LEMMY AND THE AUTHOR I see you got your beer then.
  • LEMMY AND THE AUTHOR "I see you got your beer then."
WHEN SOMEONE DIES, it's customary to remember the happy days. Maybe get together with family and friends, have a few drinks, share some stories and tears, and figure out how to move on.

But what if you didn't actually know, or maybe had never even met the recently deceased? What if he or she were only an object of your admiration? Does that negate the heartbreak you feel about their passing? Is it silly to feel like your life suddenly has a great void in it because you know you'll never see this person in the flesh again?

If rock 'n' roll, or punk, or metal, or any combination of the three are of any importance to you—or if you simply subscribe to the philosophy of living free—then hearing the news of the death of Ian Fraser "Lemmy" Kilmister on December 28 should've had you sobbing like a baby. It had me.

Fortunately, I had the extreme pleasure of meeting Lemmy once. I had interviewed him prior to a Motörhead concert in Portland, and at the end of the conversation, he told me to find him after the show so he could buy me a beer. Weeks later, Motörhead played, and I was able to make my way backstage afterward and pluck a beer out of an ice bucket. I rounded a corner and introduced myself to Lemmy. "Well, I see you got your beer then," he said.

He remembered. Out of all the inane interviews he does all day long, how could he have remembered promising a beer to one?