San Francisco, 1977. Disco was in full sway, as the Men’s Club — myself, Richard W., Derek S., and Phil Groves — drove to dinner. Somebody was complaining about something.

“You don’t have to do it! Oh, noooo!” I sang, mimicking BeeGees. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Derek had wrangled tickets to the upcoming Stones concert. We were jovial. We were on top of the world.

Earlier that day, I’d visited City Hall. A business license, as I recall. Oddly, there was a San Francisco streetcar sitting on the sidewalk in the square across from City Hall, one of those fake streetcars that run on tires. And a TV crew loitered about.

“What’s going on?” I asked the crowd of gawkers standing on the grand steps leading up to the doorway.

“Mick Jagger and the Mayor,” somebody said. The Mayor. That would be Diane Feinstein. But I didn’t see any Stones, and I didn’t see Ms. Feinstein. My business license beckoned.

When I came out, across the street, hanging from the streetcar while TV crews shot from below, Mick and Diane were chatting it up. Big smiles flashed. Wonderful, so happy, really looking forward. Publicity for the Mayor. Publicity for San Francisco. Publicity for the Stones. Everybody happy.

Huge bodyguards in black suits frowned the casual passersby away. I noticed the long, black limousine parked down below, and made a calculation in my head. Up the block, I crossed the street, and then walked slowly back, on a diagonal crossing the street.

Sure enough, the shoot was done and Jagger, trailed by black suits, was crossing the street. Our paths intersected so we were walking side by side, two feet apart. He looked over at me. I looked over at him. There was something important that I wanted to know.

“How do you stay so thin?” I asked. He nodded.

“Don’t eat much,” he said.