On the first day of  The Playboy Jazz Festival….

Dude, hey dude, hey you, wait a minute dude, stop! Stop! I stopped. You were great, man! You were awesome! Star struck. You play like Jaco Pastorius, man! Just like Jaco Pastorius. They all shook my hand, not believing they were shaking my hand.

Uhhhhh…Thanks a lot, man, but I ain’t a bass player. Say what? You’re not a bass player? No, I was a drummer, though. Ohhhhh…yeah, that’s right, a drummer. You were the drummer. He was the drummer! You were?

I left wondering who I was. No idea, I’d been in the press room drinking ice cold beer and listening to Hugh Hefner speak and George Lopez joke. Playmates dashed about in matching pink outfits, cute as bugs. That’s where I’d been, not up on stage playing like Jaco Pastorius and being awesome.  Besides, the real Jaco Pastorius had a melt down on the very same Hollywood Bowl stage. An ugly melt down, a bad scene. The beginning of the end. Was this an omen? I mean I wasn’t even an awesome drummer. Not even a non-lousy drummer.

It’s more fun when they think I’m a movie star. This dead bass player shit is creepy.