It is 11:15 on Christmas Eve as I’m writing this. I’ve made it in just under the wire. This is a small, but I like to think a NICE tradition for me. A few Christmas Eves ago, a friend of mine died from Hodgkin’s Disease. Earlier today—as I do every Christmas Eve—I listened to some music his band recorded back in the 90s, when cassettes were king. And now, as always…
Here’s to you, Paul. I still miss you. I still think of you almost every time I plug in a bass and turn knobs trying to find the sound I’m looking for—YOUR sound. Thanks for always making time for me when I was a geeky, awkward teenager. Thanks for always letting me play your bass for a while when I showed up at your gigs. Thanks for giving me your phone number last time we bumped into one another. Sorry I didn’t get around to calling. And thanks for being part of a band I loved, and for playing a really mean harmonica. Merry Christmas, man.
Thanks for indulging me again in that kinda sad, kinda sweet tradition. And just to break up the maudlin vibe…here’s a picture of me on a Christmas long ago, being very happy about getting Skeletor’s castle as a gift.