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At the New York airport on the way back to Denver, I sat in the bar. Over in the corner was a motley assortment of people that could only be a rock and roll band on tour. Leather pants, nose rings, orange hair, and a half-dozen drinks in front of each person were just a few of my clues.

At the check-in counter, the band members stood around making the agents nervous. Evidently, they had booked their seats late and were not pleased with their assignments of middle seats. As I was in the same boat, I stood with this crew harassing the ticket agent. I surreptitiously flashed my frequent flier card and she took my ticket and gave me an aisle seat.

Getting on the plane, I saw that I was next to one of the disgruntled musicians, this one adorned with shoulder length hair and various martial adornments on his leather jacket. He squeezed over me and sat down.

"You have to be with a rock and roll band," I ventured.

He grunted, presumably in confirmation.

When we got into the air, he called the flight attendentattendant [sic] over and ordered two double screwdrivers ("hold the orange juice") and began methodically going at them. I drank a beer and started reading The Chinese Screen.

To my great surprise, he leaned over and asked "Is that Somerset Maugham?" I said it was, and we sat there discussing late nineteenth century English literature.

His name was and he was in, the quintessential British loud rock band. They were on tour with and  in a heavy metal extravaganza. Würzel's job was lead guitarist.

"Basically, I try and play as loud as I can," he said, explaining his job.

"Well, somebody's got to do it," I replied. This comment pleased Würzel so much he waved to the flight attendent to bring two more double vodkas for himself and a beer