“I’d ask how everyone’s night is going, but I really don’t care as long as you subscribe to the Pallbearers Club YouTube channel.”

Some applause, laughs, and lots of shared seriously? looks.

Part of the joke was that I did have a channel. I created two-minute-and-thirty-two-second (the length of the song “New Day Rising,” because in my meaningless world I must make everything mean something) mini documentaries for famous punk and new wave bands and forgotten local Boston and Providence heroes. Each band got the same egalitarian treatment. Offscreen I nasally narrated factoids, band highlights, and personal appreciations as well as critiques (I don’t do hagiographies) over a montage of live performance clips. (As of the writing of this, I have 10,019 followers, not that I keep track.) A former bandmate reached out recently to ask if I’d be interested in doing a similarly themed podcast with her. I told her I’d think on it.

“I may not live to regret this, but any requests?” I asked.

A guy named Trace (one night we got to talking and found out that decades ago we both briefly worked at the United Shoe Factory before it closed), a regular at Mercy’s, shouted from the nearest corner of the bar: “Oasis!”

I said, “Why do you hate yourself so much, Trace?”

He raised his glass to me, then shouted, “Smashing Pumpkins!”

I said, “Why do you hate everyone else here? Don’t answer. It’s rhetorical.”

I played a quick set of ’80s songs with the Ramones, Buzzcocks, Fine Young Cannibals, Mission of Burma, and Cyndi Lauper. While also sneaking in another original song called “Simpleton.” G-D-C chords. Lyrics: I didn’t know I was wrong / until you told me / you said I was wrong / then you showed me how / I had mistaken / the truth from your fiction / I guess I’m the simpleton / I’m your simpleton / I’ll be your simpleton.

Angst? Check. Self-loathing? Check. This could’ve been a ’90s almost-hit.

At the next break and every break after, the bar crowd got the hang of requesting Oasis and Smashing Pumpkins songs so I could pithily insult everyone. It was a fun night.

* * *

When I got home from the show, Mom was sitting on the front stoop smoking a cigarette. She had quit a month earlier and had quit six months before that.

It was a minor miracle Mom still owned the house. As much as she complained about the place and idly talked of selling, she was proud she had it. My moving back was good timing for her and had benefitted us both: I had a stable, cheap place to live, and because I helped with the monthly bills, including the remaining mortgage and real-estate tax, she was able to retire.