old AC/DC brings a certain smell. Bon Scott's death. late 70's shag carpet and popcorn ceiling texture. I listened to Shot Down in Flames before asking Abbey out. not the best choice or decision. it didn't go well. I still remember her voice full of hesitations and stutters. I hope she's happy somewhere. I'm happy here right now.
I had a bike and a paper route. an MCS Spider and the Quad City News. the newspapers were rolled up and rubber banded and stacked in a wagon that I pulled around the neighborhood. no care was given while throwing them in the yards. some made the driveway. others made the grass. as long as the wagon was empty when I got home. fingers full of ink. adolescent sweat. a few dollars for some guitar strings and new picks.
his name was Steve Shue. he bought my first guitar from me. a dark woodgrain Gretsch with a black pickguard. I went out and bought my first Fender Strat. he set the guitar on fire one day to give it a "look". Steve wasn't right in the head. he swallowed a shotgun blast years later in an apartment. he was alone. my younger brother was the first to respond. he called me while he was on the way saying "hey, a call just came in, you'll never guess who just shot himself..." I guessed correctly. it was the first name I thought of.
dad called me "Michael" when I was in trouble. mom too. I knew it when I heard it. and most times I knew what I had done. I had 6th row seats to see Judas Priest but didn't get to go because I came home from the mall an hour late. Rob Halford rode his motorcycle on stage. my friends told me all about it. that one still stings a little. I learned how to play Living After Midnight on guitar. Our 8th grade band played it at parties, along with Hells Bells, Brown Sugar, Purple Haze, Fly By Night and others. we called ourselves The Living Legends. turns out, we were not.
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