When the world heard about the death of David Crosby, it caused a collective gasp, a brother of ours was gone, placing a timeline on our own mortality. Many of us had some kind of encounter with David through the years. He was a regular at the Biltmore and other such venues.
I had my share of exposures with the man, starting with an autograph session with the Byrds in St. Louis in the late '60s. I presented the most imbecilic smile to him and he returned the same facial gesture. Years later, I stayed on a boat he formerly owned in Sausalito. I never saw him but felt his presence.
I spotted him at a Clinton rally at City College, sauntering along wearing an inconspicuous name tag with his name written out in pencil. The last time I saw him was driving down State Street, both of us stopped at the Las Positas light when I looked to my left and saw him riding shot-gun and eating an ice cream cone.