On The Money: Dude, we’ve lost an icon

On my Santa Cruz vacation, I visited my favorite retail spot. It’s called Big Kahuna Hawaiian Shirts in Capitola (there’s a theme here). It’s just a couple of blocks from the beach and has more than 1,000 shirts in stock. I can spend a lot of time in there checking out all the wild-and-crazy designs.

When I was there recently, I had the quintessential laid-back beach experience. As a walked in the door, the twentysomething cashier said to me: “Hey, dude!” OK, I don’t get called that much any more, if ever. No matter how indigenous I try to look, I’m clearly too old and too uptight to be in the dude crew. But, hey, I appreciated the compliment.

Anyway, that greeting was closely followed by the gentle breaking of tragic news: “Did you hear Michael died?” At this point, my cover is completely blown because I hadn’t been keeping up on the news much as I was on vacation so I had no idea who she was talking about. “Whoa, bummer,” was all I could think to soberly reply. “I know, huh,” she responded. “What happened?” I asked.

And with that I luckily got her to fill me in on all the details, including the fact that she was talking about Michael Jackson, not Michael Jordan, not Michael Vick, not Michael Douglas, now Michael Bolton, not Michael Corleone. Nope, she was talking about the King of Pop. “That’s too bad,” I said, relieved I hadn’t hazarded a lame guess.

“I know, I feel so bad,” she went on. “Oh, yeah, me too,” I added, wanting to keep my dudeness in tact. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice trailing off. “Hey, close early, and go have a cocktail out on the beach as the sun sets,” I offered as I headed out the door. “Dude, that’s a great idea,” she said perking up. “Thanks.”

I felt secure in the knowledge that even old, stressed-out guys can blend in when they have to. “Bartender, I’d like a table by the beach and a Corona,” I found myself saying a few minutes later. “Dude, no worries,” he shot back. Man, don’t you just love that.