The video mercifully ended, and the large singer walked up to speak. He was sanctimonious and pompous, in love with his own speaking voice, and thoroughly obnoxious. By this point, the program was already 90 minutes long. I had to check my cell phone to confirm that time had dragged by to that extent. (Other attendees watched the proceedings with their phones in the air, taking their own home movies, while other were checking messages and websites. Three times a phone rang. You know how I feel about that.)

Then my friend’s older brother got up to speak. He was clearly the main event, so I abandoned my plan to say a few well-chosen words as a representative of the two theater companies I ran in which my friend was a major contributor. The brother did one of those “unaccustomed as I am to public speaking” routines, carried pages of notes, and droned on and on, sometimes coherent, sometimes mumbling, teasing us with hints that he might be winding up, then starting on a new tangent. His speech lasted another 40 minutes. The room was set up with the speakers by the only exit, so only two people left during this filibuster.

The last speaker was my friend’s ex-common law wife. Now she knew how to speak; she was animated and funny. Also surprising (or, perhaps nuts): she said that a medium had told her she was George Sand in a previous life, and she believed her. The medium also said that my friend had been Franz Liszt. When the sort-of spouse finished I bolted for the door before anyone else was tempted to speak. I had been sitting for more than two hours.

I hate to be judgmental, but I managed one of these for my wife in 2024. It isn’t that hard to avoid turning memorials into ordeals for the guests. Like any other event, it just takes planning, consideration and common sense.

And, perhaps, a hook for speakers who abuse the privilege.