With one hand on the wheel, I dug out the vibrating phone from my pocket. I was actually on my way to get his Xmas present when he called me. He and the band were playing at a memorial show for Dennis. Lots of other people were there, including the band we saw last week, and most importantly Mike and Mark. It was in some kind of function hall, all the way up in the north shore. I scribbled some directions down, ran into Guitar Center to buy his present, then headed back home to first pick up my case of harmonicas and one of my other musical doo-dads.

I hadn't seen Mike and Mark in years. The two of us played in bands all the way though high school and college. Other people came and went, but us three stuck together. Eventually Dennis was part of the band. Mark had been playing drums since he was 6, and although Dennis was a drummer, both of them played keyboards too. So it would be me on bass, Mike on guitar, and the other two swapping between drums and keyboards for different songs. We never got our shit together as much as we could have, but man, we made some incredible music and played some great shows.

I finally made it to the function hall, lucking out with a parking spot right in front. Just like last week's show, lots of people were standing outside, smoking. I saw Mike. Mike and his wife moved to New Orleans after he got his music degree, moving back last year (before it got flooded, thankfully) to New York. Mike was somebody you could still recognize from a mile away. He still looked pretty much the same after all these years: the dark baseball cap pulled low down over his shaven head, the olive italian skin, the black goatee, the posture.

Mark had been through a lot of troubles, especially with regards to relationship, jobs, and his weight. He was somebody I didn't recognize at first. I knew he gained lots of weight over the years, but he was at a point now where it looked almost natural. The bulging in his arms looked genetic. I saw him standing on top of the stairs inside, cap backwards, thick-framed glasses. It was so great to see both of them. They were easily two of the best musicians I've ever played with.

I could hear my brother singing as I was talking with Mark. They were just finishing up a song. This was my chance to go get his attention, so I left Mark for the time being. I worked my way past the empty round tables and chairs, through the standing crowd, to the corner where they were all facing. I made my presence known to my brother and the band, and joined them for their last number. Some Stevie Wonder song, which I managed to pull off.

After that, it was time for another band. I managed to get some songs in here and there where there was a free microphone. The sound guy was right next to me. I stored my harmonica case and wrapped up wooden flute behind one of the fake trees near the back of the "stage". I had already stuffed myself earlier, but tried some of the free food anyway. There seemed to be more men than women there, but women present none the less. In situations like these you always have to wonder if everybody there already has a boyfriend, possibly even a husband. But just eyeing "prospects" is a good thing to do after finishing a crash n' burn relationship. You need reminders that you're still in the game.

The bands were apparently running over the allowed time, but were thankfully allowed to keep playing. Somebody announced that to some effect. My brother and his band came back, and I played some more songs with him, eventually closing out the night. During the last song the lights came on. That was probably the final cue to leave. The band busted into some fast gospel-sounding thing, and things just got louder and louder.

I could smell pot. What the hell? I turned to the sound man, who with an empty hand I saw making the joint-smoking gesture to his friend, as if to say "You smell that?" I looked around and sure enough, somebody was passing around a big joint. Here we were, the band playing over, holding a memorial of sorts in this wholesome looking function hall. And people are pulling that shit out right on the dance floor.

I fucking hate pot. I know it's blasphemous to say that now a days, but I do. And weren't we here to remember a guy who just died of a drug overdose? I don't care about the "Pot is not like other drugs" and "Pot is not lethal" arguments. It's the principle here. Maybe it's just me. But they were stupid for doing that shit in the first place, and even more stupid for doing it now in a public place, in front of somebody filming some video no less.

Before the last song, some guy made his way up the band area to sing into my brother's mike with him. Just as well, it was "open territory" that night. "This is everybody's stage" as it was said. But I recognized this guy. It was that same guy who I saw at the show last week, who yelled at my brother to "play something real". The guy who made me mention to Gloria "You know, I think I know what the saddest thing in the world is. An obnoxious, drunken white guy with dread locks."

Here he was, drunk off his ass again. And during the last show, physically poking me and pushing me. I kept looking over at him. He thought he was cheering me on or doing some kind of "you kick ass!" encouragement. In reality, he was bugging the shit out of me. I looked down at the microphone stand, and contemplated picking it up so that I could beat him with the heavy thick metal bottom. But then again this wasn't my stage and I didn't know if he might have even been the guy who planned this thing.

When we finished he said to me "Hey thanks." I said "You didn't have to fucking grope me while I was playing." He seemed shocked and embarrassed. Usually those types are complete solipsists, being oblivious to anybody else around them. Maybe I was the first person that week to put it to him straight.

After the song I went around to say my "Goodbyes". I was walking by the hot older-looking redhead I saw earlier and her friend, when I saw some commotion at the front door. I guy came in with blood over his head and face, saying "Look at me, LOOK AT ME!" to somebody. Then somebody else was holding him back. I said, "Well, that's MY cue to leave!" I didn't know what happened, and didn't WANT to know. Playing over allowed time, seeing drugs, and now an angry bleeding man...I'm outta here. I wasted no time as I went straight to the back exit, walked around to my car, and took off.

I didn't get a quarter-mile down the road until I saw a cop car suddenly turn off the road and head back towards the hall with his lights flashing. I called my brother. "I could be being paranoid, but you might want to get out of there..."

It would have been nice to play on stage with Mike or Mark, but they didn't end up going up there. Oh well. I had to wonder though that if I was dead and this was MY memorial, would they just be playing the songs they wanted to play? Hypothetically, I would want them to do a song or two that they knew I liked. That's the funny thing about funerals and gatherings like this. You start to wonder what it's going to be like if YOU were to die. And we've all thought about things like that -- don't deny it!