“Now let me get this straight…”

When Sonny Bono was killed in a ski accident, his widow Mary graciously allowed his ex wife to give the eulogy.  It had been Sonny, after all, who had turned the skinny, ugly caterpillar Cherilyn Sarkisian into the exotic, striking performing arts phenom known as Cher.  She was distraught, but through her tears she acknowledged this unrepayable debt when she referred to him as her “most unforgettable character.”

We all knew to what she was referring.  It was that series in that god-awful Reader’s Digest Magazine.  “The Most Unforgettable Character” was a cultural touchstone.  And it came to my mind the other day.

It was triggered by the word “character.”  I have known many wonderful people in my life- some of whom I have already introduced to you.  But that particular word conjures up someone larger-than-life, a rogue, a rascal, a Peck’s bad boy, someone Damon Runyanesque.  You know- a character.  Which instantly makes me free associate to my buddy Skip.

If you looked up the word “character” in the dictionary there he’d be- lounging at the Snowmass Club pool.  Lord of all he surveyed.  Covered in suntan oil, and wreathed in a great big grin.

Everything about him was big.  Profane.  Funny.  Generous.  Spontaneous.  Reckless.  Fearless.  Burly.  High-living.  Out-spoken.  Clever.  Street-smart.  Self-made and on the level business-wise.  But nevertheless, a real-life Tony Soprano- minus Carmela.  (Long-divorced when I first met him, Skip was the hands-on, devoted dad of two great kids.)

And minus the mob connections and the murders-for-hire.  But not the mayhem.  Skip caused trouble wherever he went- and liked it.

I met Skip one summer’s day in Colorado.  It was inevitable that our paths would cross because, like him, I had “frequent flyer miles” doing time around the Snowmass Club swimming pool.  Every morning I’d show up by ten and order a “Ross Special.” (That’s a Diet Coke with a garnish of orange slice, maraschino cherry, lemon and lime twists.  A Diet Coke with fruit salad.  I would nurse the drink all morning- breakfast- and eat the cola-flavored fruit salad for lunch.)

It was hard to miss Skip.  He was always holding court.  He was a good buddy of my good buddy, Hays, and formal introductions were dispensed with pool-side.  Soon the three of us were meeting up daily to shoot the breeze.  Mostly Hays and I would just listen as Skip waxed lyrical about his philosophy of winning the Game of Life.

Half the time it was good, cold-eyed business sense.  Half the time it was Keystone Kop Comedy of Errors.  Skip’s well-known tendency to shoot from the hip- and the lip- got him in a lot of trouble.  He’d have to scramble to do damage control.  And Skip in a scramble was a thing of beauty- and hilarity.  Hays and I would endlessly trade “Skip ” stories to see whose could top whose.

The stories weren’t all fun and games, however.  Like Tony Soprano, Skip could be a bad guy to cross.  You wouldn’t end up dead or anything but if he ever took a deep breath, looked his opponent- a bad waiter, a rude desk clerk, an incompetent ski lift operator- square in the eye and said, “Now let me get this straight…” you knew that you’d better duck.  You wouldn’t want to get caught in the crossfire that was going to ensue.

Or you could secretly grin and watch Mr. Mt. Vesuvio have to back peddle as his “I want to talk to your supervisor” technique sometimes blew up in his face.  Because of his low boiling point, this happened just as frequently.  It was always a toss-up when Skip threw down.  An innocent bystander never knew how the eruption was exactly going to go.  This made it all the more exciting.  Some service person who had just crossed Skip could end up fired.  Or he could end up with an apology and a big raise.  With Skip it could go either way.

Two true Skip stories.

Skip’s niece was getting married out of town.  Because her father- Skip’s beloved older brother- was dead, Skip acted as pater familias to the entire family.  So in that role, he flew down a few days early to the destination wedding site just to make sure that everything would run like clockwork.

The problems began at the front desk of the local hotel.  Not exactly the Four Seasons and not exactly what Skip was used to in terms of service- or promptness.  Remember the episode on 30 Rock when Liz Lemon and Jack went to see the comedians at the Chuckle Hut in Stone Mountain?  It was just like that.

The guy at the front desk was less than helpful, the bellman was lazy or dilatory or something, his room wasn’t clean.  I don’t remember all the gory details.  All I do know is that at the end of his very first day, Skip had gotten pretty much the entire staff of the little, carelessly-run hotel fired.

That was AOK until his niece, the bride-to-be, flew down and told her Uncle Skip that the wedding was going to be held there on Saturday.  Oops.  Everyone was immediately re-hired with raises and abject apologies from the mischief-maker-in-chief.  Skip had to eat his wedding cake with a huge side order of crow.

And then there was the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge concert of 1994.  Skip had been rubbing it in about his VIP tickets and finally, I got envious enough to ask him to bring me back a t-shirt.  Done.  The day after, I got my concert recap from Skip.  It had been great- but no souvenir shirt would be forthcoming for me.

Skip had, in fact, purchased the shirt for yours truly- along with a couple of hundred dollars more swag.  Then he stowed the bag under his primo seat and rocked out to the Stones.  But as he was up from his seat and dancing, he noticed a very suspicious character lurking off to one side and clutching a bag.  Skip described the guy to me as a “hippie freak.”  Who clearly didn’t belong in Skip’s very select VIP section.

Quickly, he checked under his seat- and no bag.  It was gone.  Hippie Freak had a bag.  Skip had none.  Skip did the math and the ushers were called.  The freak protested loudly.  The security guards were called.  Still more protests.  The hippie freak was now actively fighting back and so were the guards.  A melee ensued.  Riot batons were used.  The bag was forcibly removed and given back to Skip.  The freak was dragged away. The concert got back to normal.

Then Skip opened the bag.  It wasn’t his.  Someone else had stolen his swag and Skip now had the hippie freak’s concert souvenirs.

Another oops.  I loved this story and immediately went to “You Name It” in Glencoe and had a t-shirt made up for him.  It said “I went to the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge concert and I had to beat up a hippie freak to get this shirt.”

He framed it.  Very Skip.

Unforgettable.

Now did you get all of that straight?