When I was a young turk at Andover High School, in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, back in 1978, I was part of a band of brothers and sisters who happened to play music in the top rated HS orchestra in the state. We were the nerds, the egg-heads, the sensitive artists, the intellectual heart of the school and I was their king, or rather their mascot, probably because I was the only senior who would dare be seen with these dweebs. We were all destined for Julliard and Peabody Conservatory.
Many of them made it. Although accepted, my father refused to pay my way to Peabody, even after an overwhelming vote by the band boosters to set up a special scholarship fund to send me, which was over ridden by the head of the music department.
My friends and I had some strong ideas about the artist life, which they called, the “RM Theory.” It was a couple years into my college career at Wayne State University, when I was a counselor at Interlochen, the ultimate summer camp for the arts, I overheard a few campers from another cabin telling their new friends about the “RM Theory.”
After listening for a while, I asked them where they went to High School. “We’re from Andover.”
I asked them to explain the “RM Theory.” They did pretty well. “Well, basically, it means you just kick ass, work your art to the hilt, be prepared, give it everything you got and then like, you just let it go. Like, after you put it out there, it just doesn’t matter. It’s gone.”
“You release it to the Universe,” I added.
“Yeah, that’s right.” They paused. “Hey, how do you know about the “RM Theory?”
“Do you know what the “RM” stands for?” I asked.
“Well, ah, no. Do you?
“Yep. I’m Rob Maniscalco, glad to finally meet you.”
They were like, “Woe, no way man. You’re RM?”
I’m like, “Yeah, way man. I’m RM.”