Description

You and your old man are out and about and you walk past a bar.

You've got other bars to drink at, but the door is open at this one. And from inside, you hear a single chord followed by a tsunami-like wall of feedback.

The chord is an E. It's played heavy, like the man holding the guitar has fists like ham hocks and a helmet with horns sticking out of it. The kind of man that eats mastodon for breakfast. Mastodon that he killed himself. With his bare hands.

Your old man pauses, and sniffs the wind. He can smell his own kind, you see.

A glimmer of the god of thunder that your father used to be flashes through his eyes.

"Pop?"

"Hrmn."

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

But as you walk away, you know that in another time...in another place...that great mountain of a man standing on stage and wielding a 12-pound 1970's Gibson Les Paul as though it were the last weapon on Earth...

That was your old man.

Updated May 27, 2008