When I was kid, my brother and I would stay up late. In Concert. I thought I was going to be this great guitarist. I had a couple of amps in my bed room and a Les Paul. When my parents would have something to do, which was rarely, I would turn those amps up. It seems that the Allman brothers were always the band that night. Back in my bedroom I tried to start off low volume , build it up, and burn. I had an amp with those padded and quilted sides. Shit I was cool.
I made all the faces that the great rock guitarist made when they slayed the crowd. I know because I played in front of my mirror.
Guitar strapped on looking out the window. Suddenly the amp stops. I’ve blown the damn thing up. I never saw them come home but they heard me from around the block. My poor neighbors. Dad would slip in and unscrew the fuse to my bedroom. I’m frantic trying to figure out how I’m going to tell them I just blew up my amps. Leaning against the door frame, he is trying not to laugh.
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