poofinger

B was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. D was in Salt Lake City cleaning up loose ends. T was recovering after losing his leg in a snowmobile accident. Their lives crossed in a Montana bowling alley when the pickup truck driven by D’s then-girlfriend veered suddenly to avoid a snow pigeon snacking on dried corn in the middle of I-90. Through a chain link fence, over a curb, and through the side wall of Lucky’s Brunswick Bowl, the F-150 interrupted the final ball in T’s game just as B was waiting to be paid after setting a fresh Stroh’s on the table projecting the 132 score, frame-by-tedious-frame. T always bowled in the end lane. Always.After the dust cleared and the airbags deflated, D and said girlfriend emerged from the twisted cab and slumped to the floor. B’s knowledge of CPR paid big dividends as he administered rescue service to the pair in a splinting and bandaging frenzy before the cops and ambulance even showed up. T’s prized green marble bowling ball was ruined as it became lodged beneath the hulking wreckage.As the trio exchanged insurance information, it dawned on them that something more powerful was occurring. Each realized that they had the magic power of the music in them and that this unlikely encounter was a signal that they should combine forces into something even more powerful. Hence the band poofinger was born.