In the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and eighty-three, a youth humbly approached his special destination — a little music shop in the heart of his city’s downtown.
Inside, he took $188 in crumpled tens and twenties from his pocket. Then the kindly shop owner reached above his head and took down a cherry-red imitation Les Paul electric guitar — a Japanese knockoff — from a long row of guitars hanging from the ceiling.
When the transaction was ended and the lad emerged from the shop with his guitar (in a very cheap black case), he whispered under his breath:
O Lord, though I’m pimply, though the lenses of my glasses are very thick, though my hair is oily, though I am girl-less … O Lord, please … let me rock.
This is my story. Well, OK, it didn’t quite happen like that.