Today, the energy in Harlem was unparalleled. The Godfather of Soul, the hardest working man in show business, a musical legend and a man highly revered in this community was making his final appearance. I just had to wander over and survey the scene, merely to pay my respects to a man who influenced a generation of soul and funk musicians. Little did I know what a zoo of humanity it would be.

From the moment you entered 125th Street, signs of the upcoming brouhaha were apparent. Boisterous strains of Brown's music were blasting from multiple storefronts. The police were out in large number, flanking various street corners and managing the swelling crowd. All Eastward traffic was being diverted to side streets. A helicopter hovered overhead. Whoo boy.

I worked my way through the crowds and to the front of the Apollo Theater. A middle section of the street was cordoned off for the media and they were there in droves: television stations, news photographers and still photographers all with copious amounts of equipment. Their immediate focus was the funeral cortege which had just stopped in front of the theater.

This procession would have pleased The Godfather. A Victorian style glass paneled carriage, brilliant white and gleaming, pulled by two pristine white mares adorned with white plume feathers. There were two stately coachmen guiding the carriage. The procession had wound its way from 145th Street to the Apollo and one can only imagine the spectacular impression it had made.

The stately bronze casket was carried into the theater and the crowd erupted in unison with the cry of "James Brown, James Brown" over and over. It was a rather electrifying moment.

I tried to photograph it but it was very difficult to get through the crowd. Well, I also got distracted. I had to help a man restrain his aged mother from crawling over the barrier to get to the casket as it was being carried in. I kid you not--this woman must have been damn near 70 and she threw herself over the barrier and was straddled across it trying to pull herself to the other side. The man yelled for help so I took her hands and held her while he pulled her back to safety. And then she bawled us both out.

I made my way to the end of the line for the viewing. I had gotten there 30 minutes before the doors were to open for the viewing so I anticipated an hour's wait to pay my respects. Foolish mortal. I started following the line to get to the end. I walked one block..two..three...then down a side street..and three more blocks...stopping to look up, I soon saw that there were lines of people as far as the eye could see and I'd be lucky to get in by 8 pm. I believe the line of faithful may have extended all the way to the East River. Trust me when I say, there were thousands in line to see Mr. Brown. I knew I'd never get in, so I headed back up.

On the way, I took in the scene and talked to people. There were many people holding floral tributes. Some held photos and signs. There was a man who had a ripped and taped glossy photo that Brown had autographed for him in 1972. It was reverently safeguarded in a plastic sleeve. When I asked the man about the occasion he got the autograph, he responded tearfully, "He was as nice as can be. A gentleman. I'll never forget it as long as I live."

Of course, entrepreneurs came out of the woodwork, selling bootleg Brown CDs and DVDs. T-shirt manufacturers were there, hawking their James Brown memorial T-shirts. It was a colorful scene and in most cases, one borne of respect and love for an influential man. And well, a man has the right to make a dollar or two sometimes.

I headed up to the Southern Kitchen, now good and ready for my feast of chicken and waffles. Like many other blunders I had made this day, I didn't expect that the traffic flow of humanity would also be craving lunch. The line was out the door. Strike two.

I'll go back this weekend.