Pool_1

have to do. Slay it. Shake your head, hard. Grimace in pain. Maybe hit the right note every once in a while, but for God sake, make it look like the real thing. Battle! Blow a speaker. Blow two! Who cares? This is about tits! Marcus sat perched outside the screened in porch on the short brick wall that embraced the wooden stairs. Subtle finger gestures of micro mini air guitar would lead, he figured, inevitably to, "Do you play?" He was right. It runs both ways. You can let the ice cream man make a fool of himself and mock him out, mercilessly forever, or get shown a thing or two. Caution is not a trait of teen aged boys. Let's see what he's got. A gig on a front stoop with "Ear Piercing" as they called themselves this week, and a very nearly perfect guitar rendering of Johnny B. Goode and the Stones' 19th Nervous Breakdown and Not Fade Away and also how to wail an amplifier feedback lick ala Hendricks earned him the awe and following of blocks of boys who flocked in at the unexpected sounds. Unexpected killer sounds also draw boys. It really didn't take much musically. Essentially any string ripping random pentatonics over a one four five chord scheme made cosmic with amplification impressed the hell out of these kids. Inundated with a stream of show me this rift or that run, he complained aloud, "Gee guys, my boss will fire me if I don't get my ice cream sold." Twang! That was it. Tubs! They bought and ate tubs! Telling budding young males that eating ice cream could help a fellow human being while turning them into electro rock monsters was a sales pitch even Barnum couldn't touch. They ate ice cream because it WAS hot outside. They ate ice cream for a soul in need of sales, for nimble double fingering, and they ate ice cream for the girls that would surely yield at the magic their rock dragon slaying mastery. After all, young white