“Wang dang sweet poontang!†Ace howled, as if the ghost of ..3 had just hit the checkered flag, when the acid-washed goddess walked through the steel re-enforced door to Ted’s Bar & Grill on that hot summer night. Her bleach blonde hair was at maximum volume—just like the classic tunes blaring from the jukebox. Her name was Jane (don’t wear it out). The custom design work of her Beadazzled tank top glistened and sparkled hotter than the lights on the “Monster Bash†pinball machine in the corner.“Do ya want the Ace?†he asked himself—practicing his signature pick-up line in the Stroh’s promotional mirror behind the pool table. Ace knew this was his lucky night. This was more than a feeling. Or maybe it was just because it was dollar draft night. It didn’t matter.He remembered his stepfather’s mantra: “Any lucky night’s gotta end with gettin’ lucky, otherwise you are just S.O.L.†No, it wasn’t like the poetry of Eddie Money, but still, the message got through like a 2 a.m. page begging for a beer run to the 7-11.A wide grin broke out beneath Ace’s moustache. He had it all: a steady union paycheck, a decent relationship with his landlord, and now he was on his way to score a ticket to the hottest show in town since the last Foghat reunion. He was psyched. As the saying goes— Beauty comes in many shapes and sizes and, like hairstyles, only one is truly right for you.He was burnin’ for Jane. And not the bad kind of burnin’ that sometimes comes after a night like this. The good kind that comes from somewhere deep within your mesh half-shirt. He smoothed his freshly shorn sides, yanked up the mega-gelled spikes in front, and petted the back like a fine crushed velvet interior. He pounded the rest of his PBR and ordered another—just under the wire before the happy hour ended.Baby hold on…Their romance started to fast forward like cars whipping around the track at full throttle, except there was no time for a pit stop in this race of love. The tilt-a-whirl weekends spent at the repo auto shows. The greasy weeknights spent together “checkin’ out the moon†at his buddy Buck’s farm. Life was just a fantasy, but can you live this fantasy life? Sooner or later, love bites like cousin Rick’s pet Boa Constrictor, but who could suck out this venomous poison? Like any built-for-speed hot rod, eventually, the rims get a little ragged, the pistons don’t fire like they used to, and the gas tank starts suckin’ fumes.Love stinks. Love hurts…Then came the fateful day when Jane was spotted taking it on the run on the back of Buck’s chopper like some cheap trick. Ace wanted to close his eyes forever, but all he saw was red. His heart felt like his leather jacket the time he caught it on a barbed wire fence after almost getting busted cow tipping. The flame in his soul was doused like when his Bruce Lee inspirational candle accidentally fell in the toilet.There was nothing he could say, it WAS a total eclipse of the heart, and it totally bummed him out. Nothing felt right anymore, not even his favorite snakeskin Dingos. The drink specials at Ted’s weren’t so special anymore. The drive thru window at Jack-In-The-Box was somehow lonelier when ordering for just one. The shotgun seat in his Quad Cab—Jane’s seat—started to pile up with empty deer jerky wrappers and Mega Gulp cups. Ace was all out of love and all by himself.The only solace he could find was in the knowledge that, even when the chips are stacked against him, at least his hair always looked friggin’ awesome. And it is that knowledge that once again gave him the cajones to get back in the game and try this love thing one more time.The rest, as they say, is history. And at one time or another, this is OUR history. And this is OUR soundtrack. Turn it up. Throw it back. And fall in LOVE. Again. Before we all just end up dust in the wind.