HOME: Pershing High School, 3rd floor boys' head.

AGE: They're prepping their beds in the auto graveyard.

PROFESSION: Pumping out sulfuric boogie for brain-damaged bolt fitters.

HOBBIES: Checking each other for exhaust leaks; chrome and leather recycling, grease guns at ten paces; t.p.'ing Bob Seger's house; taking small boys to Kiss concerts; anti-gravity spitball sculpture.

LAST BOOK READ: I Am Moe's Son by Mitch Ryder.

LAST ACCOMPLISHMENT: Spent an entire evening cruising Woodward Avenue without once causing a Pinto to explode.

QUOTE: "Jimmy Hoffa didn't like us.,. think about it."

PROFILE: Thrown out of the Pershing High Fighting Piroshkis marching band for gross indecencies with the rhythm section, these, the REAL Motor City Bad Boys, were playing molten riffs behind Mitch Ryder before they sucked on their first spark plug; despite an overwhelming tide of disco neurasthenia these funky hoodlum bards of the back alleys forged ahead, becoming Rockets and declaring, from their Woodward/Eight Mile White Castle headquarters, "Go fish!"

BEER: Boy Howdy!