Reminisced with my old friends.  A drummer I’ve known since he was fourteen.  He’s got the grease.  He’s had it since I first met him.  I told him as much as soon as I could.  He remembers.   Like all good players, he’s out of his fucking tree.

Other good guys and girls whom I’ve known for shorter periods.

Then their was Nebeker.  That’s pronounced ‘knee pecker’.  Understand he and I are best friends from boyhood.  He fixed me a plate and freshened my drink.  We were all playing music for each other in the garage.  Drinking and smoking.   I must tell you that I asked of him at least three or four obscure things, I have no music on me at all, one at least, a collection of demos I’d compiled on CD.  He produced them all within minutes.

He must have that shit alphabetized.

Then he brought me another fresh cocktail.

We’re not gay for each other, I’m just saying.  Point of reference.  Or parliamentary procedure.  Pre Law, Pre Med, whatever.

He sauteed some shrimp and advised us all on the sauces.  He’s always hugging on his friends and inherited family .  He really is full of love and compassion and full to busting with humor and artistic sensibility.  I remember specifically him explaining to Johnny, the mentally challenged uncle, how to eat the shrimp.  How not to eat the handle.

I got tired, so he fixed me a sandwich and brought me a blanket.

One of the things he says about the rabid right is “Hang a black man on Saturday night and in see ya in the pews Sunday morning.”

I teared up a little the other night when seeking his advice on this huge hole that’s been blown into my family and he hugged me.  He hugged me with sadness and sincerity.  He is my best friend.  He understands me better than any other male.  This is a little personal but I gotta bring it.

He’s my longest buddy.  He get’s that  I’m flying around with a bent wing.  I confide in him and he advises me honestly.  He’s got no stake in it and it wouldn’t matter.  He tells me the truth as best he can.

He has my back and I have his.

Before we decided to be rock stars we bonded over comic books.  And horror movies.  Nudity, violence and rape according to the HBO Guide.  I remember watching Carrie and being vaporized by it.  There was all this blood and satanic stuff and Travolta got a hoovering.  Brilliant.  I was always concerned about sleeping under any sheets or blankets that Brennon Griffin might have used.  He was chronic masturbator,  of oily face and head and with braces, a prodigious drooler.

We ended up mocking him and that makes me a little sad.

We went to Andy’s Smoke Shop for comic books, Chocodiles and Rondos.  The best stocked comic book display in town.  Marvel had better writing but DC had shit hot artists.  As much time as we could get away with in the adult section, a sea of tits and ass that was  often merely the covers before we were discovered.  We would be ejected but without much ceremony.  We were paying customers after all.  A rustic old place with high ceilings and fans, it smelled of pipe tobacco and cigars.  Glass and wooden antique display cases that contained all manner of traditional paraphernalia for smoking or otherwise imbibing the ultimate American crop via any orifice or methodology.  Brass cuspidors and snuff tins.  Pipes glistening.  Jars of brown moist weed that smelled of rum, cherries, honey, apple and cedar.  Huge vessels of peppered or teriyaki jerky, meat sticks, pickles, pickled eggs, licorice and sugar festooned horehound candy.

A glass door cooler in the back with sodas and beer.  Popsicles and ice cream sandwiches in freezer with heavy handles that clicked loud and solid on open and shut.  Liquor behind the counter on dark wooden shelves.  It was our pre adolescent mecca.  Right there on the main drag between Cactus Jack’s and the Horse Shoe Club.

We both loved KISS until I brought us the 8 track of Van Halen’s first record.  He advanced far more quickly than I as a musician.  All my friends did.  I sucked but he never left me behind.

We both went on to have sex with women.  He was a bit of a hound.  I bloomed a little late.

He welcomes me with open arms.  Always.  Doesn’t matter whether I’m on my ass, me knees or my feet.

When we face each other and start to talk, no time has passed, no matter how much time actually has.  It just doesn’t matter.  We worked together at Kentucky Fried Chicken, Wienerschnitzel and Budget Tapes and Records.  We had a business when we were thirteen called “Rent A Kid”.

I’m pretty sure we’ve compared dicks and mine is bigger.

We experimented with drugs, drank copious amounts of Schlitz Malt liquor, because that’s what Van Halen drank, lied to our parents, stole from our siblings, broke bones, made dummies to put in the middle of the street in hopes that people would be confused enough to get out of their cars so we could pelt them with crab apples………….and blew a lot of shit up.

He remains the funniest man I know.  He calls jerking off, among other things, “launching a bootlace”.  Merry Christmas is “Savory Santa Day”.  An apology is “I’m so sorry for the sandwich I have caused you”.  He calls his mother “Bob”.  My nickname in Jr. High was “Pudwinkie”.  He’s an incredibly gifted guitar player/ musician who understands tone and feel better than everyone other than who he chooses to surround himself with.

My friend is whip smart and has a heart the size of the very biggest stadium.  When my own sister ignites an IED and walks away for no good reason and the rest of my family is shocked and confused into inaction, Sean gives me a welcome place to go and be.

Drinks for my friends.

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