You chuck that stupid number in the ditch as soon as you leave the Howe estate. Your a little peeved. Fucking folk music. Hardly. You go home. Its a long long road home but you play your harp along the way. You let your failure be an excuse to slack off the rest of the summer. Six great weeks of drinking and smoking. Staying out late. Camping, hunting fishing. Dancing. Drinking most of all. A great time and you don't feel bad about bad into into the band at all now.