February in New York City. So cold that your fingers stick to the strings of your guitar.

You sure you want to play that C chord? You're going to be holding it until springtime.

The gray man walks the gray street, hands in pocket, guitar on his back, staring at the pavement, muttered

himself. He shuffles across Beaver Street in lower Manhattan, his warrant boots trampling

through the untouched snow. He lifts his gaze to the far-off glow of the gas-light grill,

wondering when his luck would change. Oh, cool, a dollar. Some men are destined for greatness.

Others are merely men of their place and time.

Men destined to be ground into paste underneath the great wheel of history.

Oh, another dollar. That's two dollars. There's musicians who plow the fields and musicians who reap

the harvest. But there's only one place to find out which type you are, the stage. The gas-like grills a place for fame and fate mingle, a volatile mixture that can either

make you into a star or crater.

There's two paths you can wonder, and who's to say which is worse?

You could be the guy who doesn't make it in the biz and has to work in the laundromat,

or he could be the guy who sells up Phil Harmonic Hall.

Best to sing in a sailor suit and sit in Phil Harmonic's lap.

Either way, you're going to be taking in loads.

Wow, a third dollar.

And a quarter!

But this story doesn't begin in front of thousands of adoring fans at Phil Harmonic Hall.

It begins in front of a sparse Tuesday night crowd at the Gaslight Grill. As for who this is,

well, some men truly need no introduction. Hey everybody, it's me, Brewer Grouse. What's up, Cookie?

You're all late. You know, you're lucky I like you. I gave you the coveted 8 p.m. to 802 p.m. slot.

...