like yesterday.

I really do remember it like it was yesterday. A normal December morning in 2008. Woke up, skipped whatever class I had scheduled for the day, got high, and walked across the neighborhood for band practice. The sun was shining and the air was warm, and a breeze blew dried-out, fallen palm fronds through the streets. It was a beautiful day, it really was.

I arrived at the house we jammed in, and our guitarist was waiting there. He was early. He was never early. 

I waved. "Hey man."

He didn't look up at me when he said it. "Dimebag died."

The sensation of a brick wall exploding, of all the air being pulled from my lungs. Completely stunned, I think I may have laughed. "The fuck are you talking about? No."

He finally looked up. He was drunk. Holy shit. Maybe there was an accident, maybe my friend was mistaken - some screw-up with a name, perhaps a victim of shoddy journalism, anything but the truth.

"He got shot. Somebody came onstage and shot him. He's fucking dead."

Suddenly the sunshine and warm weather seemed uglier. It felt like all the birds stopped singing at once.

"No shit."

"No shit."

I sat with him until the rest of our bandmates arrived, and one by one, we broke the news to each other, and every time felt like dropping a cruel, unfair, horrible anvil. I don't mean to make light of 9/11, but for us, and I'm sure for a million others, this was our 9/11. Our lighthouse was swallowed by the darkened seas. Our tower, our symbol of endurance, strength beyond strength, and skyward-stretching talent, fell. We slunk into the rehearsal room, played a terrible cover version of "Revolution Is My Name" for what felt like hours, and then parted ways.

My first experience with Pantera ("Far Beyond Driven") was a straight-up life changer: it was the first real heavy metal I had ever heard (Slayer was but a glimmer in my teenage eye), my first known exposure to pinch harmonics and double bass, my first "Parental Advisory" sticker, and perhaps most importantly, the first thing I ever stole (details withheld). And the moment I pressed play and "Strength Beyond Strength" came tearing out of the speakers, full of more piss and more vinegar than I had ever imagined, I was scared shitless and utterly captivated. I must have listened to that one song ten times before I even got into the rest of the record. 

It was Phil's voice, admittedly, that gave me my first taste, but as my own guitar playing developed and my ear became attuned to the sheets of distortion and shouting, it ended up being Dime who kept me coming back for more. His tone was fucking volcanic. And those pinch harmonics. Those whammy bombs. I'd never heard anything like it. I was hooked. 

Like a high-school girl, I began obsessively seeking out interviews, magazines, music videos, and the like. I bet I had more photos of Dime on my wall than I had photos of bikini-clad women. I saw Dime and Vinnie Paul introduce the video for "Revolution" on MTV, and that single moment solidified them as the coolest motherfuckers on Earth. I mean, nobody can pull off a foolish hat quite like Vinnie. But it was Dime's easy chuckle, his unrestrained enthusiasm, and "brothers-in-arms" vibe made me view him like a cool older brother, one who left his guitar sitting out and, when he caught me dabbling, sat me down and said "Here's what you gotta do, kid. This is what cool sounds like."

He was right. Fuck Guitar Hero and Rock Band - Dime taught me everything I ever needed to know about rock and roll. Drink beer. Smoke weed. Always become a better player. Know your role and own it. Family is king. Do what you love. Cool is cool no matter how you slice it. Having a guitar with lightning bolts on it doesn't hurt either.

When Dime died that night in Ohio, I could feel the void in my guts. I didn't bother trying to make sense of the thing - there was no sense to be made. I watched the video of the incident, and even now, I can't make some of those images go away. I want to push them out of my head and remember my friend Dime, a man I never met but often dreamed of sharing a bottle of whisky with, a trusted confidant and a respected, larger-than-life creature who shat riffs, stomped suburbs, and would give you a brother's hug at the end of the day - and I do this by listening to his music. 

It's appropriate, in my mind, to note that Dime left this world doing something he loved. Eyewitnesses from the infamous December night say Dime never saw the gunman coming, which gives me some tiny shred of consolation. He was playing his guitar with his friends and his brother and a crowd of strangers who loved him and his skills and his impact on their lives. He died with his boots on - head down, knees locked in that classic Dime power-stance, giving the people what they came for. A true-blue cowboy from hell.

I think a lot about that day on the porch, especially around this time of year. 

But mostly, I think of all the good Dime did for me as a human being. I wouldn't be the guy I am today without "Floods," without "Walk," without "Hellbound." I would probably have long since given up on my guitar, abandoning with it my dream of playing in a band, something I've been blessed enough to do for many years now. Hell, I never had a fucking Crown and Coke until after I saw Zakk Wylde pouring them at Dime's wake. 

I remember thinking "Nothing will ever be the same again." And of course, things remained the same, as they always do. Time marches on. I grew into an adult, where people and trends and millions of intangibles passed in and out of my life, but through it all I felt Dime keeping an eye on me, on all of us who still miss him. He wouldn't want us to be so damned sad. He'd want us to drink to his memory, to the good times, to those whammy bombs. No frowns, no tears, just a bar full of friends. Every year, on his birthday and deathday, I head to my local watering hole for a Crown and Coke, and put "Drag The Waters" on the jukebox, and I will inevitably see some other sad-sack metalhead nursing the same drink, and we'll raise our glasses to the Man Himself. That's Dime's power. 

So, from the bottom of my heart,

thank you for everything, Darrell Abbott. 

Strength beyond strength,

Mike