As a performer, I can't get much beyond the "flashers", the performer junkies, and the drunks trying to get onstage. Most of my life has been spent union organizing and getting folks elected. And boy have I got stories about some of that. I can give you one that is kind of connected.

Over the 26 years that I have been organizing, I have spent a ton of time in hotels, away from home, and many times all by myself. In order not to lapse into depression, and to keep myself from going crazy, I have always carried a guitar with me. I spent hours either in the lounge or in my room playing music. I remember the time I was in the Red Roof Inn in the southern suburbs of Denver. I was lonely, it was 2:00 AM, and I couldn't sleep. I was sitting there playing Irish ballads and comes this fierce knocking on the wall, followed by a muffled voice hollering in a very intemperate manner, "Do you know any f**king Willy Nelson????" I promptly played "Mama's, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys". As I finished, I heard the same voice, in the same bad temperament, holler "Thanks, motherf***er". I put my guitar away, chuckled, and went to sleep.

Mick