Michael F.S.W. Morrison, R.I.P.

News has been received of the death of Michael Morrison, author, editor, writer for Liberty, and a man whose life in the libertarian movement spanned the decades from the 1970s to the 2020s. It is grievous to report that on September 4, 2023, he suffered a stroke from which he never fully recovered. He died — peacefully, and I believe, with readiness for his death — in the early morning of March 25.

Michael was an intelligent, courageous, and very interesting person. I’ll tell you about him.

He was born on February 28, 1952 in Anaheim, California. As usual, he was at odds with what are called official sources. They claim he was born on March 11, 1955. He insisted on the earlier date, thus becoming one of the few people in history who have ever said they were older than their official age. (The chronology of his life, as I understand it, vindicates his contention.) He spent his childhood in Tennessee; until the end of his life he spoke with a charming southern accent. In 1970 he went from Knoxville back to California, briefly studying film at UCLA. He then had a remarkable career in what is called “media” — the part of the media that actually works for a living. He was a reporter, writer, editor, radio broadcaster, and many other things. The record is not complete, but I’ll do the best I can with it.

At some point he was a part-time announcer at KHFM in Albuquerque; he said that the letters stood for “Keep Hearing From Michael.”

By late 1971 Michael was in San Diego, working in a motel and “trying to start a libertarian party.” He soon became deeply and joyously involved in John Hospers’ campaign for president on the Libertarian ticket. (He wrote about those days in a delightful article, “The Best Electoral Vote” (Liberty, June 2, 2023). In the late 1970s he was delivering the LA Herald-Examiner in the San Fernando Valley. In 1980 he was a moving and storage salesman in LA. In 1985 he was in LA and editing a fortnightly called the Century City News. At some point he was a part-time announcer at KHFM in Albuquerque; he said that the letters stood for “Keep Hearing From Michael.”

It was after this, I believe, that he got an unusual job, which I will let him tell you about.

After I left Los Angeles and went through several mishaps, I was working for an alleged “missionary” outfit called AMG, originally American Mission to Greece but later Advancing the Ministry of God.

I should mention that Michael was not religious, and the job did not work out.

I was the radio department and an adjunct to the TV department. I started out as just a camera operator but got drafted into directing, especially when the others were out videotaping something.

Well, our department got hired to be the crew for the I think 1987 Children’s Miracle Network Telethon, that year anchored in Birmingham.

Of course there were some serious engineers and serious equipment to capture the live parts of the program and send via satellite to I think Los Angeles.

The big name that year was, yes, Bob Hope, who had flown from L.A. (and boy were his arms tired!) to step in front of the camera at break-times and wittily urge people to donate.

That camera was operated by me.

For a long time I thought that might have been the last live performance by Bob Hope, but I recently learned he did at least one more TV special, though I’m sure it was recorded, so maybe mine was only one of his last live performances.

He was a nice guy, not showing much ire when technical things went wrong and he had to re-do something.

But, bless his heart, he was old and getting feeble. He really let down between takes, but, boy, when he was about to be on the air, it was like someone flipped a switch and he came alive again.

When Jimmy Cagney made “Ragtime” it was similar. I saw clips of him looking practically asleep — till the call to get ready for the next scene. Total transformation.

When I worked at KCNN in Grand Forks, North (brrrrr) Dakota . . . .

This is how Michael always referred to North Dakota, where he spent three and a half years. He called Facebook “Fascistbook” and referred to Las Vegas, which he liked, as “Lost Wages.” But to continue—

One of my colleagues was a college student named Carla, from either Rugby or near there. One morning, after she’d been the overnight board operator for maybe eight hours, she was ready to go home to bed.

Ah, but the word came to us that whoever was supposed to come in couldn’t and would she stay over and take the air shift. Same thing: She perked right up, ready to sparkle for the morning drive time.

I’ve quoted at length to give you a sense of Michael in his role as raconteur, but also to say that he was unconsciously describing himself. He was a person like Bob Hope, James Cagney, and that student named Carla. No matter how sick or financially besieged he might be, he was always front and center for the job of life.

Following his unhappy period with AMG, whatever that stood for, he had a job with the newspaper in Valdosta, Georgia, and then with one of the two (imagine that!) papers in Savannah, where he did layout — “at which I was not experienced and, it turned out, not very good.” He got a part-time job as announcer for the classical music station: “I was pretty good at that.”

His next job was announcer for the classical music station in Grand Forks (brrrrr), North Dakota. “I couldn’t be a producer or anything like that, because I’m bad at leading people and telling them what to do.” He thought it would be an adventure, and it was, in a way. He knew he was in trouble when he walked into the place and the manager, who had talked with him by phone, suddenly asked him, “Do I detect an accent?” Michael replied, “No. In fact, I’m the only one here who doesn’t have an accent!”

I could always depend on him for wise and funny observations about life and language, acute judgments of films, about which he knew a very great deal, and valiant devotion to and constructive criticism of the libertarian movement.

Somehow, he spent three and a half years in the place, but at last he moved on. It must have been after North Dakota that he worked for a paper in Carson City. Many other jobs must have followed. Much later, when I met him, he was practicing his trade online as a freelance editor. He was devoted to his clients, and I believe he liked them, too. One time he remarked to me, not about them but in general, that he had met only one person in his life whom he regarded as evil. I’m not telling you who it was, but it had nothing to do with politics, or anything, really, except that the man was evil and everybody knew that he was, but he still kept his job. Well, maybe that says something about politics after all.

Michael started an indie outfit that he called Free State West Publishing. He published, among other titles, the fine children’s book, Good Clowns, by the late Lori Heine, another contributor to Liberty, whom he justly admired. He published (as far as I know), three books of his own: a kids’ book called The Calico Truck and two books of jokes, World-Famous Jokes, volumes 1 and 2. (“Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to Volume 2.”) I had thought joke books were old-fashioned until I saw his books. They uphold a valuable tradition, and they do it in the best way — they’re genuinely funny, and genuinely smart. But there was never anything ungenuine, or unintelligent, about Michael Morrison. His many contributions to Liberty are well represented by his essays on the influence of Shakespeare (“The Permeator,” May 20, 2020), on “The Price of Everything in Arizona” (March 28, 2022), and on the Free State West movement (“The Free State Challenge,” December 6, 2022), of which he was a huge advocate, and from which he derived the middle part of his pen name, Michael F.S.W. Morrison. (The real middle initial was J.)

He took pride in Sierra Vista, with its warm climate and kind, unpretentious people. “Why don’t you come out and live here?” was a constant refrain. “You’d really enjoy it!”

I got acquainted with Michael after the death of our mutual friend Lori. Michael and I shared our grief, and he became a constant online correspondent. I could always depend on him for wise and funny observations about life and language, acute judgments of films, about which he knew a very great deal, and valiant devotion to and constructive criticism of the libertarian movement. Like other libertarians, he was a severe critic of government and of all self-anointed elites, but he tried to see the best, and did see the best, in the thorny and often preposterous people whom one meets in political movements. He was so gentle as to spurn the hilarious scene in Old Acquaintance where Bette Davis gives a well merited shaking to Miriam Hopkins. He hated “the violence.”

At the end of his life, when I knew him, Michael was having a hard time financially and a very hard time physically. He had innumerable medical problems, very limited mobility, and a hideous insomnia. He lived where he could afford to live, in a cheap residential motel in Sierra Vista, Arizona. But — this is the important thing — he always faced poverty and distress with the intention of making the most of what he had. He worked hard and well on his editing business, he enjoyed his friends, both online and in person, and he took pride in Sierra Vista, with its warm climate and kind, unpretentious people. “Why don’t you come out and live here?” was a constant refrain. “You’d really enjoy it!” I think that almost anyone with a free spirit would have enjoyed living near Michael Morrison.

Michael once told me of a newspaper editor who said to him, “Don’t make it interesting — just get it finished!” In writing this notice I’ve enjoyed remembering Michael and rereading words that he wrote. For me, that enjoyment will never be finished. The article does need to be finished, but I don’t have to worry about making Michael Morrison interesting. He took care of that himself, just by being himself.