49er fan), Chris regularly holds court in a Raider’s luxury box, which can now be found in Las Vegas. Yet another trait I admire about Chris is the passion he brings for what he believes in. That being said, my own ample gut tells me Chris doesn’t believe much in Jimmy Garoppolo.

10:00pm – It’s late, and we’re now down to three. Stuart, Jon and I open our senior yearbook and play a game of “do you remember this classmate?” We go through the entire book, and in the end we’re jointly able to recall only 85 of our 200-ish classmates. Not very impressive, when you think about it. Then again, ten years from now we might not be able to remember our own names.

Sunday

5:30am – I hit the road early. The weekend has far exceeded my expectations. Because of the time the six of us spent together, my years at CMC mean a little bit more to me. I drive back home comforted by the knowledge that it’s never too late to make new friends. Even if you’ve known them for over forty years.