ousand　songs；　but　there's　only　three　on

the　demo。”

Dad　holds　up　the　CD。　“This　is　the　demo？”

“Yeah。”

He　looks　at　it　a　minute　and　says；　“So　if　you're　Piss　Poor；　how　do　you　afford　to　press　CDs？”

“Dad！”　Lyta　snaps　at　him。

“It's　okay；　Lyn。　Just　a　joke；　right；　Mr。　Loski？”

My　dad　laughs　a　little　and　says；　“Right；”　but　then　adds；　“Although　I　am　a　little　curious。　This　is

obviously　not　a　home…done　demo；　and　I　happen　to

know　studio　time's　cost…prohibitive　for　most　bands…。”

Matt　and　Mike　interrupt　him　with　a　slamming　hard　high　five。　And　while　I'm　getting　uptight

about　my　dad　asking　them　questions　about　money；　of　all

things；　my　mom's　fumbling　all　over　herself；　trying　to　sweep　away　my　dad's　big　pawprints。

“When　Rick　and　I　met；　he　was　playing　in　a　band…。”

Poached　salmon　was　suddenly　swimming　down　the　wrong　hatch。　And　while　I'm　choking；

Lyta's　bugging　out　her　raccoon　eyes；　gasping；　“You？

Played　in　a　band？　What　did　you　play；　clari？”

“No；　honey；”　my　mom　says；　trying　to　hold　it　all　together。　“Your　father　played　guitar。”

“Guitar？”

“Cool！”　Matt…or…Mike　says。　“Rock？　Country？　Jazz？”

“Country；”　my　dad　says。　“Which　is　nothing　to　scoff　at；　boys。”

“Dude！　We　know。　Total　respect；　man。”

“And　when　our　band　looked　into　getting　a　demo　made；　it　was　astronomically　expensive。　That

was　in　a　big　city；　where　there　was　a　little

petition。　Getting　a　demo　made　around　here？　I　didn't　even　know　there　was　a　facility。”

Matt　and　Mike　are　still　grinning。　“There's　not。”

“So　where'd　you　go？　And　how'd　you　afford　it？”　My　mother　whacks　him　under　the　table　again；

so　he　says；　“I'm　just　curious；　Patsy！”

Matt　and　Mike　lean　in。　“We　did