Somehow Larry managed to get in a few more hours’ worth of sleep, and when he finally got out of bed a little after ten that morning, Doug was already down in the basement practicing on his own. Larry couldn’t hear anything but the muffled wail of the bass guitar, and he didn’t want to hear more—if he popped downstairs, Doug would probably start bitching about how no one else was taking the band seriously. One good gig out of how many? Larry wanted to ask him. This doesn’t mean we’re on our way to stardom any time soon. Sure, we played the Ratt. Once. Next time it’ll be the Union on campus and we’ll be right back where we were all over again. Ego much?
It was still too early for such a fight, so Larry ate a bowl of cereal as fast as he could, in case Doug decided to wander up to the kitch
