He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love." The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang. "Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?" "Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right." "Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?" "Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?" "You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead. "This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA." "No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..." "I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense." "Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." Where is Stan needed to play?  A. Sunset Sound  B. CSR  C. not enough information  D. Record One
B
What was the reason behind you becoming a Wiccan? I had very bad experiences with the old angry bearded GOD in the Christian religion. He had turned his back on me. He had betrayed me time and time again. So, I left. Still wanting connection with a higher power, I hungered for connection. I liked communing with the Wiccan Gods. I also liked how They made me feel, at peace, and I felt I had the strength to change my own life for the better. They are always there for me. How did you find it? When I was a teen I heard the word Wicca. I didn’t know what that was. I was curious and decided to investigate it. So, the next day I went to a book store. I asked the lady behind the counter if they had any books on “Wicca.” She got excited and whisked me off to the metaphysical section of the store. She told me she was pagan and started handing me book after book into my arms. Soon I could barely see over the books in my arms. I mumbled behind the books, “Which ONE book would you recommend.” She then handed me Scott Cunningham’s book Wicca, A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner. I purchased the book and took it home. With my dyslexia it was not easy for me to read. But I started reading and plowed through the book. I found many things I was already doing. He talked about things I already understood to be true. The book rang true for me. I dedicated myself to the God and Goddess when I finished the book. Have you ever had any bad experiences after completing a spell? I did a prosperity spell once and got the opposite reaction I was hoping for. I lost all my income! I realized later my mistakes and redid the spell correctly and then got the results I truly wanted. Why do you think the lady at the bookstore was happy to help the author?  A. She was helping a customer.  B. She was dislexic  C. She was Pagan and wanted to share her knowledge  D. not enough information
D
(Q).
"That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be." He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo. "You know the tune, of course," he said. "'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off. "He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version." "So why can't it be Miller?" I asked. "He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk." My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war. But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier. The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. Who is the most concerned about the father's health?  A. Ann  B. The narrator  C. Glenn Miller  D. not enough information
(A).

A