And continues...

I led my sister downstairs and into the venue. "A drink to warm up?" she asks. We headed straight for the bar, taking note of the people starting to swarm around the staged like ants creeping up on a discarded piece of watermelon rind. We both ordered a beer, and she handed over her credit card to open a tab along with her drivers license for collateral. Noticing her unease to part from her identification, I assured her that it's not an uncommon practice. 

We chose a spot on the right of the stage where the crowd was still only 2 or 3 people deep. Too many giants for a perfect view, but I didn't really mind. We chatted about jobs, trips, Lady Gaga, and apartments past and present. The longer we talked the more cramped I felt. I stood on my tiptoes to survey the scene behind us and realized the crowed was packed in to the back wall. My sister shifted me in front of her where I could peer around the 6 foot tall, French photographer. I watched a familiar young man in a brown felt fedora with a red feather hop around the stage messing with guitars, wires, and microphones. "That's Sean Lennon," I whispered to my sister in the noisy room, "I think." She shrugged. I looked at his face and nodded. "It's definitely him," I said, "Sean Lennon."