Marc and I were roommates on tour before we were roommates in The City.  So, let’s face it, he has more on me than just about anyone I know.  I concede the battle before it begins.  Marc is as clean as his tux shirt.  Any stories I have that involve Marc are about my stupidity and embarrassment and how he tried to save me from my stupidity and embarrassment.  Then he’d listen to hours of my bullshit.  I kid you not, hours.  Poor guy.  But he couldn’t always save me.  There are a lot of those stories.  Some are classic.  I’m sure he enjoys telling them, always adding at the end, “but that’s why we love Rob Sheridan”.  Marc was, is, a great friend to me.  We went on fieldtrips and outings.  We climbed rocks, floated on rivers, swung from long cables, threw darts, shot pool. He truly made life on the road lively and livable. I am honestly and truly indebted to his unwavering dedication.  If Marc hadn’t been there, I never would have made it.

Well, all right, there is one occasion when if Marc hadn’t been there I would have made it.  The morning after yet another party with an open bar, I woke up in hell.  Dry mouth, pounding headache, sensitive to light and sound, and nauseous.  Uh-oh.  Nauseous!  Uh-oh, Nauseous! Nauseous! Nauseous!  GOTTA PUKE!  I quickly, and somehow smoothly, get to the bathroom, but the door is closed and Marc is stationed on the can.  I beg, “Marc!  I gotta puke!” without missing a beat, he says, “Grab a bucket”.”