So that ya'll don't think I'm a pompous ass, let me finish the story.  The purple stuff in the pitcher was someones' idea of trashcan punch.  Why people in thier thirties and older would make that stuff is beyond me.  Why no one would warn me...well lets move on.  So, after the killer warm up, a goblet full of the evil koolaid came the cold sweats, the loss of balance and the nausea.  This is all before the first song of the first set.  I spent all of set one leaning against the back wall and laying my face against the cold-painted surface in between songs.  I don't think I dropped any notes, but I was not as agressive as I would have been.  Had to really concentrate on every note.  The band knew I was jacked, but noone else seemed to notice that my playing suffered from the comments.  It had to have looked odd, though.  The drummer used to call me, "on stage security".  I was 6'3", 285 pounds and the only black guy in the room.  No where to hide for me, whether I was playing or not.  The guitar player was running around all over the place, playing in the audience, on top of the bar and it took some of the attention and pressure off. 

I normally have a drink to take the edge off, but damn...warn a brotha before he screws up the night.  Regardless, the second set was easier, but I still wasn't right.  I didn't straighten out until I ate after the night was over, but was that was 5 hours later.  Thank goodness for all night chinese restaurants.  Mu shu to the rescue.  But that's life in biz.  The best story is also the worst story. 

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