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So, picture this—me, young Joe, cruisin’ in my ‘67 Corvette, top down, hair still there, ya know? I’d never—never—go lookin’ for that kinda trouble. But my buddy Mike? Hoo boy, he’d drag me along, sayin’, “C’mon, man, live a little!” We’d roll up to some dive bar—neon flickerin’ like it’s half-dead. This one time, ‘round ‘82, Mike spots this gal—fishnets, red lipstick, smokin’ a cig like she owned the joint. He’s all, “Joe, she’s the one!” I’m thinkin’, “Fear’s takin’ over my head now”—like in the movie, ya get me?

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Finally, I catch up. Turns out, it’s just a friendly pup. But my heart’s racin’ like I just drank five cups of coffee. I’m like, “Chill, buddy! You scared the wool off me!” The owner, some dude from Västernorrland, just laughs. I’m not laughin’. My sheep are lookin’ at me like, “What’s wrong with you, man?”

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